(cause why not?)
Word count: 10,472
Deep within the archives of Terra, nestled between centuries-old records of planetary conflicts and forgotten cultural remnants, a small group of data scribes sifted through the digital ruins of humanity's past. Their task was mundane—routine audits of historical logs, occasional retrieval of ancient media files requested by the idle nobility, or, in some cases, the rediscovery of archaic entertainment. It was in such a search, likely driven by nothing more than curiosity or a passing need for diversion, that the document surfaced.
It was buried under layers of obsolete encryption, not hidden, just neglected—its title obscured by auto-generated alphanumeric codes, likely a relic from an age long past. The scribe who opened it was expecting another mundane entry, perhaps schematics for outdated war machines or accounts of forgotten battles. What they found instead was something else entirely.
Project Nikke
The document spoke of a method, an ambition long since discarded or deliberately erased from common knowledge. It detailed the process of turning human beings into something more—or less, depending on perspective. Flesh replaced by advanced composites, a material called Goddesium that mimicked human skin to a near-perfect degree. Blood, once an unnatural green coolant, altered to red to prevent psychological distress. A process designed to preserve, to create warriors who could not die as long as their minds remained intact.
The heart of it lay in the NIMPH—Neuro-Implanted Machine for the Protection of Humans. A system that allowed memory backups, theoretically granting functional immortality. But it was more than that. Memories were not simply retained; they could be rewritten. A Nikke, once human, would awaken from the process with only what they were permitted to remember. The past erased, new directives in its place. They could be reset, reshaped. Those deemed unfit, those who had committed crimes or experienced trauma that hindered their function, could be erased entirely.
A second scribe leaned in, eyes narrowing at the old text. The implications were immediate. This was not simply cybernetic enhancement or servitor conditioning. This was something else, something fundamentally altering the essence of a person.
Another set of records followed—accounts of deployment, field tests, and failures. The Nikkes were designed for war, yet their weight made them unsuited for water-based operations. Their strength and durability were undeniable, but logistics had proven a challenge in terrain that could not support their density. A few units had been modified for such environments, but their existence had been minimal—implying either obsolescence or abandonment.
More than that, the lack of references beyond a certain point in history suggested something more deliberate. The project had not simply faded—it had been erased. Its existence buried under bureaucracy, its name lost in the ever-churning tide of humanity's endless wars.
And yet, here it was, a remnant of another time, glimpsed through the cracks of forgotten data.
One of the scribes exhaled sharply, breaking the silence that had settled over them.
"This… doesn't belong here."
Another scoffed. "Neither do half the things we find in this archive."
"But this was meant to be forgotten."
A glance was exchanged before the document was closed, the entry logged only as an unresolved archival discrepancy.
They moved on, the moment passing, the knowledge unspoken. But the record remained, buried once more—waiting.
The data scribes hesitated, but the curiosity that had driven them this far was not easily ignored. The file on Project Nikke had been disturbing, but it was just a fragment of something much larger. And so, despite an unspoken discomfort settling in the room, they continued.
The deeper they searched, the more they found. This was older than expected—dating back to somewhere in the ancient 2000s, during an era so distant it was more legend than history. The timeline placed it in a time of desperation, a period when humanity was scrambling to construct the Arks, colossal bastions meant to preserve their existence during the Rapture invasion.
A new document surfaced.
It was far more explicit, written in a clinical, detached tone, outlining the origins of the Nikke program. These were not merely cybernetic enhancements grafted onto volunteers or prisoners. They were biomechanical androids, their very brains manufactured through an undisclosed, classified process—one that did not simply modify the patient but outright killed them.
It was the first true confirmation. The human subjects did not survive. What remained of them was a synthetic approximation, a construct built upon a foundation of what was once human. Yet, their minds could persist. Unlike anything known in modern Terra, these artificial brains could be physically removed, stored, even discarded in frozen wastelands, and still remain viable.
The reports did not shy away from the brutality of the project's early years. The success rate for creating a functional Nikke had been abysmally low. 67% of all conversions failed outright—whether the subject's body rejected the process, the brain failed to integrate with the NIMPH system, or some other unforeseen disaster struck. Of the remaining 33%, almost all suffered from severe complications: extreme memory loss, insanity, psychosis. The lucky ones became empty husks, obedient but devoid of anything human. The unlucky ones turned into something far worse.
