Date: 35, Year 988, 41st Millennium
Hive Kathion
Upper Hive
A month had passed at a snail's pace for Eric. The rhythmic clacking of the typewriter remained the primary soundtrack of his life within this office. His slender fingers danced across the keys with practiced ease, his eyes focused on stock tallies and production logs for the machine parts factory. However, his mind remained trapped in a loop, haunted by the same thoughts that had plagued him for thirty days.
A month already... he mused, knitting his brows. No secret letters, no men in black, no summons. Was I actually just being toyed with?
Eric let out a soft sigh and picked up the pouch of nutrient paste sitting beside his desk. The viscous, tasteless sludge made him grimace for a moment. He had forced himself to eat this "starch paste" (a name he'd given the foul liquid) for a month to save credits after Raul had made off with nearly all his money. While he no longer struggled to swallow it, consuming this stuff daily was a heavy blow to his morale. It was utterly unappetizing. He cursed himself for not stockpiling more canned meat and bread back when he had the funds, though Raul would likely have taken that too.
The paranoia that had once been at a fever pitch was beginning to settle into confusion. He hadn't seen Vann since that day, which was a blessing, yet he had spent weeks imagining the worst: being forced into "spy work" or "assassination missions." He had even prepared himself for the dark possibility of being forced to use his female form to seduce targets—a thought so revolting it made his skin crawl. But after a month of nothing, he began to hope it was all just a cruel prank.
Maybe Vann just wanted a laugh, Eric thought, moving on to the next document. Or maybe I'm just too small a pawn for him to remember.
He gazed out the warehouse window, watching other workers laughing and chatting. A pang of loneliness hit him. Even the friend he thought he could trust most had betrayed him. In a world as cruel as a Hive City, who was left to trust? He longed for a real friend—someone without an agenda—but his current paranoia made starting any new relationship feel like an impossible task. He continued to play his role as a shy, insecure female accountant perfectly to maintain his "safe space."
Eric pulled his fingers from the typewriter keys, which were beginning to shine from heavy use. He raised his arms and stretched, his spine popping with a satisfying sound that chased away the morning's fatigue. He checked the wall clock; a small spark of hope lit up his eyes.
"Break time at last..." he muttered, pulling the straw from his mouth. He tossed the empty pouch into the bin and grabbed another. Even though he hated the taste, he was never quite full after just one. To survive until next payday, he had calculated he needed three pouches a day, but he'd adjusted his routine to two pouches for breakfast and two for lunch, skipping dinner to stay lean while maintaining energy.
His destination wasn't the crowded, noisy factory canteen. Instead, he headed for the maintenance bay of Lira, an Enginseer assigned to the warehouse department. Eric often visited her during lunch; to him, Lira was his only true safe harbor. She was a beautiful woman with tanned skin, a charming demeanor, and a sense of "humanity" that was rare among the cold soldiers and tech-zealots of the Hive.
He didn't knock, as Lira always told him he could come right in. But as he pushed the door open, the scene before him was not Lira sitting at her workbench. It was something far more horrifying.
"Gah! Cough!"
Eric's eyes widened in shock, accidentally inhaling too sharply. The nutrient paste in his mouth nearly went down the wrong pipe. He clamped a hand over his mouth, his body freezing. He nearly bolted at the sight in the center of the room.
The room, usually a comforting space filled with the rhythmic hum of gears, now felt suffocating. In the center, a figure was bolted to a cold metal slab. It was a Servitor—a cyborg slave fashioned from a human—a common sight in the Hive, but this one was unfinished.
The flesh was still vividly colored, not yet the pale grey of a completed unit. The surgical incisions were fresh and unhealed. Cables and hydraulic tubes were bored deep into raw muscle. But what nearly made Eric vomit was the creature's eyes.
The one eye that hadn't been replaced by a mechanical lens was twitching violently, filled with agonizing pain and a desperate plea for death. A mask was sewn over its mouth, emitting a faint, muffled whimper that sounded like a soul being shredded.
Eric stood trembling. Part of him wanted to run and forget, but his inherent mercy kept him rooted to the spot. He had seen horrors before—Chaos cultists, the nightmare of the Night Lords, and terrifying xenos—but seeing a human being systematically turned into a machine while still conscious was a different kind of trauma.
Lira... did you really do this? Eric thought, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his food pouch.
Suddenly, a concealed door at the back of the room opened. Lira stepped out, looking perfectly normal, carrying a box filled with gears, wires, and bionics.
Clang!
She set the box down on a table next to the twitching Servitor. She looked up at Eric with a neutral gaze, but her voice remained as soft and friendly as ever.
"Easy, Erica... no need for that look," Lira said, dusting iron filings from her leather gloves. "I'm just doing my coursework. It's a basic augmentation assignment to advance from Enginseer to Tech-Priest. This fellow is my test subject."
Eric, finally catching his breath, tried to steady his racing heart. He looked from the Servitor to Lira's sharp, beautiful face. "Homework? But... he looks like he can still feel it. Didn't you sedate him?"
Lira paused, her hand hovering over a wrench. She looked at her work with a dispassionate eye. "At this stage, the subject must remain conscious to test the sensor responses. It's standard procedure in the Cult Mechanicus manuals. But if it makes you uncomfortable, I'll hurry up."
Eric nodded weakly. He wanted to beg her to stop, or at least end the creature's suffering, but he knew what kind of world this was. In the 41st Millennium, pity was a luxury the weak couldn't afford. He knew better than to interfere with the business of the Mechanicus.
