Rummaging through Syrine's stuff, I dug out the grey cloak seen in the recording. Plain and unassuming, other than seemingly being made out of the same material as most of her white robes, the cloak looked nothing out of the ordinary—until I went psychically active while holding it.
Previously unseen micro-circuitry embedded within the fabric activated. With a fluid, semi-conscious motion, I triggered a hidden switch and instantly a strange energy field was projected on the surface of the cloak.
My mind raced as the posthuman intelligence within me swiftly analyzed the energy field, identifying it as a complex form of reactive stealth technology. In theory, it could achieve near-perfect camouflage in the visible spectrum while actively regulating emitted and reflected heat. In short, an uber version of thermal-optic camouflage made famous in a certain anime where the lead lady was famous for jumping off skyscrapers.
Hitting the fabric with [Analytica] actually yielded a name: Cloak of Refraction. With this and my innate ability… there was little wonder how Syrine was able to infiltrate a Mechanicus starship. She was approaching true stealth with this setup, her shadow walk blinding human minds and the reactive stealth field blinding machines.
I heaved a sigh and sat back down on my chair to organise my thoughts. Seeing Syrine in that light was unnerving. The way she was looking at Kryptorer while introducing herself… was that just a poker face or a cold detachment not dissimilar from watching a cornered insect squirm?
Feeling uneasy but unable to do anything, eventually I decided to forget everything for a while, and sought comfort in established routines by continuing my cathedral mapping project. I was still a creature of habit.
Invoking the now familiar mantra, a feeling of detachment took over and my consciousness rose from my body. Looking down, I saw the expected sight of myself seated in a lotus position with eyes closed. A vestment in the form of a collarless white robe clung to my petite frame, and the cleaned power armour in the corner of the room.
Just as I was about to float away, a sudden curious idea made me take a second look at my seated self. Drifting down, I carefully examined a spot behind my head and to my horror, found a peculiar clump of hidden psychic energy buried deep beneath my hair.
Is this…?
Returning to my body, I immediately checked on the position with my hand and my blood ran cold. This felt familiar, like the memory altering mental seal I saw on Gideyn, the boy psyker at the scholastica.
My mind and memories were altered?
A sense of rage boiled over, and I pulled at the offending mental seal with my powers, but it didn't budge. I steadily increased my psychic power's output and continued pulling, feeling it finally loosen when suddenly an overwhelming sense of terror and dread took over. Feelings which I didn't even realise were suppressed erupted like an exploding volcano.
A corrosive mix of intense body dysmorphia, combat traumas and existential dread hit me like a speeding bullet train. I felt the integrity of my sanity buckle, almost shattering on impact. My grip on the psychic seal immediately loosened, prompting it to snap back into position.
Assaulted by indescribable mental anguish, I yelped, or should have yelped in agony before dropping to the floor as lines of familiar text flooded over my vision.
[Regalis] Action override-
[Regalis] Action override-
With trembling hands I pulled myself up while learning the bitter truth—that I was not getting better at being the Emperor's daughter. All this time I was simply being mentally shielded. Under the multifaceted facades, at my core I was still a normie.
Panting despite needing no extra oxygen, I so wanted to laugh hysterically as many previously suppressed thoughts rushed to the surface and bombarded my mind. I became painfully aware of how the mental seal had been subtly affecting me—calling the Emperor as my father on the correct occasions, the many "forgetfulness" about my past deeds.
Maybe to prevent prideful development?
Then there was the selective ignorance of glaring, life altering implications that I should have picked up on. These were all coming back to me with dreadful intensity—like the possibility of having to deal with the menstrual cycle and, most terrifyingly of all, being stuck here.
I will eventually die in this universe.
A sense of primordial dread tingled up my spine as I came face to face with the most damning implication: upon my death, there will be a chance that my soul could either be devoured by the warp or… end up being a play thing for the Chaos Gods for eternity.
I wanted to scream, but my body wouldn't let me.
* * *
I was running. Running away from my troubles.
