Emperor-Forsaken Luck - I
Well, shit.
I'd hoped that being attuned to the warp, barely surpassing an Iota rating at my estimate, would have prevented me from being killed outright by the Big Bads of the universe, or at least unnoticed and away from some noble looking for their own pet mind-reader. But as it turns out, what you really need to look out for are the fucking cops.
Arbites. Enforcers of the Lex Imperialis, armed with las, shot, and club, and rather prickly when a rat's parlor tricks start to look… strange. I know damned well it was that runt who snitched on me, fucker didn't like it when I took his preemo begging spot. Liked me a lot less when I cuffed him over the head when he tried to take a bite out of me, trying to get his spot back. Nasty little blighter that one.
Fuck me, man.
Several years spent surviving, scavenging, and running from just about anything that breathed in my general direction left me wanting more, and the one time I take a chance to go aboveground is when it all goes to shit.
Emperor-forsaken luck's what I call it, no tingling beneath my skin, no buzz between the old noggin, just a firm hand clasping my shoulder and a shock maul to the gut, leaving me to piss myself before I could even get a word out.
Now, I'm stuck in this damn cell. Could be worse, I suppose, at least I got my own cell… and my own restraints… and muzzle, I mean, at least they're taking a possible psyker seriously, huh?
Those other chucklefucks in the cell across from me look downright miserable. All packed in there like that, poor bastards. Looks like a mix of hivers in there, sumprats like myself and the guy mumbling to himself in the corner of the cell, all the way to what looks like someone from the middling of the hive. S'got a better build than any of us anyways, hell, you can't even see his ribs. Wish mumbles over there was sprayed down beforehand, though, can smell the fucker through the damn walls, somewhere between rot and sickly sweet.
With a forceful shove, the door leading to the holding cells was pushed open.
"C'mon, man! I wasn't even doing anything wrong!" whined some obviously noble-born brat, garbed in jewels and finery that were possibly just as much as the entire fortress precinct. Maybe even more, judging by the obvious augmetics he had, what looks to be an airtube or built-in rebreather that trailed from his nose and disappeared into his cheek.
"You crashed a damn aircar into a primary ventilation tower, ya daft prick! You should be glad you're a frakkin' Barquette! Otherwise, you'd be in that damned cell with the rest of the guttershites!" shouted a lightly armored Arbite, a real Arbite that is, not some upjumped cop. No way anyone other than them would bother dragging in someone from a capital N Noble House.
Now, if only I could figure out why that name sounded so familiar.
Oh well.
No use figuring that out now, s'not like I remember much from Warhammer lore in the first place, entertainment over accuracy after all. God, I miss YouTube.
But even then, a Barquette. Could've sworn those bastards were based up in the spires; never known any of their ilk to traipse down here. The air alone would've put most spirefolk into a coughing fit.
"Now then, I'm going to call up your House and tell them Proctor Kelsi is holding you for questioning and that they'd better have a damn good excuse for you to be running around down here during a lockdown," the Proctor growled, his voice deep and sounding like he'd rather be anywhere else than dealing with him.
"Like you said," the boy replied rather smugly, underlined with petulance, "I'm a Barquette. I don't belong here." His eyes flicked across the Proctor's carapace. "So, what? I had a little accident, sure. House Barquette can easily pay it off. Don't you want a nice bonus, Proctor Kelsi?" The boy began leaning forward, tapping Kelsi's rank and insignia, "I'm sure we can figure something out, just the two of us, yeah?"
Proctor Kelsi, face still looking as if it were cut from stone, slowly began to grin.
Looks like even the local Arbites aren't above a little bit of bribery, right shame that is.
At least that's what I thought before the boy was laid out on the floor. A sharp slap and metallic clang as a gauntleted fist made contact with whatever metal was inside the boy's face echoes through the building, the rabble in the cells quieting down to listen in closely.
"Reckless driving and endangerment: 5 years and a fine of 15,000 Thrones. Destruction of an Adeptus Mechanicus ventilation tower, along with the loss of personnel: servitorization, and sanctions placed on House Barquette."
