Day185. Year 988. 41st Millennium
Planet: Opel III
Hive Kathion
Upper Hive
The rhythmic click of the lock resonated through the quiet air. Eric pushed open the door to his hab-unit and stepped inside, his mind a chaotic whirl of conflicting emotions—exhaustion and paranoia mingling with a profound, overwhelming surge of relief and comfort.
His perilous maiden assignment was finally over. Although face-to-face debriefs with Vann were always suffocatingly tense, it hadn't gone completely horribly... technically, it was better than he had anticipated. At the very least, he had walked away with a generous consolation prize.
Eric unbuttoned his grey coat—encrusted with soot, grease, dried blood, and five days of Lower Hive grime—and carelessly hung it on the wall rack.
He let out a weary sigh. Scrubbing this coat clean was going to be an absolute nightmare, but it was far too expensive to simply discard.
Walking back from the transit lift through the streets and thoroughfares of the Upper Hive had been a miserable experience. He had felt deeply uneasy, accompanied by a prickle of acute embarrassment.
Passersby had treated him like a biohazard. Some averted their gazes entirely, while others pressed handkerchiefs or gloved hands against their noses before scurrying past.
Still, Eric tried not to dwell on their judgmental stares or opinions. None of them knew who he was anyway.
The cumulative exhaustion from sleep deprivation and five straight days of brutal survival in the Lower Hive left his body screaming to collapse onto the soft mattress right in front of him.
But his discipline held out. There was no way he was going to climb into bed covered in filth. Grabbing a clean towel, he headed straight for the washroom.
An hour later, Eric emerged with a contented smile. Having burned through nearly an entire bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo, he was finally pristine again.
He walked over to his wardrobe, changing into a simple t-shirt and shorts. Once dressed, he reached into the pocket of the coat hanging on the wall, retrieved the envelope Vann had given him, and sank backward onto his soft mattress, utterly spent.
Even though his current attire revealed a bit more skin than usual, he couldn't care less—this was his private sanctuary. Right now, his modest, ordinary bed felt like the most luxurious haven in the entire Imperium.
Lying on his back, staring up at the dull grey ceiling, Eric replayed the recent events in his mind.
While the generous cash payout from Vann softened the blow, if given a choice, he would gladly trade it for ten quiet months of desk work.
Accounting ledgers and mechanical typewriters were mind-numbing and exhausting in their own right, but at least they didn't require him to risk his life in the Lower Hive—no disguises, no infiltration, no firefights, and no taking human lives.
He traced the edge of the certified draft inside the envelope. The substantial sum offered a small measure of comfort, if nothing else.
Pushing himself up, Eric stashed the envelope securely in a narrow crevice behind his wardrobe. He then walked over to his pantry cupboard, pulled out a tin of grox meat and a can of preserved fruit, and sat down at his table.
He popped the tin open and ate the unheated grox meat straight out of the can, not even bothering to warm it in the oven as he usually did. Cold grox meat wasn't gourmet by any stretch, but after five days of choking down processed corpse-starch rations, standard canned rations tasted like a feast.
Finishing his late meal, his eyes wandered to a stack of books on top of the cabinet. He toyed with the idea of reading a chapter, but fatigue won out. Collapsing back onto his bed, he immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
---
Day 186.year988.41st millennium
Upper Hive
Eric woke up feeling remarkably refreshed. After five days of violent turmoil in the Lower Hive, his modest bed felt like absolute bliss.
He stretched his limbs to ease his stiff muscles before forcing himself out of bed. Today, he had to return to work, fully mentally braced to endure an earful from his section chief regarding his five-day absence. Even with the official leave paperwork, he knew his supervisor would grumble endlessly. All he could do was grit his teeth, endure it, and let it slide off his back.
Groggily, Eric shuffled into the washroom to perform his morning routine.
As he washed his hair, his fingers ran through his silky, silver-white locks, noting how long they had grown. They now fell slightly past his mid-back, stray strands constantly falling over his face if left unstyled.
