In the Halo Stars region beyond the Caxilis Sector, a Carrack-class transport drifts en route to the voidship of Lord Captain █████, its cargo unknown and awaiting a predetermined fate.
In the empty hold, beneath a dim, flickering light, a single cage sits in solitude.
Inside the cage, a young man slumps on a chair, his hands chained behind his back, both legs bound to the seat. Beyond him, there is only darkness. His long, unkempt hair nearly reaches his knees. Blood trickles down his bruised face, and his eyes are half-closed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Clearly beaten and forced into submission—for reasons unknown—he sits in silence.
A deep, weary sigh escapes from within the cage.
"What now?" the man mutters, tilting his head toward the sound of mechanical whirring.
A single red light hovers in the distance, followed by a burst of static.
"Prisoner 30245011."
The man lifts his head slightly, meeting the red gaze. He recognizes the voice. Silence follows, thick and oppressive. The hum of the approaching machine grows louder as a servo-skull drifts into view.
Its hollow eye socket houses an optical sensor, casting the only real light in the room. The red glow pulses faintly—like a heartbeat in the dark. A prong extends from the base of the skull, likely an analyzer.
"The anti-psychic field is fully operational."
The man glances downward. Beneath his feet, a large circular device embedded in the floor emits a soft purple glow and a low, electrical hum. It is a Psy-damper—crude compared to a limiter collar, but effective enough for someone like him.
The servo-skull finishes its routine inspection and looks up, locking onto the prisoner's gaze.
It freezes momentarily. Something within that red sensor feels unsettling—like it is watching with more than just optics. After a brief pause, the drone drifts away, returning along the same path.
Days pass. Then weeks.
The darkness and the cold metal of the cell become familiar. One day, a rhythmic thudding echoes through the hold. Real or imagined, he cannot tell. He scoffs, laughing weakly to himself—an exhausted mind grasping at reality.
Then, a new light begins to fill the room. It casts long shadows across his chained form. Before he can lift his gaze, a figure emerges at the edge of the glow—just a pair of legs at first.
His eyes widen. Is this salvation?
No.
The end of the road?
Perhaps.
He chuckles, bitter and broken. Hope is for fools—and he has run out of that long ago.
A sigh escapes him, and with it, a quiet acceptance. He closes his eyes, submitting to whatever comes next.
Then, a voice breaks the silence.
"█████ of House █████. The Imperium of Man still has use for you."
The voice is stern, coming from a Holo-vox communicator held by a figure just outside the bars. The speaker appears on the device: an old man clad in the garb of the Inquisition.
His face remains obscured by shadows and the glow of the communicator.
The caged man sighs and returns to silence.
"Is that how you show gratitude to your liberator?" the figure asks.
"Liberator? More like a change in room decor," he mutters. "Isn't that right… Inquisitor?"
There is a trace of bitter amusement in his voice—mocking the very idea of hope.
"A smart one," the Inquisitor replies. "Then you know what lies ahead."
"Just one destined path. I will do what I must."
The Inquisitor nods to the figure holding the communicator.
When the man looks up, an emptiness takes hold—as if staring into the abyss itself.
From the shadows steps a tall figure. Her face is concealed behind a gleaming golden half-mask.
The air around her shimmers with unnatural energy. For a moment, he cannot fully comprehend her presence—only that it radiates something immense and suffocating.
She raises a finger to her lips, a silent command. Then a burlap sack drops over his head, plunging him into familiar darkness once more.
Only three words echo through his fading consciousness: "Revenge, survive, and █████."
Just before unconsciousness claims him, a final voice pierces the veil.
Soft. Commanding.
"Become a Rogue."
The words linger in his mind like the tolling of a distant bell—beckoning him toward a fate he cannot yet grasp.