Rolling the boy over with a nudge of his boot, Kelsi leaned in, grabbing him by the collar, "Attempting to bribe an officer, attempting to bribe me."
Proctor Kelsi's grin could've split his face in two from sheer glee.
"No, boy, you aren't getting out of this one. Someone like you, your house'll thank me for providing them a favor. You see, I'm feeling damn pious today! I'm sure the Militarum's needing some fresh meat. But don't worry, Barquette, I'm sure your oh so hallowed name will get you places in the Guard. Hell! Let's get you acquainted with your brothers in arms!"
Further lifting the boy's collar, he begins to drag him down the hall and to the cell across my own.
"NO! NO! LET ME GO!" the boy began to wail, horror flashing across his now bruised face. The other prisoners, now rousing from their seats, immediately began to surround the cell door. They knew exactly where Proctor Kelsi was dropping him off.
Throwing the still thrashing and screaming noble through the cell door, Proctor Kelsi began to walk away, still grinning as he readied his dataslate to add another to his precinct's tithe.
The Astra Militarum, the Imperial Guard, a fucking meat grinder's what it is, where men go to die, and apparently where dipshit, mouthy nobles are sent off to.
X
It's not until another hour or so that, with a clack and hiss, my cell door opened, three Arbites entering, one checking my restraints while the other two stood at the ready, shock mauls powered and ready to cave my head in at the slightest suggestion.
"Rogue psyker, awaiting transport, identification tag is as follows: Iota-A007, pending further assessment and subsequent grading. The prisoner looks to be in his mid-40s, greying hair, 63 kilos, 180 cm., bloodwork came back as one Virgil Cassoway, previously held for questioning for possession of unlicensed stimulants." Came the tinny, electronic voice of the seemingly younger of the three, quickly frisking me down for a second time, ensuring that I had no physical way to escape.
Looks to be an Intelligencer, young for such a position, carapace still unmarred with freshly written and stamped purity seals adorning his armor, the paint unchipped, bright, and vibrant red, clashing with the drab cell.
He pointed towards the gurney they had brought with them, and the other Arbites nodded, beginning to walk forward. One reaches into a leather pouch at his waist, producing a small vial and a needle, handing them off to the Intelligencer.
They're going to put me under.
"Ah fuck," I mumbled through the muzzle, finally starting to wriggle about, "no need for that. I'm not going to–"
Rumbling, the scream of twisting metal, a distant shout, and the two Aribtes overseeing the sedation quickly stood at attention, leaning into their helmets, listening to whatever orders they had just received.
The two then exploded into action, running out of my cell, leaving the rest of us reprobates to stare blankly at one another, the noble priss still lying somewhere, having exhausted himself. The Intelligencer, however, looked undecided, helmet flicking between the needle and vial and the hallway the older Arbite took off towards.
"All of you, form up, single file! Against the wall!" Shouted the Intelligencer, moving to secure my fellow prisoners, leaving me stillstuck in this damn cell.
Hopefully, whoever the dumbass is who decided to make a racket near the precinct would be dealt with quickly. This close to the underhive, no doubt it's some mutie taking a potshot at the precinct, maybe even one of the many gangers, wanting to prove their worth.
HAH!
Wish them luck, really. There's not a damn thing getting through their armored walls, much less the personnel, Arbites, cops, cyber mastiffs, and even a few servitors from what I remember seeing while being dragged in.
As I let my thoughts wander, I began to feel something, not so much a tingle but a constant buzzin my head as if someone used one of those shitty shocking gums wired directly to my skull. That little sixth sense is finally being set off, knowing that something is going to happen, and with that ruckus going on outside, no way it's anything good.
I began to wriggle even more, now determined to get the attention of the Intelligencer across the hall. My shouts would be muffled, at best, through the walls; no chance of getting his attention that way.
Fuck, let's hope he's not too trigger-happy.
And… psyker stuff.