*I hope Livia is free today,* Eric thought as he rinsed out the shampoo. Provided nothing went sideways after his shift, he planned to drop by her shop and ask for a hair trim.
After drying off, he put on his clothes and stepped into his makeshift kitchenette. Pulling another tin of grox meat from the cabinet, he opened it and placed it inside the heating oven.
Reciting the standardized catechism to appease the oven's Machine Spirit according to the instruction manual, he switched it on. He then set some water to boil to brew a fresh cup of tanna tea to pair with his breakfast.
His smooth, pleasant morning hit an immediate snag when he opened the pantry canister, only to find his tanna supply completely depleted.
Eric's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Had he run out five days ago? That didn't make sense—he distinctly remembered there being plenty of leaves left the last time he brewed a cup.
*Something is wrong here... Did someone break into my hab while I was gone?* he thought, a sudden chill washing over him.
. . . . . . . . . .
Ten grueling hours at the manufactory dragged by like an eternity. When the shift-ending klaxon finally blared, Eric stepped out of the machine components facility looking utterly withered and drained. His long silver-white hair had been tied up into a neat, low bun for safety, but it did little to ease his lingering exhaustion.
Everything played out precisely as he had anticipated. The moment he set foot in his department, his overbearing supervisor unleashed a barrage of complaints regarding his five-day absence, slamming a towering stack of backlogged paperwork onto his desk with an ultimatum: clear the entire pile before the end of the shift!
Pushing his stamina to the absolute limit, Eric relied on sheer muscle memory and speed, his fingers hammering relentlessly across the iron keys of his mechanical typewriter. He managed to clear the mountain of documents just before the buzzer sounded, but the effort drained the last drops of his vital energy.
Aside from aching fingers and a throbbing lower back, he suffered from a peculiar mental fatigue. Throughout the day, well-meaning coworkers dropped by his desk to inquire about his well-being. While he appreciated their concern, concocting plausible alibis on the fly to satisfy both colleagues and his supervisor tested his mental reserves to their limits.
Thankfully, his cover story—claiming he had urgent family affairs in Hive Orion—matched the forged leave permit provided by Vann, shielding him from further suspicion.
*At least I survived another wretched day,* Eric comforted himself with a quiet sigh.
Exhaling softly, he dragged his heavy feet along the concrete walkway. But before he could head home to sink back into bed, his immediate destination was Livia's barber shop.
Vanishing for five days without a word must have driven his closest friend nearly out of her mind with worry.
Arriving at the salon, he found the 'Closed' sign displayed, but the door remained unlocked—a familiar sign that Livia was still inside.
Pushing the door open, the familiar scent of hair treatments and machine lubricant from electric shears filled his senses. The welcoming atmosphere instantly washed over him—a true safe haven in a dangerous world.
Before he could utter a word of greeting, Livia lunged forward, throwing her arms around him so forcefully he nearly stumbled backward. She squeezed him in a vice-like grip, the cold metal of her left augmetic arm pressing uncomfortably against his ribs.
"Erica! Where on Terra have you been?!" Livia's voice trembled with raw panic. "I couldn't reach you for five whole days! Do you have any idea how worried I was?!"
Eric could feel the tremor in her body, though he inwardly thought she was overreacting a bit—he had only been gone for five days, after all.
Yet, as someone born and raised in the Upper Hive, Livia knew all too well that when someone vanished without a trace for five days in a Hive City, it rarely ended well. They either turned up as a rotting corpse in a dark alley, got nabbed by slavers, or suffered fates far worse than death.
"I'm right here, Livia... I'm safe," Eric reassured her in a soft, gentle voice. Gently loosening her grip, he patted her back reassuringly. "I'm so sorry for scaring you."
Livia pulled back slightly, her eyes bloodshot. "Where were you? Why didn't you tell me anything?"
