"According to your file and our supplementary investigation, you were appointed as the 'Abnormal Life Inspector' of District 7 on December 21, 998.M41."
Cassius's voice was like a grinding gear. "Prior to this appointment, credible intelligence indicated you had close ties with a local criminal group known as the 'Anvil Society.' In fact, you provided shelter for several of their illegal operations."
Raynor's fingers curled on his knees, his nails pressing hard into his palms. He had already guessed where Cassius was going with this.
"During this period, and after assuming your official role," Cassius continued, each word chillingly precise, "your team and the Anvil Society have systematically collected vast quantities of xenos remains. Specifically, tissue samples from Genestealers and related abnormalities. This behavior goes far beyond the requirements for routine research or evidence preservation."
The white helmet tilted slightly forward. The dark red visors seemed to bore into the depths of Raynor's soul. "Give me a logical explanation, Raynor... 'Inspector'."
Cold sweat soaked Raynor's back. The metal chair felt incredibly slippery; he could barely maintain his posture. He hadn't expected the Space Marines to investigate his black-market dealings with such granular detail. Collecting xenos material was a capital offense if interpreted as heresy. He had been careful, disguising ledgers and eliminating couriers, but a systematic investigation by the Adeptus Astartes was a different beast entirely.
His Adam's apple bobbed. His brain raced. Denying the connection to the gang was useless—that was a proven fact. But the samples? He had to provide a reason a Space Marine could "acquiesce" to.
He forced a bitter smile—a calculated mixture of embarrassment, helplessness, and a hint of desperation. He lowered his voice, as if confessing a shameful secret.
"The Angel... has perfect insight."
He raised his head to meet the red lenses, trying to project an expression of frank remorse. "You know the reality of the lower levels, My Lord. The title of 'Abnormal Creature Inspector' sounds impressive, but budget, equipment, personnel... they are all hollow promises. The Adeptus Arbites has limited resources and ignores 'secondary threats' like us."
He paused, his voice dropping further. "Those remains—the intact organs, the chitin shells, the glands... in certain specific research channels, they are quite valuable."
Seeing that Cassius remained motionless, Raynor gritted his teeth and leaned into the themes of greed and survival. "The Anvil Society is my tool. I have never colluded with them to harm the Imperium. The 'gray income' from selling those samples is the only reason my patrol team has functioning equipment. It's how I improve their rations and morale so they actually work to clean up mutant hotspots that threaten civilians."
He ended with a touch of self-deprecating irony. "Do you truly think I would collect those disgusting things as... pets? I am a man of the Hive, My Lord. I am simply a man trying to fund a war the Governors refuse to pay for."
He spread his hands in a gesture of "that's just how it is."
The warehouse fell silent. Cassius's scanner continued its work, analyzing Raynor's physiological responses. Raynor's heart hammered like a drum, but he maintained his "corrupt but practical" facade. He knew the Iron Hands lineage valued efficiency and practicality over moral purity. If his actions could be classified as "expedient, controllable gray-area methods," he might survive.
Minutes passed. Finally, Cassius spoke.
"Your vital signs indicate you are deliberately controlling your statements. Heart rate, respiratory rate, and skin resistance show abnormal fluctuations."
Raynor's heart sank. But what Cassius said next was a lifeline.
"However, your explanation is logically sound and consistent with the prevailing patterns of corruption and expediency in this Hive. There is no direct evidence that your actions were motivated by heretical belief or a desire to harbor the xenos."
Raynor almost collapsed with relief.
"You are temporarily excluded from suspicion of active heresy," Cassius continued. "But do not mistake this for 'understanding.' Your 'stopgap measure' is fraught with risk. From this moment, you are under monitoring."
The Space Marine took a step forward, his massive shadow swallowing Raynor whole. "You are familiar with the lower-level geography. You have an unofficial intelligence network. You have demonstrated unconventional efficiency in clearing xenos activity. We will use you to locate the high-priority command units of the Tyranid hive."
This wasn't a request. It was an order—a chance to "atone" through service. "Provide coordinates. We will verify them. You have one chance to prove your worth. Is that clear?"
Raynor swallowed hard, his voice dry but clear. "Understood, Your Grace. I will do my utmost."
During their second meeting, Cassius "invited" Raynor into the cramped, oil-scented cabin of the Thunderhawk. This time, the Sergeant was not wearing his helmet.
Raynor saw a bald head covered in fine, silver-colored scars—skin tempered by centuries of war until it looked like aged steel. Three dark gold service studs were embedded in his brow—proof of over three hundred years of service to the God-Emperor.
Cassius handed Raynor a wrist-mounted data-slate with a simplified interface. "Access your private network. Real-time updates on suspicious activity. I want the precise coordinates of our next target. The sooner, the better."
His words were direct, stripped of any politeness. Raynor took the device, his fingers stiff. This bald giant wanted him to pinpoint other nests right under his watchful eye.
"Damn bald guy," Raynor cursed inwardly, already planning how to use Sarah to find a "sacrificial" nest that wouldn't lead back to her.