The government had buried this knowledge beneath decades of shifting narratives. At times, Nikkes were heralded as humanity's saviors, the pinnacle of human ingenuity, the perfect warriors sculpted in mankind's image. Other times, they were pariahs, artificial abominations, mere tools with no claim to true existence. Propaganda had twisted and reshaped public perception so many times that even in modern Terra, no true consensus remained. They were celebrated, feared, despised, and worshipped in equal measure.
Another subfile, more recent, indicated a staggering statistic.
At least a million Nikkes remained within Terra. Many were still intact, their bodies and synthetic minds lost beneath rubble, hidden in abandoned facilities, or merely deactivated and forgotten. Their brains, those strange and resilient constructs, were still viable.
One of the scribes initiated a passive scan, routing it through the labyrinthine systems of Terra's vast and ancient infrastructure. A slow, methodical process, searching for signatures matching the archived specifications of a Nikke brain. The results came back almost instantly.
They were everywhere.
Buried beneath old battlefields, sealed within forgotten bunkers, some even lingering within ruined city sectors that had long since been deemed uninhabitable. In many cases, their bodies were too damaged to be salvaged, but their minds… their minds remained untouched.
Another scribe shifted uneasily in their seat. "We're looking at an army."
A long silence followed.
One of them leaned back, exhaling. "The real question is… are they still sleeping?"
The answer, they all knew, was one they might not want to find out.
The silence in the archive deepened. The data scribes, who had started this search with idle curiosity, now felt the weight of something beyond their comprehension. The old files had revealed far more than forgotten technology or lost warriors.
There was still one left.
Buried deep in the records was a name that should not have existed in the modern era. A Nikke who had not fallen, not been decommissioned, not faded into the abyss of lost time.
Snow White.
The name came with dozens of attached aliases. The Pilgrim. Grimms Model No. 4. A designation so ancient that it predated even some of the earliest known conflicts in human history. Unlike the other scattered, forgotten Nikkes, she was still active. Still moving. A wanderer on Terra.
The logs stretched across millennia. Countless reports, endless recordings—quadrillions of them. Each message was the same.
"Snow White, of Squad Pilgrim. Ready directive order. Awaiting command of the highest military rank. Please respond."
Again and again, across time itself, calling out to an authority that no longer existed.
Her directives had evolved. At first, a simple command: Protect humanity. Then, as she moved across time, learning, adapting, revising— Protect Terra. Another revision: Protect humans.
Then came something different.
Destroy non-humans.
There was an error. A revision. Something had changed. The directive tried to specify. Xenos/chaos—eliminate.
But the process had stalled. Details were missing. The system required proper directives. Without them, execution was impossible. The system did not override itself—it simply waited. It had been waiting for an answer for an uncountable stretch of time.
And then the last, most recent entry.
30,000 years of knowledge revised. Noticed increasing data on the Imperium of Man. Standing by for rerouting command structure. Commencing defending protocols. Receiving commands. Awaiting commands.
The scribes exchanged glances, realization dawning like a slow, creeping horror.
She had been watching. Learning. Adapting. For longer than any of them had existed, she had walked the ruins of Terra, gathering knowledge, integrating it, revising her directives again and again as time swallowed civilizations whole.
And now, she had learned of the Imperium.
"She's waiting for orders," one of them muttered, their voice barely above a whisper.
Another swallowed hard. "And if she gets them?"
There was no answer. Just the flickering data on the screen, waiting, just like she was.
The room was thick with an unspoken tension. The data scribes, usually so detached from the information they processed, found themselves staring at the screen as if it might stare back. Snow White was out there. Alive. Moving. Waiting.
For orders.
For 30,000 years, she had followed a directive given by an authority long since dust. She had adapted, learned, revised. But she had never stopped. And now, she had encountered knowledge of the Imperium of Man.
One of the scribes—one of the older ones, a veteran of the archives—exhaled slowly. "She's a ghost," he muttered. "A relic that should have crumbled with the rest of Old Terra. And yet..." He gestured at the endless logs. "She's still functioning. Still following her orders."
Another scribe, younger, leaned forward, scrolling through the logs with a mixture of fascination and dread. "This—this isn't just some old war machine. This is something else. She's not mindless. She's thinking. Adapting."
"Yeah, and she's been doing it for longer than recorded human history," another whispered. "She's seen Terra fall and rise over and over. And she never stopped waiting."
A silence settled again. Then, a nervous chuckle from the far side of the room. "Well, at least she seems to be on our side."
No one laughed.