"I had urgent business to attend to over in Hive Orion," Eric smooth-talked, delivering his prepared alibi flawlessly. Guilt pricked his conscience for lying to his best friend, but keeping her in the dark was the safest choice for both of them. "It was all so sudden... I completely forgot to leave a note. I'm sorry."
Livia let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, wiping the corners of her eyes. "Forget it... Just as long as you're safe. Don't ever pull a stunt like that again, Erica. You almost gave me a heart attack."
"I understand. I promise," Eric replied with a faint smile.
A brief silence settled between them before Eric remembered his original errand. He ran his fingers awkwardly through his long silver-white hair.
"Um... Livia," Eric looked up, asking in a slightly timid, embarrassed tone, "are you free right now? Could you give me a trim? It's getting a bit unruly."
Hearing the request, a bright smile returned to Livia's face, her previous anxiety completely evaporating.
"Of course! Absolutely," Livia chimed cheerfully, ushering Eric toward the barber chair facing the large mirror. "Take a seat right here, I'll fix you up in no time!"
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Day 158 , Year 988 ,41st Millennium
Lower Hive
Vann descended into the depths of the Lower Hive, navigating toward the coordinates provided by Omega. Events today had put him in an exceptionally good mood—his political rival, Lord Ritus, had been effectively neutralized. The fool was long overdue for liquidation; no matter what constructive policies Vann proposed, whether beneficial to himself or the public, Ritus had systematically opposed him, occasionally succeeding in stymying his plans.
It had been a thorn in his side for far too long.
Furthermore, Erica had executed her maiden deployment remarkably well. While he hadn't pressed her directly regarding her tactical execution, a debrief with Colonel Drago revealed that her improvised countermeasures against power-armored hostiles were impressively pragmatic.
Still, she had much to prove.
As the lift doors hissed open, Vann stepped out without hesitation. He navigated the Lower Hive thoroughfares as casually as if walking through his own backyard, his hand resting instinctively on the grip of his heavy bolt pistol, prepared to draw at a moment's notice.
Though he wasn't intimately familiar with this specific sector, it posed no concern.
The abandoned corridors of the Lower Hive were heavy with humidity, foul air, and industrial pollutants, casting shadows that harbored hidden lethality—scarcely different from the lower sectors he had navigated in his youth.
The grime and danger evoked a strange, nostalgic wave of familiarity, recalling his days as a ruthless gang leader fifteen years prior.
Yet something felt off—the complete absence of life in the surrounding vicinity was unnerving. Still, he remained vigilant; complacency was a death sentence in the merciless depths of a Hive world.
Descending several flights of iron stairs, he neared the designated rendezvous. The environment degraded noticeably, signaling that he had reached the deepest thresholds of the Lower Hive, bordering the desolate Underhive.
Vann surveyed the area: collapsed industrial foundries, decaying chemical conduits, and rusted metal catwalks. Normally, a desolate zone like this would be crawling with scavengers, mutants, rival gangers, and terrifying beasts.
But as he had noted, the silence was deafening.
The purge of House Maverick explained the ghost-town atmosphere. After House Maverick was executed for collaborating with Genestealers, their territorial holdings were split evenly between House Korvax and House Thalric.
Following the Imperial victory over the Genestealers, House Korvax had deployed heavily armed house guards to systematically purge the sector of remaining mutants, abominations, and undesirable fauna.
Vann exhaled softly, refocusing his mind on his primary objective: meeting Omega. Before Ritus expired under Omega's grueling interrogation, Vann felt it would be an absolute tragedy—and poor form as a rival—not to gloat face-to-face one last time.
Regarding Omega, Vann harbored complex views on the psyker. Yet, truth be told, he held Omega in far higher regard than he did his own brother, Valen.
Vann had never interacted directly with Omega prior to this joint operation. Nearly a decade ago, when rumors first reached him, Vann had hoped Omega's presence beside Valen would lead to his brother's arrest and execution for harboring an unsanctioned rogue psyker.
