Day 181, Year 988 . 41st Millennium
The Wastelands near Hive Kathion
"This isn't right!!!" Sergeant Kaminsky exclaimed as he looked down at the corpses and the signs of an attack at the scene.
Five hours ago, they had received a distress signal from this location. A heavy patrol vehicle had been ambushed by Orks. Now, the wreckage of the heavy patrol vehicle was gone, and they couldn't even track the tire marks because the sand had already completely covered them.
There were some corpses of the PDF forces scattered in the area, and it was easy to tell that their cause of death was high explosives. Around them lay numerous Ork corpses, killed by PDF weaponry. This incident was highly unusual because the Orks had never gathered in such large numbers before, and this was undeniably an ambush.
"Yeah, definitely abnormal," Dmitry added while looking around, providing cover and staying alert for any potential threats. In his hands, he held a semi-automatic anti-materiel rifle, a shorter but lighter variant.
"Honestly, I hate the chain of command and the approval system," Rimer complained from behind the steering wheel of the buggy. Kaminsky nodded in agreement; although the chain of command in their army wasn't as complicated as others, it still had its tedious procedures.
"Didn't they spot them on the thermal imaging or the auspex sensors?" Corporal Jimmy, manning the buggy's gunner position, asked curiously.
Kaminsky thought about it. Normally, he was used to regular ambushes by Genestealers and heretics during the great war a year ago. But back then, they didn't have all this equipment, and they fought in familiar and advantageous environments, like narrow spaces, slums, and dark buildings.
But this time, the enemy they were facing were Ork xenos—savage, green-skinned beasts that bred rapidly and were dangerous enough to bring a planet to ruin if not properly managed and controlled. Furthermore, they were fighting in a desert environment plagued by constant storms. The outside air and ground were toxic, visibility was terrible, and the temperature was surprisingly cold.
Initially, it seemed they had the upper hand in the fight. By utilizing technology like auspex sensors, they could easily patrol and hunt down small groups of Orks, taking them out before the beasts even realized they were coming. But now, everything indicated that...
The enemy was adapting, and he had underestimated them from the start.
He needed to report this to all units. Kaminsky walked to the buggy, picked up the vox-caster, and contacted command.
"Command, this is Patrol Unit 514. We have arrived to investigate the coordinates where Heavy Patrol Vehicle 15 called for backup." Kaminsky gripped the radio tightly, waiting for a response. He wasn't sure if there was a signal in this area. His three squad members kept a perimeter, remaining vigilant and ready for combat, though they couldn't help but listen to what their leader was saying to command.
"Copy that, Patrol Unit 514. What are the results of the investigation?" the officer at the command center asked over the line. Kaminsky looked around, scanning the blast zone and the remaining flesh, before answering truthfully without sugarcoating anything.
"No survivors, sir, and the heavy patrol vehicle is gone. Based on the tracks, I suspect it might have been an Ork ambush. And if this is truly the work of the Orks, these greenskin xenos are far more dangerous than we thought," Kaminsky reported the facts and offered his assessment to the officer on the other end.
"Understood. This information will be recorded and reviewed. The Emperor protects." Then the line cut off. Kaminsky sighed before putting the radio back in its place. He turned to Rimer, who was sitting behind the wheel, and ordered,
"Let's continue the patrol... Oh, and don't forget to vox the Korvax Guard patrols nearby and tell them to stay alert." Kaminsky then turned to Dmitry, who was shouldering his semi-automatic anti-materiel rifle and running toward the buggy.
"Sergeant... I think you should do that yourself," Corporal Jimmy looked down at him, resting his hands on his hips to show his displeasure. Kaminsky frowned slightly. He was really getting tired of having a squad that didn't respect their commanding officer.
"I have the right to discipline you, you know," he threatened while grabbing the roll bar and pulling himself up to sit in the passenger seat next to the driver. Even though he couldn't see his subordinates' expressions, he knew none of them were the least bit afraid of him... in fact, they probably found it amusing.
"Heh heh heh, looks like our Sergeant is going on a power trip, eh guys?" Dmitry carefully and gently placed his semi-automatic anti-materiel rifle in the back of the buggy. Then, he grabbed a fresh las-carbine and sat down near Corporal Jimmy's feet.