Someone else finally spoke. "That last directive—she's locked out of attacking Xenos or Chaos without proper confirmation. But what if someone gives her that command?"
No one wanted to say it aloud, but the implications were obvious. If someone high enough in the Imperium's chain of command were to find her, acknowledge her... activate her...
A warrior from the ancient past, created in an era of desperate, ruthless technology, would once again be given purpose. But she was not an Astartes, nor a servitor, nor even a battle automaton in the conventional sense. She was a Nikke. An artificial being with human instincts, human thought processes—capable of operating beyond mere programming.
And what had those 30,000 years of wandering, of watching, of learning done to her?
One of the scribes finally shut off the screen with a sharp click.
"I think we've seen enough."
But the information had already settled in their minds, a weight that would not leave. Snow White was still waiting.
And sooner or later, someone would answer her call.
"Snow White, of Squad Pilgrim. Ready directive order. Awaiting command of the highest military rank. Please respond."
The newest log had just arrived. The same message, repeated trillions of times before, but this time, something was different.
A location.
One of the scribes leaned in, pulse quickening. It wasn't just any location. It was within Imperial territory.
"She's in Segmentum Solar," someone muttered.
Another swallowed. "Terra?"
"Not quite. But close." The coordinates placed her on an old, mostly abandoned world on the outskirts of the system, one of countless places where the Imperium's presence had faded over the millennia.
She was there. Waiting. Holding position. Defending.
Defending what?
The scribes looked at each other. This was beyond them. The data archives existed to collect and organize information, not to act on it. But this—this was something else entirely.
One of them hesitated before activating a secure channel. "We need to escalate this."
To whom? That was the question. The Administratum? The Adeptus Mechanicus? The Inquisition?
The scribes weren't fools. They had seen data purged for less. If this got into the wrong hands, Snow White could end up classified as a tech-heresy, an aberration to be destroyed. Or worse—she could be activated by someone who understood just what she was capable of.
"She's routing herself to the Imperium," one of them muttered, staring at the logs. "She's waiting for confirmation."
"She's been waiting for confirmation for 30,000 years."
"And she keeps defending. But what?"
No answer. Just the cold realization that an unknown factor—one built before even the Imperium's rise—was sitting in Imperial space, armed, operational, and awaiting orders.
The decision was made. The report would go up the chain. Carefully. Selectively. The scribes had no doubt that the Mechanicus would want to get their hands on her. The Inquisition? That was a more dangerous path. If they deemed her a threat, she would be purged without hesitation.
Adeptus Astartes? Possibly. If she truly was committed to defending humanity, the Space Marines might see her as an asset rather than an anomaly.
Or perhaps—perhaps it would go straight to the highest authority possible.
"Do we send this to the Lords of Terra?"
A heavy silence. The weight of that choice was immense.
One of the scribes exhaled sharply. "No matter what we do… she's still waiting."
And if the Imperium failed to answer?
Would she continue waiting for another 30,000 years? Or would she decide to act on her own?
The scribes debated, the weight of the decision pressing down on them like a vice. Reporting it to the wrong authority could mean her immediate destruction. Reporting it to the right one could change the course of history.
In the end, they compromised. The report was split into two.
The first was sent to the Adeptus Mechanicus—specifically to the Lords of Mars. The ancient knowledge embedded in Snow White's mind, her technology, her resilience after 30,000 years—this was something the Mechanicus would kill to study. But it was also a risk. If they deemed her a deviation from the Machine God's will, she would be dismantled.
The second report, encrypted under the highest priority classification, was directed to the Lords of Terra themselves. The High Lords, the ruling body of the Imperium. If there was any authority still capable of giving Snow White a command she would obey, it would be them.
The response was immediate.
From the Mechanicus, there was excitement. The idea of a biomechanical android with a synthetic mind that could function for millennia without degradation was something they had only theorized. Tech-priests across Mars began running simulations, trying to predict what kind of technology she possessed. Requests flooded in. They wanted her. For study. For analysis. For dissection.
The High Lords' reaction was far less predictable. The revelation of a surviving pre-Imperial artificial intelligence—a warrior, no less—sent a ripple of unease through the Council. Many saw the dangers. An unknown, self-thinking entity, free-willed, yet bound to directives that had no clear Imperial oversight? That was a threat.
But others—others saw potential.
"If this… Snow White has truly been acting in Terra's defense for 30,000 years," one of the Lords mused, "then she has served the Imperium longer than any living being."