Under a night sky with just the Cloak of Refraction over my collarless vestment, I must have appeared like a speeding ghost, dashing in a stretch of barren land beside a train track leading towards the capital city.
Desperately wanting to clear my mind, I left the Sororitas fortress monastery without telling anyone. Effortwise, with double stealth it had been less than child's play, I was soon alone and outside without any preparation or a plan. Attracted by the shining city on the horizon, I found myself moving towards it.
For reasons unknown, I could not remove the mental image of that ninja orphan endlessly running in his anime openings from my head, so I did the same and simply ran. My engineered limbs barely registered the strain as I dashed forward with inhuman speed. It was somewhat therapeutic.
As I was making solid progress, ground tremors informed me of a speeding locomotive fast approaching, also heading towards the city. With a thought I activated my cloak and stealth field, disappearing from both mortal and machine eyes. As the locomotive, a passenger monorail train, came thundering alongside me, I exerted myself to match its speed before jumping on top of it. Upon successfully landing I instinctively did a quick roll to lessen the impact and noise before sitting down, pulling in my cloak that was fluttering in the head winds.
Just then it started to rain lightly. I looked up at the drizzling night sky but saw little of the stars, and the hint of a large bird at the very edge of darkness. A feeling of being totally lost enveloped me.
What am I doing? Being a delinquent demi-goddess?
I thought about the eventual mess that the people at the fortress will need to go through when they found me missing again, and decided to do the minimal responsible thing.
I took out my inquisitorial earpiece and with my ability, linked it up with the communication relay unit on board the train to gain regional access. After digging into the digital history of my earpiece, I called Herlindya's number. It rang twice before being picked up.
'Herlindya speaking.'
I was about to speak before remembering I was seated on top of a clattering train that was speeding with howling wind. Annoyed, I conjured a small psychic force dome around my face, cutting down the background noise before speaking.
'Hello.'
'Lady Syrine? What can I help you with?'
'Listen, I … went for a walk. Please inform the others for me.'
'A walk? Where are you now, my lady?'
'I am outside. It will be fine, I will make contact again if I need anything.'
I ended the call before she could reply and turned off my earpiece. Settling down, I tried my best to empty my mind by watching the scenery as the journey continued.
Seated on top of my free ride, I maintained my shroud as the monorail train eventually entered the capital city. I had been to the city with my projection excursion on many nights, but it was my first time being physically here.
I marvelled at the whole futuristic yet gothic metropolis, my superhuman eyesight picking up everything interesting. All around me were huge, towering spires of gilded stone and plasteel, many decorated with Aquilas, statues of saints and looming gargoyles. The roads were filled to the brim with mundane vehicles while skimmer-traffic wove through upper lanes. Reeking of machine exhaust, hot metal and humanity, the place smelled and sounded similar to a big city back on Earth, except for the many random vox-casters chanting litanies of the Emperor's mercy and wrath on a constant loop.
A flashy digital billboard caught my attention with a familiar face. It featured Kometta Ignis, the superstar songstress who wrote to me. Kometta was a vision of grandeur and haunting beauty on that gigantic screen, her perfect curvy form draped in layers of gold-threaded robes that blinked with encrusted gemstones, looking every bit like a larger than life diva.
So will you, on your day of canonisation, on all the billboards across the city.
I recoiled on that sudden notion and peeled my attention away from the billboard, the idea of being the focal centre of attention still made me uneasy. Eyes moving around to distract myself, I caught sight of something that boggled my mind, something repugnant.
What the hell is that?
Deciding to take a closer look, I jumped down from the speeding monorail without hesitation. With my superhero-like attributes I landed smoothly, but noted an awkward sensation under my feet. Looking down, I was surprised to see my footwear, a pair of laced slippers from Syrine's collection, was falling apart. In spite of being exceptional in both material and build quality, they were not meant for prolonged and excessive transhuman usage and were worn through.