I give their cell door a shove, and I doubt that it was the clang that got his attention, considering the loud shuffling and grumbling of the prisoners, but the deep, unsettling chill that quickly began permeated the area creating a layer of frost over the cell doors and the edges of the windows of my own cell, creating spiderwebbing cracks in the reinforced glass.
Ah, fuck. That is not supposed to happen.
At the first sign of approaching frost, the prisoners began to press themselves up against the wall; even the noble prick stopped his crying and rolled away from the creeping cold.
The Intelligencer, however, took no chances, quickly drawing the shotpistol at his hip and slowly began to approach my cell.
"Rogue Psyker! You are to stand down!" his voice wavering and breath coming out in hisses of steam from the air filters built into his helmet.
Oh, thank the Emperor! He's a fucking newbie!
Any experienced Arbite would've been putting rounds downrange, even if they had to shoot through the reinforced glass to get to me.
I began to shout, scream even, while motioning for the door.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he walked forward, never letting his shotpistol drop, always keeping me in his sights. Thankfully, the other prisoners didn't even try to escape, seeing that the Intelligencer was the only thing between them and the big, scary psyker.
"Hey! Pssst! Boy!" I shouted through the muzzle.
"Pysker." He replies, standing at the doorway.
"Heyheyheyheyhey! Get your ass over here, damnit!"
My palms begin to tingle, a chill goes up my spine, and I begin to struggle harder. "There's something here! Something's coming! You need to let me out!"
"Lies from the mouth of a heretic." He hisses.
"Shut your mouth, wytch! You willbe shipped to holy Terra and made to kneel before the Golden Throne! You will be judged by Him as the Lex decrees!" becoming increasingly bolder with every word, either remembering his training or more likely attempting to cow me into submission by invoking His name.
"There should've been a check-in by now, right?" I quickly interject before he starts reciting litanies or prayers. "…by your squadmates, yeah? I haven't heard your voxcaster go off once since whatever happened outside."
He looks over his shoulder at the comm unit sitting on the desk, still utterly silent, not even an order for backup or an all clear coming over the vox.
"What have you done!?" He begins to question me, anger clouding his thoughts, his emotions suffusing the room, not even requiring a skim of his thoughts as he all but blares his thoughts into the empyrean.
Fear, anger, confusion, and worry bleed out of the Intelligencer as he begins to wonder where exactly the supposed transport truck for my relocation, the Commissar, meant to pick up his new penal recruits, as well as his squadmates, who should have reported in by now as protocol dictates.
He begins stepping forward, jutting his weapon under my chin.
I freeze. For what else was I supposed to do? I needed at least a few seconds to focus before using my abilities; there'd be no time to act before he blew my head clean off.
"You need to listen to me." I quietly state. "There is something wrong here, I can feel it. There is something clawing at the Immaterium, gnawing, hungry, and it wants out."
The Intelligencer looks disturbed by my words. I can only hope he takes my warning to heart, to do something, anything, even if that's killing me before whatever I sense starts clawing its way into and outof me.
Another glance over his shoulder, eyeing the other convicts. He grunts before reaching over and throwing me over his shoulder, unable or unwilling to push the gurney and keep an eye on the rest of us at the same time.
"Thank the Emperor." I solemnly intone, we're finally leaving this damn cell, and from whatever it is that's outside the fortress walls that has my senses firing off flares left and right.
"All of you!" he barks, "Line up! We are leaving!"
He quickly begins to cuff the rest of the freely moving men and women from the cell, chaining them together at the hands, forming a line, and prodding them forward at gunpoint. All the while still toeing the edge of frost that permeates the floor.
X
The only noise as we were led from the holding cells was the shuffling and clinking of our movement, the harsh clanking of the Intelligencer's boots, and the quiet mumbling that never quite ceased from the other sumprat. Creepy fucker that one.
As we moved further into the precinct, the Intelligencer attempted to get a hold of Protor Kelsi or any other ranking officer to no avail, only receiving static and a garbled mess of sounds from what sounded like a local sermon.
As we cleared door after door and long hallways, one after the next, we arrived at what seemed to be an office, a gleaming bronze plaque that read: Investigator Mulroy.