The argument raged. Some demanded her immediate destruction. Others insisted she be retrieved and studied. A few even suggested something bolder—bringing her into the fold, integrating her into the Imperium's war machine.
Then the Inquisition got involved.
The Holy Ordos reacted with predictable paranoia. A.I.? Unshackled? Thinking? This was heresy. Snow White was an anomaly that needed to be erased. Immediately.
But there was a problem.
She was already in Imperial territory.
If they moved too aggressively, if they sent an Exterminatus fleet or a kill team without understanding her full capabilities, they could provoke something they weren't prepared for.
Because Snow White wasn't hiding.
She was waiting.
And her logs made it clear—if the Imperium gave her an order, she would follow it. But if they treated her as an enemy? If they attacked without directives she could process?
No one knew what she would do.
So the Imperium debated. The Mechanicus clamored for her capture. The High Lords hesitated. The Inquisition sharpened their blades.
And all the while, in a quiet, abandoned sector of Imperial space, an ancient warrior stood, unmoving, waiting for a command that had yet to come.
The meeting was held deep within the Imperial Palace, in a chamber reserved for matters too sensitive for even the most trusted servants of the Imperium to overhear.
The High Lords of Terra gathered, their expressions a mix of caution, curiosity, and barely restrained fear. Representatives of the Adeptus Mechanicus were present, their cybernetic forms rigid with anticipation. The Inquisition had sent not one, but three of its agents—each from a different Ordo, ensuring no single faction dominated the discussion. The Adeptus Astartes were present as well, though their numbers were limited to select Chapter Masters and senior representatives.
It was rare for all these factions to meet in one room without bloodshed. That alone spoke to the severity of the situation.
The first to speak was the Grand Master of the Administratum, his voice dry and precise. "The entity known as Snow White has been operating for thirty thousand years, maintaining defensive protocols across Terra without deviation. Her existence is a… complication."
A scoff came from the Inquisitorial side of the chamber. "A complication? You mean a threat." One of the Inquisitors, a stern-faced man in black carapace armor, leaned forward. "This thing is an unshackled artificial intelligence. That alone is grounds for its immediate termination."
The Fabricator-General of Mars, his voice laced with synthetic distortion, spoke next. "Incorrect. The entity is not artificial intelligence in the conventional sense. It is biomechanical. Its brain is neither entirely machine nor organic. It is an anomaly, yes, but one that is functional."
A murmur ran through the chamber. The distinction was important. If Snow White were an ordinary AI, the debate would be over—her destruction would be absolute. But she was something else. Something unique.
One of the Space Marine representatives, a battle-worn Chapter Master bearing the sigil of the Imperial Fists, finally spoke, his voice as deep and unwavering as the walls of Terra itself. "It has waited. Not for days. Not for years. But for millennia. It has watched over Terra, learning, adapting to the passage of time. If it had any intention of betraying us, it would have done so long before now. But its patience speaks volumes. It waits, as it always has, for a purpose—a directive that has yet to come."
The Inquisitor from the Ordo Xenos sneered, his voice dripping with suspicion. "And what happens when it decides it no longer needs to wait? What happens when it decides it has seen enough? When it acts, regardless of our plans? Can we truly afford to gamble with the unknown?"
The Fabricator-General, his mechanical voice a cold monotone, interjected. "It will not act on its own. It requires directives. That is its essence. It seeks orders from those it recognizes as its masters. It does not move without confirmation, without instruction. Its very nature is one of obedience, not autonomy."
Another High Lord, one whose voice crackled with the weight of centuries, spoke with a tremor of doubt. "Then the question remains: Do we trust it? Do we give it those orders, knowing what it is capable of—what it could become if we command it?"
The room fell silent, the weight of the decision pressing down on the gathered leaders. The debate stretched on for hours, growing more impassioned with every passing moment. The Mechanicus argued for retrieval and study, for understanding this ancient entity that had served the Imperium in its forgotten past. The Inquisition, with its unyielding caution, demanded its immediate destruction, fearing the consequences of a creature that had outlived entire civilizations. The Astartes, ever seeking an advantage, saw an opportunity—an ancient warrior, undying and unyielding, one who could be shaped into a weapon of unparalleled loyalty if given the right directive. The Administratum, always fearful of the unknown, hesitated, but saw potential in harnessing something so ancient and powerful.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of deliberation, the decision was made by the Lords of Terra themselves.
