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Location: Hive Helior, Upper Hive – Governor's Palace
Participants:
- Magos-Dominus Kael-Varn (Mechanicus Command)
- Governor Lord Octavius Vorn (Veltrax Primus)
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The grand palace had once been the jewel of Veltrax Primus—a bastion of Imperial authority clad in basalt and ceramite, its vaulted halls lined with plasteel-framed banners of the Aquila and the Governor's heraldry. Now, it stank of scorched stone, spilled blood, and the acrid tang of promethium. The stained-glass windows, once depicting the Emperor and His sons in crusading glory, were shattered into jagged teeth, their broken edges framing a sky choked with smoke and the funeral pyres of burning spires.
Ashes drifted like black snow.
At the far end of the ruined throne room, Governor Octavius Vorn stood before a cracked hololith projector, a relic of a dying regime. His uniform was stiff with dried blood—some his, most not. Fatigue carved trenches beneath his eyes, and his collar hung torn, hastily stitched with synth-thread. He clasped his hands behind his back to still their tremor.
He was no noble scion. Just a conscript lifted from some forgotten civilized world, a guardsman who'd achieved the unthinkable—killing a Chaos Marine. That should have earned him a bolt-round from the Inquisition for knowing too much. But fate had spat him onto the blades of the Space Wolves, and they, in their brutal way, had spared him. Their backing had carved his path to this broken throne.
Earlier he has thought that his world was save as he saw imperial ships entering the system, but when he carefully examined the image provided by what is left of a sector fleet he panic. The reinforcements were not the ordinary imperial navy. No. They were a fleet of mechanicus, beings who hoarded technology like how nobles horde treasures, who held a dangerous fascination with efficiency.
And now he has to face one. He did not bow. Just a curt nod—tired, but unbroken.
"You're the Tech-Priest," he said, voice rough. "The one who burned half the greenskin fleet out of orbit."
The chamber doors hissed open behind him.
Augustus entered like an augur of the Machine God's will. His crimson robes whispered across the shattered marble, his augmented limbs moving with pitiless precision. Servo-arms coiled behind him like scorpion tails, each tipped with arcane tools or weapons. The cold and red glow of his optics cast flickering shadows across the walls, as if the room itself recoiled from his presence.
"Correct," came the reply—a hollow, reverberating monotone from the vox-grille embedded in his mask. "I am Magos-Dominus Augustus of the Ark Mechanicus Omniscient. Veltrax Primus has been classified a Priority Defensive Zone. Its value and production capability, along with its status as a sector capital are too valuable. But I find your lack of efficiency in resisting the enemies disturbing."
The words were cold and absolute. A chilling sentence wrapped in binary finality.
Vorn's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked past the Magos to the silent Skitarii lining the entrance—their red optics unblinking, galvanic rifles humming with lethal charge.
"This is still *my* world, Mine. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I SACRIFICE, HOW MUCH THEY SACRIFICE " he snapped.
"Incorrect. "
Augustus stepped forward, his mechanical limbs clicking against the fractured floor. The Skitarii did not move, but the air thickened with the threat of violence.
"Your sovereignty expired when your orbital defenses collapsed, the moment your populace fell to chaos and greenskin invasion. The Adeptus Mechanicus intervened not for loyalty, but for the forges beneath Hive Helior. Your manufactorums are salvageable. Your populace… is expendable."
Vorn flinched as if struck. His voice turned to gravel.
"We've bled for this planet. The PDF still holds the lower hives. We *never* surrendered."
The Magos tilted his head—a gesture so perfectly calibrated it could have been mockery.
"Your defiance is logged. Yet without our intervention, your survival probability was 0.023%. Our arrival increased it by 68.4%. Gratitude is expected."
"Gratitude?" Vorn barked a hollow laugh. He rubbed his temple, then stared at the cracked ceiling where weak light strained through the haze. "The orks don't care about percentages, Tech-Priest. They just keep coming. So what now? We live today—maybe tomorrow. Then what?"
Augustus optics brightened, data-scrolls flickering behind his gaze.
"Within five solar rotations, Skitarii cohorts will cleanse Hive Barak. Remaining PDF forces will be integrated into Mechanicus tactical networks. Be grateful that I do not turn them or you into servitor governor. Command hierarchy will be subsumed. I hope you will comply."
Vorn's eyes narrowed.
"You're taking over."
"I am ensuring this world's survival."
The words hung like a sharp blade. Outside, the distant thunder of macro-cannons from ships in orbit shook the palace . Beneath the rumble, the Skitarii's binharic chatter buzzed—a language of cold calculus, devoid of mercy.
Vorn said nothing. Then, with the sigh of a man who had run out of will to live, he circled the shattered command table and slumped into the ruined chair that had once been his.
"Then do it," he muttered. "I don't care who rules the ashes… so long as it's not those greenskin bastards."
Augustus turned, servo-arms retracting with surgical grace. As he strode toward the exit, the hiss of his joints merged with the distant screams of the dying hive.
"Compliance acknowledged. I hope you will maintain it governor."
Alone in the ruins of his palace, Vorn stared at the flickering hololith—Hive Helior, now a bleeding wound of red damage markers.
A long silence.
Then, under his breath:
"Emperor protect us… We've just traded one monster for another."
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