"He's always been on a power trip. He just doesn't realize it, that's all," Rimer replied to Dmitry, completely uncaring that he was sitting right next to his commanding officer.
"I'm still sitting right here! Watch your mouths! Alright, let's move out!!" Kaminsky snapped at his subordinates in frustration. He wasn't on a power trip like they said, and even after he yelled at them, they showed absolutely zero fear.
"Copy that, Sergeant," Rimer answered, acting as if the scolding had gone in one ear and out the other, before driving the buggy away from the area.
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Day 181, Year 988, 41st Millennium
Hive Orion
Lower Hive
Eric walked cautiously through the cramped corridors of the slums, constantly avoiding the filth on the ground and keeping a sharp eye on the people passing by.
His current appearance was a world away from his former self. He now looked like one of the overworked laborers from the Lower Hive's manufactorums—stressed and neglected. His hair was greasy and disheveled, his face stained with oil and soot. He wore a tattered, grimy brown cloak. In one hand, he held two bars of Corp Starch obtained by trading credits looted from the corpse of an Iron Fang ganger he had killed the day before. His other hand remained poised, ready to draw the concealed pistol at a moment's notice.
Eric loathed his current state, but he had no choice. He had to dress like this to avoid unwanted attention and blend in with the local dregs. Despite his irritation, he considered himself lucky; along with the submachine gun, clothes, and flak armor he took from the dead ganger, he had also found credits and a room key with a number engraved on it.
It had taken him a long time to locate the unit, but he eventually found it—his temporary safehouse.
Before long, Eric arrived at a row of dilapidated apartments on the edge of the slum. The exterior was crumbling, with piles of scrap and refuse blocking the front. Eric tried to ignore the sight as he opened the door and stepped inside.
Once inside, Eric immediately bolted the door. He shed the filthy cloak, letting it drop to the floor, followed by his outer shirt. Now dressed only in a t-shirt and the trousers he had looted, he grabbed a clean rag to wipe his face and let out a weary sigh.
He wondered if he was being too fussy, but he truly detested these foul clothes. It felt repulsive to wear them, let alone purposefully making himself dirty for a disguise. But it was necessary, and he did what had to be done.
Eric sat down on a rusted iron bed topped with a thin, lumpy mattress. He surveyed the room and thought back to his old apartment in the Lower Hive... It had been much spacious, and he had kept it clean enough to be livable.
He picked up a bar of Corp Starch, peeling back the plastic and foil wrapping. He ate it quickly, trying his best to ignore the taste. Despite his efforts, the bland, gritty texture and the rancid smell made him want to gag. But there was no alternative. This was the only safe, cheap food source he could find, and he had to eat to survive.
"How did I ever eat this stuff every day?" Eric muttered to himself as he chewed the starch, forcing it down his throat. Back when he lived in the Lower Hive, he had eaten this for every meal. He remembered clearly how he had struggled at first, but eventually, he had grown accustomed to it, eating it as if it were normal food.
After finishing the wretched meal, he took a swig of water to wash away the rancid aftertaste and the starchy film coating his throat. Even so, he couldn't stop himself from complaining—the water tasted of chemicals and heavy metals.
Perhaps he had spent too much time in the Upper Hive, growing soft and losing his tolerance for this kind of life.
Eric knelt down and reached under the bed to retrieve the submachine gun he had hidden. He moved carefully, making sure his white t-shirt didn't touch the rusted bed frame or the oil-stained floor. He simply didn't want his clothes to get any dirtier—he knew from experience that grime was much harder to wash out than bloodstains.
Having grabbed the weapon, he sat back on the bed and used a rag to wipe the gun down until it was as clean as he could make it. He began to field-strip it, checking the internal parts and applying oil. He was slightly confused at first; this submachine gun was unlike any autogun he had ever used or handled. He assumed it was a "stubber" or a "scrap-gun"—crudely manufactured without a standardized blueprint. Still, he managed to clean and reassemble it.
However, as he studied the internal mechanism, his confidence wavered.