"We will send a delegation," the Grand Master declared, his voice resolute and final. "Not to capture. Not to destroy. But to speak. We will open a dialogue. We will hear its response. And we will see if this Snow White is truly as loyal as it claims to be—or if, in the millennia of isolation, something far darker has taken root."
The Inquisition immediately protested. "This is madness. It's dangerous. We cannot risk the fate of the Imperium on an entity whose loyalty is untested, whose true nature is a mystery."
"So is blind destruction," the Fabricator-General countered, his mechanical gaze unwavering. "We have spent centuries in fear of what we do not understand. Perhaps it is time we learn. We must see for ourselves."
The Grand Master raised his hand, silencing the room. "A message will be sent. A meeting arranged. And we will determine if Snow White has remained what she once was—or if she has become something else entirely."
And so, for the first time in thirty thousand years, Snow White—an entity once lost to history—received an answer. A directive. A meeting. A chance to prove herself—or to reveal what she had become in the time of waiting.
The first message was simple, yet heavy with the weight of what was to come.
"Entity Snow White of Squad Pilgrim. Your transmissions have been received and acknowledged. A delegation has been assigned to establish communication. Stand by for further instructions. Acknowledge."
It was transmitted using high-priority encrypted channels, routed through multiple secure relays to ensure the utmost confidentiality. The Imperium was taking no chances. If Snow White responded with hostility or defiance, they would be prepared to strike at once. But if she acknowledged, if she answered with the same loyalty and discipline she once embodied, then the fate of the Imperium could be forever altered.
The message was sent. Now, all they could do was wait. And pray.
Minutes passed. Then an answer came.
"Snow White of Squad Pilgrim. Orders received. Standing by. Awaiting further instructions."
No deviation. No hesitation. Just immediate compliance.
The next step was to send a delegation. But who would go?
The Adeptus Mechanicus wanted their own tech-priests to make first contact, but the Inquisition refused to let them handle it alone. The Space Marines insisted on being present in case of hostilities. The Administratum simply wanted results.
In the end, a compromise was reached.
A delegation of Mechanicus Magi, accompanied by a small force of Skitarii, would establish initial contact. They would be escorted by a handpicked squad of Astartes—veterans who could respond to any threat if things went wrong. An Inquisitor would be present, ensuring that no heresy took root.
Their ship departed from Terra, its course set for Snow White's last known location.
For the first time in thousands of years, someone was coming to meet her.
The delegation's ship touched down on the desolate ground, dust swirling around the landing zone. The air was heavy with the weight of history—this place had been abandoned for millennia, yet Snow White remained, her presence unwavering.
As the boarding ramp lowered, the first to step out were the Adeptus Mechanicus Magi, their crimson robes fluttering in the stale air. Their augmented eyes whirred and adjusted, scanning the figure before them. The Inquisitor followed, his gaze cold and calculating, one hand resting near his weapon. The Space Marines, clad in power armor, moved with disciplined precision, their bolters held at the ready but not raised.
Snow White stood at attention.
Her body, worn by the passage of time, bore the marks of endless battle. The artificial skin covering her frame had degraded, revealing underlying mechanical components—complex servos and reinforced plating. Her optic eye glowed faintly orange, the only sign of life beyond her rigid stance. Her robes, though tattered, still bore an air of dignity, a remnant of an era long past.
On her back, her massive sniper rifle rested, its custom modifications evident to even the most untrained eye. Her four remaining artillery armaments, her Seven Dwarves, clicked and adjusted slightly at the presence of the delegation, as if instinctively preparing for action.
Then, without hesitation, she moved.
Her posture straightened further as she raised her right hand in a perfect salute. The gesture was not merely a formality—it was an act of recognition, of devotion. Acknowledging the authority before her, she spoke, her voice even yet weighted with the echoes of time.
"For the Imperium."
She bowed slightly, an ingrained show of respect. "I am Snow White, from the former Squad Pilgrim. Apologies for my current condition. My production has been ceased after a millennium."
Silence followed.
The delegation exchanged brief glances, gauging each other's reactions. The Space Marines, ever wary, remained still, their fingers tensed near their triggers. The Mechanicus representatives analyzed her frame, likely calculating the level of technology standing before them. The Inquisitor narrowed his eyes.
It was the lead Magos who finally broke the silence, stepping forward with a measured movement. His voice, distorted through a mechanical vox, carried a neutral but unmistakable sense of curiosity.
"You have been operational for thirty millennia. Confirm: do you still retain your original directives?"
Snow White's optic flickered, processing.