The Intelligencer simply motioned for the group to stop, putting a finger to his helmet in a hushing motion that quieted whatever grumbling came from the convicts, one even elbowing the mumbling man hard in the ribs, shutting him up for the first time since I arrived.
Setting me down, he leaned in, "Is there someone in there, wytch?" his shotpistol still firmly gripped in one hand and drawing his shock maul with the other.
I shuffle upwards, righting myself against the wall, "Give me a second," I reply, still muffled through the muzzle.
"Frak's sake," he whispers to himself before roughly releasing the locking mechanism on the muzzle, placing it to the side, "Do not make me regret this wytch," tapping the trigger guard of his weapon before stepping back and bracing himself against the door.
I work my jaw, "Thank you, sir," before centering myself and sending my senses outward, turning my attention to what's through the door.
I'm no savant, and I've never known another psyker, so my abilities, while varied, are spotty at best. I'm sure some other sanctioned psyker could view the entire precinct omnisciently, but I instead got snapshots.
Blink.
An empty desk, terminal turned on and whirring.
Blink.
An evidence room, the door is still locked.
Blink.
A helmet and armor on a table, a bottle of polish lying on its side, a rag discarded on the ground.
Blink.
Fluids, vomit, maybe? Blood? All spewed across the floor.
Blink.
An Arbite slumped over a locker, the Investigator, I presume.
Blink.
My eyes flutter open as the Intelligencer gives me a prod with his boot.
"Well, wytch? Who's in there?"
"An Arbite, your Investigator by the looks of him, looks like he was trying to get into his locker, nobody else, sir."
He nods before gently testing the door handle, pushing the door inwards with his maul, before stepping in, and sweeping from right to left in a practiced motion, using the heavy steel door to conceal himself.
As he steps in, the prisoners begin to stir, the sumprat resuming his mumbling before another convict tries to get him to shut up, punching him in the gut, making the rest of us flinch at the way he seemed to be lifted off his feet from the force of it. However, this time, he continues to mumble, his fervent words now growing in tone and intensity.
"He is here!"
"I hear Him!"
"His angels have come!"
"He welcomes u̶̧͈̱̩͓̝̼̖͍̗͉͚̪̪͎͍ͫ̓ͣ̄̾̋͒̀̏ͣ́̎͂̏̈͆̆ͯ̅ͯ͘̚ͅs̷̨̛̱̼̏̏͂̂̾́!̷̢̡̛̺͉̼̭̦͚̓̋͑̍̊͂ͯ̽̔̅̾͟͝"̵͍ͭ̑̏ͦ
"R̵̡̼͙̻ͦͪ̊ͦ͛͠Ẽ̶̢͖̯̖͎͎̠̲̦̻͚̃̔ͮͨ͒ͦͧ̌͂̃̕͜͝͠J̰̔Ơ̵̪̗͍̲̟̮̣̯ͯͬ̇̉̋̎͛͆ͯ̾̉͑͒ͤ́̓̕͢͟Ȋ̶̧̢̖̗̗̥̫̣̗̩̳͉̱̖̫̘͇̪̮́̈͒̽ͮͦ̏́̿̾̓͋͋̔̀͑̊̇͌͒̏ͭ̕͘͜͜C̞̳͐͛E̷̷̷̛̠͚̞̘̺͍̲̠̦̝̞̪̣̲͋͂̃͋ͫͯ̀̀͗͗̈̋̓́̑̒ͤ́͋ͪ̕͢͢͠͞ͅ!"
"H̡̯̖̘̋ͭ̽ͨ̈̌̔̐̕̚͜E̵̺̼͙̹__̶̨̼͈̰̝̠̗̲̜̯͖̗̌́̑̀ͯͤ͂̾͗ I͖̬̱̦͆́͛S̴̶̲̫̙̫͊̓̆ͪ͊̕_̸̤͓͙̥̈͆ H̶̸̶̶̢̧̢̗̦̻̫͕̣͋ͨͧͯ̋ͩ̀̋ͭ̔́ͩ̒̌͢ͅȨ̛͇̜͉͙̤͎̳̺̙͕̫͐̽͑̈́̒ͯͨ̈͐̑̚͠Ŗ̸̸̶͉̯͚͍͕͓̠ͮ͋̾̓̎͗͜͜͢Ę̩̲̮̱̖̤͚͓̌͊̍ͩ̔͂̈́͊ͣͧ̂̽̏͗ͩ͒͢͢͠!"