"Sorry, Lira. I'm just... not used to seeing them unfinished. I usually see them when they're just... mindless dolls," Eric admitted, trying to push the ethics aside.
"It's fine. I understand. Sit down. What's on your mind today? Or are you just hiding from that mountain of paperwork again?" Lira smiled thinly, pointing to a steel chair as far from the Servitor as possible.
Eric sat, trying to focus on Lira instead of the twitching eyes of the prisoner.
"Hey, Erica," Lira said, her voice turning intimate as she worked. "Tomorrow is payday. Where should we go to eat? I bet you're sick of that starch paste."
Eric blinked, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "Right... I almost forgot. It'll be so good to say goodbye to this 'paste' for a day." He smiled, the thought of real bread and canned meat briefly outweighing his fear.
"How about that shop I went to last month?" Eric suggested. It was the place Vann had taken him. He hated Vann, but he had to admit the cakes there were the best a middle-income worker could afford.
Lira nodded, pulling a bionic limb from her box. She expertly slotted a connector into the Servitor's temple. The whimpering stopped, replaced by a low electrical hum. "What kind of place is it?"
"A sweet shop... they have cakes and pastries," Eric replied, imagining the soft cream.
"Sounds good. I like sweets. The high caloric intake helps me work more efficiently," Lira replied with a faint grin.
Eric watched her with a complex sense of unease. He saw a kind, charming friend performing a task that looked like cold-blooded torture to his eyes. He had to remind himself: to the Cult Mechanicus, this wasn't torture; it was giving a human a more "efficient" life.
"Erica... are you still bothered by the Servitor?" Lira asked, noticing his stiff posture.
"Yes," Eric replied shortly, avoiding the slab.
"Don't worry. Most 'sentimental' types feel that way at first," Lira explained. "These subjects are either brain-dead clones or criminals who committed crimes too heinous for a simple execution. The Imperium gives them a chance to be 'useful'."
She stood up, donning a heavy rubber apron, and picked up a portable chain-saw. Whirrr... whirrr... The motor roared to life. She looked at Eric curiously. "You know, you're strange, Erica. A beautiful, shy, intelligent girl like you... you seem so innocent. I truly wonder how you survived the Lower Hive."
With that, she revved the chain-saw and began to saw off the subject's remaining flesh arm to make room for the industrial bionic. Blood and bits of meat splattered her apron. Eric flinched, his brow twitching, but he forced himself not to shake.
"Was that a compliment?" Eric asked, his voice laced with irony.
"Of course," Lira replied, smiling beautifully as she set the bloody saw down and began bolting the mechanical arm into the shoulder socket.
Eric tried to shift the conversation to escape the horror. "Lira... what are your plans for the future?"
Lira wiped sweat from her brow, her tanned skin glistening in the dim light. "Plans? To rise through the ranks of the Cult Mechanicus, of course. Perhaps one day I'll become an Arch-Magos Domina. If I serve the Omnissiah faithfully, I might live forever. My mentor, the Magos Juris, is over 4,000 years old. He's replaced almost all his rotting flesh with perfect machinery."
Eric was stunned. 4,000 years? That was longer than the history of entire civilizations from the "Old World" he remembered. He felt a chill imagining Lira as a multi-legged mechanical monstrosity hidden under red robes.
"And you, Erica? What does a little warehouse accountant dream of?" Lira asked.
Eric went quiet. He thought of his past life as a man—a mediocre corporate worker. But here, his goals had simplified. "Me? I just want to be a good accountant. But I want to rise high enough so I don't have to eat nutrient paste ever again. It beats the hell out of working the forges in the Lower Hive."
He smiled faintly. All he wanted was a "Safe Space" and a normal life.
"A worthy goal," Lira laughed. "Don't forget tomorrow. I'll be waiting."
That Evening
The atmosphere of the Upper Hive remained unchanged. Eric walked his usual route, his paranoia now a sharpened instinct. He knew every corner, every dark alley where an ambush might hide. He kept his distance from building edges, scanning left and right.
Nothing... just another day, he told himself as he climbed the stairs to his hab-block. He was exhausted and ready for his soft bed.
He passed a few people in the hallway, everyone rushing home for their precious rest. Eric stopped at his door and reached for his keys, still alert. He checked the shadows one last time.
But the moment he went to slide the key into the lock...
"Snap!"
A chill raced down his spine as a pair of hands lunged from a dark alcove. Faster than he could react, a powerful arm locked around his throat, while a gloved hand pressed a thick cloth soaked in acrid chemicals over his nose and mouth.
"Mmph!!" Eric's eyes bulged. He dropped his keys, his heart hammering against his ribs. He tried to scream, but only muffled grunts escaped.
He clawed at the arm, trying to dig his nails into the attacker, but the man didn't flinch. He struggled with all his might, but the strength of the assailant was overwhelming, and the sedative fumes were already stripping away his consciousness.
The familiar door of his room blurred and went dark. His limbs turned to lead. Everything faded to black, accompanied only by a faint, unintelligible whisper.
The Next Morning – Machine Parts Factory
The accounting department was as busy as ever. Eventually, a clerk walked in with an envelope.
"Is Erica sick?" the department head grumbled, tearing it open.
Inside was a sick note written in a familiar, neat hand. It was undeniably Erica's handwriting. It stated she had a sudden fever and needed to recover for a while. The manager glanced at it dismissively and tossed it into the pile. He didn't care; she was just another gear in the machine.