_"Is this thing going to jam the moment I pull the trigger?"_ Eric thought anxiously. Though he wasn't a master gunsmith, even his basic knowledge told him the design was questionable. At least it didn't look as bad as the weapons he had seen in the hands of the Orks those things truly defied logic.
While working, he refined his plan based on information he had gathered earlier. While scouting for shops or traders to spend his looted credits, he had overheard the sound of hymns praising the God-Emperor. Though the accent was strange, he had been to church once or maybe twice to offer prayers and worship.
Following the sound, he had found an old, weathered cathedral where an Ecclesiarchy priest was preaching to a crowd of faithful civilians. He spotted a golden statue of a Saint. This was a good sign; the direction the statue faced pointed toward the local apothecary and weapon shops—landmarks that marked the territory of the Iron Fang gang.
His plan was set: disguise himself, infiltrate their territory, eliminate the target, and then extract back to the location where Colonel Drago had left him with a pistol and a letter.
"If only it were that easy," Eric muttered, laying the cleaned submachine gun beside him.
He knew well that the Lower Hive was full of dangers that could end his life in an instant. His goal was to pose as an Iron Fang member, slip into their base, and assassinate their leader. It sounded simple enough, but the thought of having to stay in these filthy, grimy clothes was almost as bad as the mission itself.
He looked at the disguise and sighed. If he could, he would have washed the clothes himself.
Eric got up from the bed, packing water, ammunition, and food into his looted bag. He donned the gang's shirt and strapped a crude layer of flak armor over it. He finished the look with a face wrap, a helmet, and his pack.
To perfect the disguise, he smeared a bit of soot and oil over his face and the backs of his hands, ensuring he looked like just another dreg of the hive.
He did a final check on his gear. He reached for the submachine gun, verifying the chamber and the magazine. He checked his concealed pistol and his sharpened combat knife—his last resort.
Ready at last, Eric opened the door and headed toward the cathedral. He navigated the winding corridors, turning several corners until his destination came into view.
As he walked, he couldn't help but grumble. While the armor and clothes were effective for the disguise, they were incredibly uncomfortable. He hated the filth, but he could tolerate that. The real problem was the "armor"—it was nothing more than heavy, flat iron plates shaped into a vest. It was unlikely to stop a bullet, and it pressed heavily against his chest and shoulders, making it difficult to breathe.
He carried the submachine gun at the ready. Combined with the armor and his aggressive posture, the effect was intimidating. The slum dwellers actively avoided him. Their eyes weren't filled with suspicion or hostility, but with pure fear. They scurried out of his way, and no one dared to act tough or challenge him.
_"Having people fear you isn't so bad,"_ Eric thought. If he weren't wearing a face wrap, they would have seen his smirk. He felt a wave of relief that no one was bothering him. His decision to pose as a ganger was the right move... but it also highlighted how brutally the Iron Fangsruled through terror.
After a smooth trek, he reached the old cathedral and paused at the golden statue. He looked in the direction it was facing—toward the pharmacy and the gun shop. That was his next objective.
Despite the convenience of the disguise, he still tried to avoid people whenever possible. He was cautious and thorough, knowing that while he might fool a civilian, a real Iron Fang member might see through him. They might ask for a code or information only a member would know.
Luckily, there were no Iron Fangs in the immediate area. Most people were too busy or too terrified to look closely at him. By maintaining a confident, aggressive swagger, he managed to look the part perfectly.
As Eric headed toward the pharmacy, luck seemed to be on his side. He spotted a narrow alleyway that appeared to be a shortcut to his destination, allowing him to avoid both the crowds and potential gang patrols. Without hesitation, he stepped into the dim alley.
Eric knew that the damp, foul-smelling alleys of the Lower Hive were death traps—filled with addicts, criminals, deviants, and even the occasional mutant or madman. (Eric was blissfully unaware of things like Chaos Cults). Yet, he chose this path anyway. With a gun and a knife in hand, he felt he could handle a few junkies or low-level thugs with poor-quality weapons better than a confrontation with a gang unit. He remained alert, ready to strike at the first sign of a threat.
But fate decided to play a cruel joke on him.
As Eric moved deeper into the shadows, the light faded, shortening his line of sight. As he turned a sharp corner, he froze in shock.