I sighed, slipped off the ruined footwear, and took half a second to gauge my aim before hurling them toward a rubbish bin more than half a block away. Even with their terrible aerodynamic profile, the slippers flew straight and hit the exact spot I aimed for before disappearing directly into the bin. The sound they made startled a few random city dwellers nearby. I smiled, feeling oddly proud of abusing my ability as this would have been a feat worthy of a social media highlight reel back at home.
Moving barefoot towards the location of interest with my shroud, I easily avoided bumping into the oncoming waves of the pedestrians. The light rain from before had muddied the streets, and my bare feet were soon caked in dirt and muddy water. While I should be totally immune to the risk of Tetanus and other common infections, the sensation was annoying. Looking down on my soiled feet with a raised eyebrow, I remembered using minute psychic power to remove the smell of blood from my hand and wondered if a similar solution could be implemented.
After finding a discreet spot to sit down, I proceeded to work. Experimenting with my powers, I was soon able to project a low-level telekinetic field around my feet. The result was like magic as the dirt and water that clung to my feet dropped away. Similar to how some psykers were able to levitate tiny objects, the field subtly repelled dirt and moisture, essentially acting as an invisible barrier that kept my soles pristine. Satisfied with the result, I continued with my journey.
Nearing my destination, I noted the sharp drop in pedestrians the closer I got. Finally, I reached the place, it was a city square of sorts with many, many elevated steel beams. On each of the beams hung a body. A sharp, metallic tang hit the back of my throat along with the stench of blood and voided bowels. That unpleasant scent was barely masked by the sour rot of death that clung to the place like a heavy fog.
Hundreds of bodies were strung up from steel poles like grotesque decorations, each one bearing the weight of a human long since departed. Some of them had their necks grotesquely elongated, stretched far past what flesh should allow, skin torn in places, purple-black and bloated. Some had their heads twisted at impossible angles, mouths frozen mid-scream or gaping open in slack, final surprise. Eyes bulged, some still open, glassy, catching the streetlight in ways that made it feel like they were watching me. Beneath some of the hanging corpses, puddles of rainwater and others darker liquids formed.
On some of the bodies were signs. One read "Traitor", another, "Heretic". Names and accusations were scrawled across some of the foreheads in dark ink or something worse.
Nearby, there was an iron haloed servo-skull broadcasting the sins of these people and the condemnation they received. Recently executed, they must have been part of the latest statistics for the ongoing purges that were still happening after the Chaos cults were uncovered. I recalled that even now many semi-sanctioned "Sanctifier" cults were formed to root out heretics amongst the populace, literally fighting fire with fire.
The incongruity of witnessing such a hellish medieval-like scene right in the middle of a functioning metropolis was disquietingly surreal. Looking at this grotesque reality in full display, I felt a hollow coldness uncoil itself deep within me, like some unseen hands had reached into me and scooped out the last bit of my self-delusional wishes about the nature of the Imperium.
But these were convicted heretics, no? A part of me reasoned in wishful thinking.
Don't be naive, a more sensible part of me retorted, there will always be collateral damage, always. You can settle that silly notion with your powers.
Pushed on by a mix of morbid curiosity and the urge to know the truth, I gingerly let my otherworldly senses unfold. The city square convulsed as the veil between worlds was peeled back, and the silent screams of the deceased could be heard.
Floating around each cadaver were remnants of their raw emotions that hung like thick blooded smoke that refused to disperse. Fear was the primary emotion that lingered—a shrieking chord that pierced at the primal instinct to avoid death. I could taste its thickness, metallic and desperate.
Beneath that came anger, a red hot sharpness, splintered things that writhed like barb wires. Some of it was from the area where crowds of bystanders stood, a small portion was laced with both righteousness and cruelty, probably from the executioners. But the most intense anger came from those unable to understand why their prayers went unanswered. These were mixed with a tinge of circular confusion.
Around the area there was a lot of sorrow too, viscous and resonant, pooling in the aether like polluting oil on water. And under it all, a residue of guilt—not from the dead, but from the living who had watched the executions.