"H̙ͭͧ̾͜E̸͈̩͕̱̤̫̎̅͛̐̍ͦ̕͘͜͟͟_̨͙̹̟͚͙̩͖̰̞̈́ͧ̽̊ͬ̈ͨͦͧ̿̚ͅ Å̶̧͖̘̠̖̑́̾̔̐͗̆̾̉͂̇́̍͘͝R̶̙̫͓̙̘̜̼͕̣̥͔̖͛ͩͮ̂̓ͭͦͧ͊͂̎̌̐͝R͚I̓V̶̧̱̝͙̰̹͊̐͌͂̂͐̔̔̌̀͠͝E̡͔̩̝ͬͫ̑́͒̈_̮͎̝̇̀̔ͦ́͢S̶̠͎ͪͨ́̏ͣ̀͂͊!"
The man shouts, screaming his lungs hoarse, blood spraying from his mouth as his vocal cords make sounds not meant for the human tongue before throwing himself at me, dragging the rest of the chain gang forward with monstrous strength.
I scramble backwards, slamming my back against the door, lifting myself upwards and towards the door handle.
"Fucking grab him for Thrones' sake!" I scream at the others, kicking and stomping at the man's grasping hands, his long nails seeming more like talons with the way he attempted to claw at my legs.
Only the initial man who punched him reaches forward, a mean-looking ganger, well-muscled and clearly showing chem withdrawal with his bloodshot eyes and bulging veins.
But even with his prodigious strength, he fares no match for whatever sorcery is fueling the sumprat.
As soon as his massive mitt that he calls a hand landed on the other's shoulder, quick as a flash, he spun.
The scrape of bones from his unnatural twisting and speed, a chain's clinking as he dragged the ganger closer, and a wet, gurgling cry were all we heard before a spray of arterial blood began to fill our vision.
Possession? No, it can't be; there are no warp fluctuations. I would've felt something… wouldn't I? There has to be something I–
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
A trio of shots echoes through the hallway, leaving us all cupping our ears and flinching as the ringing begins to subside. Revealing the man with multiple fist-sized holes blown clean through his torso and shoulder.
"FRAK'S GOING ON HERE?!" a grizzled, scarred, and downright pissed looking Investigator yells over the commotion and screaming of the other inmates. One glowing red augmetic eye glaring at us from the dark room, now in full carapace and helmet. His bolt pistol still smoking and roving over the hallway in search of other threats. The Intelligencer quickly took position behind the man, now armed with a suppression shield, shotpistol resting on the lip of it.
"The wytch did something! He cursed Frank and Vaulin! I saw it!" shouted one prisoner at the end of the line.
"Piss off!" I quickly shot back at him before turning to the Investigator, "Frakker lost it, sir! Something was wrong with him; he was screaming his head off like some demented preacher!"
"Bah! Nobody asked you, psyker!" the Investigator dismissed me, but not before swatting at me with a baton, hitting me over the head.
Oh great. He's gonna fucking kill me before I even leave the precinct.
"Investigator Mulroy, sir, the wytch feels something is wrong, enough to warrant us heading to a more fortified location, sir." The Intelligencer coming to my aid, or possibly just not wanting me to blow us all to the warp and back.
"Hah! I could've told you that much, Murdok. There's been something, or someone, creeping about in the dark for the past few weeks. Patrols gone dark, resupply trucks never making it to their destinations, frakkin' mutie attacks!"
Mulroy huffed and blustered as he caught his breath, "No, this is only the beginning, sonny. They've recalled the Sixth from the front; higher-ups want this dead and buried, and they're bringing home their best to deal with it."