Standing right in front of him were about six men and women engaged in a hushed conversation. Their gear and armor were far superior to that of common criminals or addicts. Even to an untrained eye, it was clear: these people were definitely not members of the Iron Fang gang.
Both sides stared at each other in stunned silence, caught off guard at such close range. But before anyone could speak or level their autogun at him, Eric reacted.
With reflexes far faster than an ordinary human, Eric snapped his submachine gun up, aiming to take them down before they could respond.
Click!
A soft sound echoed, but it was enough to make Eric's heart drop into his stomach. He squeezed the trigger again, but nothing happened. His eyes widened. Without waiting for them to fire, he spun on his heel and bolted back the way he came at top speed.
The rival gang members snapped out of their shock and immediately gave chase.
"Fast! He's an Iron Fang! Kill him before he warns the others!" the leader barked.
_"Damn it!! Why did this have to happen?!"_ Eric cursed internally, his mind racing. Everything had been going so well. He had a perfect disguise and had chosen a "safe" path, only to run straight into a rival gang patrol. To make matters worse, they now thought he was a real Iron Fang. And as if that wasn't bad enough, his looted "scrap-gun" had jammed on the very first shot.
_"What was the point of all that cleaning and oiling back in the room?!"_ Eric thought bitterly as he yanked the charging handle to clear the jam, praying the next round wouldn't be a dud.
The heavy thud of multiple footsteps and crude insults followed close behind. Eric gritted his teeth and ducked into a small alcove in the alley wall. He pressed his back flat against the cold stone, trying to stifle his heavy breathing. His heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped the submachine gun tightly, eyes wide, staring down the path while straining his ears for the sound of approaching feet.
He prayed they would just run past.
The footsteps thundered past his hiding spot and eventually faded. Eric felt a momentary wave of relief and tried to regulate his breathing.
But then, his body tensed up again. He heard a new set of footsteps—slow, steady, and deliberate. Someone was approaching cautiously, likely checking the alcoves.
Eric scrambled for a solution. He could stay silent and hope they missed him, but the odds were slim. If he was spotted, he'd be gunned down instantly. If he used his gun now, the rest of the gang would hear the noise and converge on his position.
_"There's only one way out of this,"_ Eric thought, drawing his combat knife from its sheath. If he used the gun, he would be hunted. But if he used the blade, he could end this quietly and slip away.
Eric stood perfectly still, a shadow among shadows. The footsteps grew louder, and then he saw it—the lead foot of the rival ganger appearing at the edge of the alcove.
He waited for the perfect moment. The ganger stepped past, not even glancing in his direction.
Eric lunged forward with the explosive force of a tensioned spring. His left hand clamped down on the rival's autogun, forcing the barrel toward the ground to prevent the enemy from bringing the weapon to bear at such close range. The ganger desperately tried to wrench the muzzle upward to pull the trigger, but Eric held it firm. Before the man could react, Eric drove his knife deep into the ganger's right wrist. The sudden, agonizing sting forced the man to let go, sending the heavy firearm clattering to the floor as he let out a cry of pain.
Eric wrenched the blade out of the wrist, poised for a finishing strike. However, the opponent fought back, swinging a series of desperate, clumsy punches. Eric dodged the blows with practiced fluidity before slamming his elbow into the man's face, dazing him momentarily. Seizing the opening, He then stabbed the rival gang member forcefully in the neck, the blade piercing his larynx and neck bones, before pulling the knife out.
The rival ganger clutched at his throat, trying in vain to stem the torrent of blood. He slumped to his knees and then collapsed onto the grime-covered floor. After a few violent tremors and blood coughing from his mouth, the body went still.
Standing over the fallen man, Eric felt a slight tremor in his hands. He had never taken pleasure in killing. Though he had taken lives before—mutants, Orks, and heretics alike—it was almost always from a distance with a firearm. The intimacy of close-quarters combat, feeling the life slip away at the end of a blade, was something he wasn't accustomed to.
He tried to steady his nerves, reminding himself that he had once used a chainsword—a weapon far more brutal and visceral—to cut down his foes. Steeling his resolve, Eric turned and vanished into the shadows, fleeing the area without casting a single glance back at the corpse.