A lingering sense of the Emperor being called out could be felt, not as a benediction, but by those who had died believing they were still faithful. As I stood and drank in the scene, after images of faces twisted in agony began swarming my vision, ethereal hands reaching for mercy that never came for them. I staggered at what was revealed, closed myself off, and the square fell still again, just a place filled with dead, hanging people.
I had seen enough.
As I was about to leave, a young man walked over from across the dimly lit street. No taller than five foot five, he had an average local look, wore a scribe-like attire and looked disheveled with eyes downcast. The young man was practically leaking doom and gloom as he slowly strolled beside the forest of hanging corpses without sparing them a glance.
I observed the stranger, felt the weight of his thoughts and started looking for the reasons for his distress but found little hints. Aside from being on the thinner side he appeared healthy.
As we got closer to each other, my passive telepathy picked up a shocking detail—he was contemplating jumping down the bridge on the other side, which normally was void of pedestrians around this time.
Astonished, I stood motionless and watched as he drifted away, paralyzed by the weight of indecision of getting myself involved with a soul so clearly in despair.
As I struggled with indecision, an old quote came to me: "What kind of person would I be if I didn't try to make the world a little better every day?"
Silly as it was, it led me to decide that I should help. I couldn't entirely explain my own reasoning and my actions probably meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. In truth, I suspected it was as much for my own sanity as it was for the stranger's benefit.
I chased after the young man, firmly believing he could not outrun my speed. Dashing down the street, I covered a huge distance within a few breaths, and sure enough, I saw him alone on a bridge. He had leaned on the bridge's guardrail, looking every bit to be building up courage for the act.
I sprinted through the last space between us in a few heartbeats and reached within just a few feet from him. The fella seemed fully engrossed in the supposed final act of his life. He lifted his leg and started to climb.
I dismissed my shroud and called out. 'What are you doing?'
* * *
Tollian's hands were shaking, he was about to take drastic action when a feminine voice sounded from behind, shocking him.
What in the world?
Tollian quickly turned around and was stunned by what he saw. For a breathless moment, he could have sworn his sanity was slipping as there was absolutely no one around just now, especially not someone as striking as the person who appeared before him.
In the gloom stood a dainty young lady who appeared to be slightly shorter than him, she wore a simple white robe beneath a larger grey cloak with its hood pulled behind. With an angelic face framed by flowing strands of platinum hair and clear, arresting eyes like pools of gemstones, she seemed less a living person than an idol of perfection stepped out of a master painter's work.
Tollian had no idea what the soon-to-be living saint really looked like, her full appearance had not been made public yet. All he had seen was a few blurry pictures taken from a distance before they were quickly outlawed. Even so, if not for the absurd impossibility of encountering the fabled lady alone in such circumstances, he would have sworn she was standing before him.
Awkwardly, Tollian asked the question. 'Who are you?'
The young lady seemed to hesitate for the briefest moment before replying with her pleasant voice. 'Just a passerby.'
Tollian's mind spun quickly to make sense of the situation. This strange girl was clearly not your run-of-the-mill folk. Even under the dim light he could tell she had that delicate upper-class high maintenance look with immaculate silky flowing hair.
Tollian was about to ask to be left alone when he recalled a recent rumour, that a few misbehaving aristocratic ladies were playing dress up, almost masquerading as the living saint candidate to elicit responses from unsuspecting people. He quickly noted that the girl's choice of fashion matched the highly gossiped daily attire of the saint-to-be, further solidifying his belief in that hunch.
This weird encounter suddenly looked to be another case about a bored, privileged heiress looking for unconventional thrills. It was depressing, to think that even in his darkest hour, he was but a source of entertainment for the rich and powerful.
Still, Tollian reasoned this could be his salvation if he reacted correctly. Suppressing a sigh, he decided to play along by stepping down from the railing and bowed deeply before introducing himself.
'Greetings. I am Tollian Caulven, a scribe of third class.'
Lifting his head with barely suppressed nervousness, Tollian asked the question he guessed the young lady would like to hear.
'Are you Lady Syrine, the upcoming living saint?'