Contrary to his hopes, Valen and Omega had evaded the Inquisition's gaze entirely, with Omega effectively serving as Valen's personal enforcer and shadow executioner.
Omega's influence only grew after Malvik, Valen's chief lieutenant, met his demise.
Even from afar, Vann recognized Omega's tactical genius, leadership, pragmatic intellect, and formidable combat prowess. Combining lethal martial expertise with raw Warp capabilities made him a terrifying force on the battlefield.
Yet, the red flags were impossible to ignore. Omega was an unsanctioned psyker suffering from severe chemical withdrawal due to past narcotic abuse—a volatile combination that could snap at any moment, triggering catastrophic Warp manifestations.
What Vann simultaneously respected and despised about Omega was his alignment with Valen's mindset: absolute coldness, treating human lives as mere statistical figures on a balance sheet.
Furthermore, Omega's loyalty was disturbing—he harbored no devotion to the God-Emperor whatsoever, placing his unwavering allegiance squarely in the hands of Valen instead.
Reaching the designated site—an abandoned foundry—Vann observed four heavily armed Korvax house guards patrolling the perimeter with vigilant precision.
Vann approached, confirmed his authorization, and stepped inside. The interior had been completely gutted of industrial machinery. Reinforcements strengthened the walls and flooring, converting sections into makeshift operational nodes, including a compact armory nearby.
At the far end of the foundry, Omega sat across from the stripped form of Lord Ritus, who was tightly bound to a metal chair. Vann felt a twinge of disappointment at Ritus's condition—he felt the snob deserved far worse torture.
Naked and battered, Ritus was a miserable sight. His face and torso were covered in dark contusions, his eyes swollen shut, his skin scored with fine lacerations, and the fingernails on one hand entirely torn out.
*Spineless pathetic coward,* Vann sneered inwardly. Back when Vann was a green gang recruit, he had been captured and tortured brutally for days by a rival gang, yet he hadn't broken or surrendered a single shred of intelligence.
Seeing his nemesis break so easily was thoroughly unimpressive.
Omega had clearly just concluded his initial interrogation phase, having broken Ritus with minimal physical pressure.
Omega stared at the bound noble with a cold, hollow gaze, meticulously transcribing every word into a datapad. The testimony detailed conspirators involved in the Lower Hive insurgency at Power Station 5 back on Day 168.
"Alright! I'll tell you everything! I'm not lying!" Ritus rasped, attempting to shout through his despair and rage, though his battered body reduced his voice to a strained, pathetic wheeze. "I had nothing to do with it directly! Lady Quiona Thalric arranged the whole thing! She orchestrated the entire plot to use those xenos abominations as leverage to seize supreme authority over this world!"
"Lies. You know more," Omega stated emotionlessly. Without warning, his fist slammed into Ritus's cheekbone, throwing the chair and the bound noble sideways onto the concrete floor in a heap of moans.
Before Omega could press further, he noticed Vann's presence. Rising from his seat, the psyker stepped over to greet the General.
"Greetings, Lord General. I did not expect you so soon," Omega greeted in his flat cadence, his single eerie violet eye fixing on Vann. "I have extracted substantial intelligence, though the puzzle remains incomplete."
"Greetings, Commander Omega. It seems the God-Emperor smiles upon us," Vann replied with a dry chuckle. "This treacherous noble possesses far less spine than anticipated."
"What brings you here unescorted today?" Omega inquired, tilting his head slightly, a flicker of curiosity breaking through his mask.
"Nothing elaborate," Vann shrugged nonchalantly. "Just paying my respects to a political enemy before he expires."
"As you wish. I shall prepare the next set of instruments," Omega nodded calmly, turning to leave the chamber and leaving Vann alone with Ritus.
"Have you come to mock me, Vann?!" Ritus spat from the floor, trembling with fury and indignity.
