The next day, at the District 7 Tax Office.
Raynor's boss grumbled about his absence the day before, his fat face trembling with displeasure. Raynor didn't offer a word of apology; instead, he silently handed over an investigation report detailing an underground workshop. The list of illegal activities was extensive, ranging from smuggling forbidden titanium to adding substandard synthetic proteins to Imperial ration packs.
It was a list long enough to get the workshop owner executed ten times over by an Arbites firing squad.
The moment the boss caught a glimpse of the potential for extortion, his mood brightened instantly. He waved a pudgy hand, vaguely authorizing Raynor to "continue the investigation and uncover more hidden dangers."
Armed with this unofficial mandate, Raynor targeted a local grocer known for selling "recycled military rations" and "surplus industrial goods." The shopkeeper was a cowardly former guardsman—exactly the kind of target Raynor knew how to squeeze.
After a tense negotiation involving veiled threats and hints of protection, Raynor walked away with a can of "Fortuna" brand concentrated synthetic protein blocks, two "Koken-4" low-purity chromium batteries, an "Enforcer" III-pattern laser pistol, and two fully charged magazines.
The haul had nearly depleted his meager savings. But in the Hives of the 41st Millennium, only resources that could be traded for survival held real value. The protein was high-quality biomass, the batteries could serve as energy "snacks," and the new pistol was his insurance policy.
Carrying the equipment and the "gift," he dove back into the sewers. As he approached the rusted gate of the purification pool, he whispered, "Sarah? It's me!"
After waiting a few seconds, he cautiously peered inside. The number of Hormagaunts seemed to have increased; their chitinous shells gleamed with an oily sheen under the bioluminescent fungi. Sarah raised her head, her compound eyes staring coldly at him. Her killing intent remained, but she didn't issue an attack command.
Raynor initiated the "Dialogue Protocol," and the pixelated interface appeared.
[Raynor]: (Places the protein blocks and a chromium battery on the ground)
"I brought something better today."
[Sarah]: (Her eyes scan the protein with little interest, but linger on the battery. Her compound eyes glow slightly) "Hiss!"
[System Translation]: Identified as usable energy source. Low conversion efficiency, but acceptable.
She pried open the jar of protein blocks and shoveled the grayish-white mass into her mouth. She chewed with the bland efficiency of a machine processing industrial wax. Then, she deftly picked up the battery with the tip of a serrated bone blade.
She inserted the cell into a gap in her side-mouthparts. A teeth-grinding hiss of energy extraction rang out, and the battery casing withered and dimmed before his eyes.
[System Notification]: Gift 'Synthetic Protein' accepted. Favorability +1.
[System Notification]: Gift 'Chromium Battery' accepted. Neutralizing effect on 'Crystallized Wound' detected. Affection +3.
[Current Favorability: -45]
High-energy substances worked against the wound!
[Raynor]: (Pointing to the purple crystals) "Do you need more of this energy? Or is there something specific to treat the wound?"
[Sarah]: (Silence. Her bone blades scrape against the edges of the wound, drawing out more murky, purplish-black fluid) "Hiss..."
[System Translation]: Wound caused by Warp-psionic contamination. Genetic data conflict. Requires 'Pure Biomass' to dilute the corruption, or 'Ordered Energy' to neutralize it.
Warp-tainted psionic pollution. Raynor felt a chill run down his spine. "Pure biomass" was a luxury in the Hive, and "Ordered Energy"—items imbued with Imperial faith or ancient technology—was rarer than hope itself.
"Do you know exactly where this pollution came from?" he pressed.
[Sarah]: (Her entire body trembles violently. The purple light from her wound flashes wildly as she lets out a chaotic scream) "Hiss!!!"
[System Translation]: Target experiencing extreme pain and rejection. Refusing to access memory.
"Okay, okay! We'll stop there," Raynor said quickly. "I'll look for biomass and energy. I'll bring more batteries next time."
[Daily Task: Daily Feeding (1/1)] Completed.
Random Favorability +2. Current Value: -43.
Exhausted, Raynor decided to head back. "I'll be back tomorrow, Sarah."
She didn't respond, lowering her head to continue her silent vigil. The swarm of gaunts parted, making a path for him to leave.
Raynor didn't return to his apartment. He headed for the "Scrap Mountain" black market, a place where ozone and cheap stimulants choked the air. He stopped at a stall piled with rusted debris and unidentified skeletons. The owner was a gaunt man with a flickering red prosthetic eye.
"What are you looking for?" the man rasped.
"A sacred object—something with the Emperor's aura. Or info on pure biomass," Raynor whispered.
The man stared at Raynor's stained work clothes. "Tax office?"
"Personal business," Raynor countered. "The price is right, and I don't care where it comes from."
The owner dragged out a rusted metal box. Inside were odds and ends: a broken ceremonial dagger, a faded medallion of loyalty, and several bottles of unidentified liquid. He held up a metal plate etched with intricate patterns. "This comes from the upper spires' garbage flow. It occasionally generates a faint warmth—not heat, but something else."
Raynor touched it. It felt cool, but he sensed a very faint, calm resonance. "How much?"
"Three hundred credits."
Raynor didn't even have half that. He put the plate down. "Too expensive. What about the biomass?"
The prosthetic eye gleamed. "For forty credits? Fine. In the lower District 7, near the Furnace Area, there's an abandoned water treatment plant. It used to process clean water for the upper levels. There might be reserves left."
Pure water. For a Tyranid, filtered water was an excellent source of clean biomass.
"Who's there now?"
"The Sharktooth Gang. Thirty men, live ammo. Their leader is 'The Butcher,' a deserter who loves his chainsword." The owner paused. "You're not thinking of causing trouble for the Butcher, are you?"
Raynor didn't answer. He turned and left, his mind already spinning. The Shark-Tooth Gang was a death sentence for a lone tax officer. He needed help.
No, he already had a "helper"—even if her favorability was still deep in the negatives.