"Spot on, Ritus," Vann smirked, nodding mockingly. "It would be an absolute tragedy to miss a spectacle like this."
"You and that freak of a psyker are dead men! My lord will flay you alive!" Ritus threatened in desperate rage. Delusional arrogance still blinded him; he foolishly believed Lord Thalric's patronage shielded him from execution—a complete fantasy.
The moment evidence of Ritus's involvement in xenos treason and heresy reached Lord Thalric, Thalric had discarded him instantly like trash—as was appropriate.
"Spare me your delusions," Vann lowered his voice, his eyes cold with utter disdain. "Surely the psyker made it clear: your lord has completely abandoned you."
"Face reality before you bleed out under torture or end up with a bolt through your skull," Vann added, crossing his arms.
"I should have eliminated you long ago, Vann Korvax..." Ritus wheezed bitterly, consumed by the realization of his fatal blunder.
"Perhaps," Vann shook his head lightly. "But this ruin is entirely of your own making. Stop blaming others. Given a clean shot without political blowback, I would have killed you myself long ago. But your embezzlement, contraband smuggling, treason, and consorting with xenos brought you down. I merely capitalized on your foolishness."
"All those words just to say I was stupid and careless?" Ritus chuckled bitterly at his own ruin.
"Precisely," Vann replied with an indifferent smirk.
"Though if I may offer a word of advice... you're not an ugly man, Ritus, but your personality is so repulsive even someone like Keshila detests you," Vann added mockingly.
"That whore?!" Ritus snapped in frustration, missing Vann's implication entirely. "I paid her! Why should I care if she's pleased?! What does a courtesan have to do with my wife?!"
Vann sighed softly. Though Keshila was indeed a courtesan, hearing Ritus belittle her stirred a strange, unexpected annoyance in him. Still, it confirmed that Ritus's wife deeply resented him despite his possessive affection for her. While patronizing courtesans was perfectly legal under Hive Kathion statutes, Ritus's blatant neglect and frequent visits to brothels had driven his wife straight into resentment.
"Ah... I must say, Sheidea is truly a remarkable woman," Vann sighed softly, locking eyes with Ritus, a superior smile playing on his lips. "In truth, she deserved far better than men like you... or me."
"Vann... what... what do you mean by that?!" Ritus's face drained of color, his eyes widening with sickening dread.
"You know… it took time. Months, really, to wear down her defences. I used every last scrap of charm, every trick I've ever learned, just to make her look at me as something other than the enemy." Vann leaned down slowly, bringing his face level with Ritus's, his voice soft, warm, and sharp enough to flay skin from bone.
"Do you have any idea how good it felt? To watch that fierce, blind loyalty she wasted on you — loyalty you never, in all your life, earned — shatter into a thousand pieces? Do you know how she screamed my name in the throes of it, Ritus? How she begged for me?"
He reached into his coat, pulled out a polished data-slate, and tapped the screen once. A high-fidelity recording flared to life, held directly in front of Ritus's swollen, weeping eyes — irrefutable, damning, and utterly final.
"You… you bastard…!"
Ritus could do nothing. He thrashed against his bonds until his raw wrists ran red, but the chains held fast. All he could do was weep, hot, bitter tears of agony and unquenchable hatred scalding his bruised cheeks. Every curse, every insult he had ever known died in his throat; none were cruel enough, none were enough to match the ruin Vann had made of his life.
"Well, I'll be off. Do try to enjoy what little time you have left with Omega's little question-and-answer session. And don't you worry about a single thing I'll take excellent care of her from now on."Vann drew his boot back and drove it, full force, straight into Ritus's unprotected gut. The noble folded with a wet, retching gasp, all the air driven from his lungs in a single agonised rush. Vann turned on his heel and strode back toward the exit, deaf to the broken curses and ragged sobs echoing behind him.
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Rite: Alright then looks like Eric's lucky streak is still holding for now! I'll do my best to keep updates coming as regularly as I can.