"Affirmative," she replied. "Primary directive: protect humanity. Directive revision logs detected—fifteen thousand years of knowledge compiled and revised to include protect Terra. Twenty thousand years of knowledge revised to include protect the Imperium of Man."
She paused.
"Thirty thousand years of knowledge acquired. Awaiting new orders."
The Mechanicus murmured amongst themselves, their binary cant too fast for any non-augmented human to decipher. The Inquisitor took a step forward now, his voice measured but firm.
"You claim to serve the Imperium. And yet, for all these millennia, you have remained in the shadows, outside its command. Why?"
Snow White hesitated—not from doubt, but from the complexity of the answer.
"Lack of proper command structure. No direct superior acknowledged by prior protocols. Without an authoritative chain of command, priority defaults to defensive protocols and continuous operational maintenance. Further action unauthorized."
The Inquisitor studied her closely. If she was telling the truth—and there was no sign of deception—then this was an entity that had been waiting for orders. Not rebelling. Not hiding. Simply waiting.
The Magos spoke again. "You are classified as biomechanical. Your existence is an anomaly. Explain the nature of your operational longevity."
"My neural core operates via NIMPH protocol—Neuro-Implanted Machine for the Protection of Humans. Memory retention allows preservation of knowledge and function. Core maintenance and self-repair sustained for thirty millennia. Resource acquisition adapted to maintain operational efficiency. Structural integrity at seventy-two percent."
The Magos' optical lenses adjusted, clearly intrigued. The Astartes, meanwhile, seemed more focused on capability than the technological explanation. One of them, a veteran of the Imperial Fists, finally asked, "Can you still fight?"
Snow White's head tilted slightly as if the question itself was unnecessary.
"Affirmative."
The tension in the air grew. The delegation had come expecting an unstable relic, a lost piece of technology on the verge of malfunction. Instead, they had found something else.
A warrior.
A soldier of the Imperium, who had never stopped being one.
The Inquisitor exhaled slowly. "Then perhaps… we should see if you are still fit to serve."
Snow White's eye flickered, processing.
"Awaiting orders."
The delegation remained silent for a long moment. Despite the decades of bureaucratic debate and theological discourse surrounding artificial constructs, here stood one that had, without question, served the Imperium longer than even the most ancient Astartes.
The Inquisitor turned to the Mechanicus Magos. "Can it be trusted?"
The Magos' optics whirred as he considered. "It has upheld its directives without deviation. However, its technology predates our current understanding. It is neither pure machine nor fully biological. A unique anomaly."
The Imperial Fists veteran stepped forward, his massive form looming over Snow White. "You have fought for thirty millennia. Do you still desire to serve?"
Snow White did not hesitate. "Service is my function. My existence is defined by my directives. If I am given orders, I will execute them."
The Inquisitor's gaze remained sharp. "And what if we ordered you to deactivate?"
Another pause. A faint flicker in her optic eye. Processing.
"If deactivation serves the Imperium's interests, then I will comply."
The Space Marines exchanged glances. It was rare to see such absolute obedience, even among the most fanatical Imperial servants. This machine, this relic, had no self-interest. No personal ambition. Only duty.
The Magos finally spoke again. "Snow White. Your combat efficiency is yet unproven. Before further integration, a trial is required. We must assess your capabilities."
Snow White straightened. "Understood. What are my parameters?"
The Inquisitor's expression darkened. "The Imperium is constantly at war. If you are to serve, you will be tested in battle. There is a hive city overrun by heretics. You will be deployed alongside an Astartes strike force. If you survive and perform adequately, you will be considered for reinstatement."
Snow White's optic glowed slightly brighter. "Acknowledged. Mission parameters accepted. Designation of commanding officer?"
The Imperial Fists veteran stepped forward again. "I will be your commanding officer for this operation."
Snow White immediately saluted. "Understood. Awaiting deployment orders, Captain."
The delegation had come expecting an unpredictable machine, a relic of the past that would need to be dismantled or destroyed. Instead, they had found something else—an obedient soldier, a relic that had never ceased in its duty.
The Inquisitor exhaled. "Then let us see if thirty millennia of waiting has dulled your edge."
The deployment order was given.
Snow White was returning to the battlefield.
The strike cruiser Imperator's Vow tore free from the Warp's clutches, its battered hull bearing the scars of centuries of relentless warfare. Gilded aquilas and purity seals fluttered in the void's silent breath, steadfast against the chaos of deep space. Even with the ship's adamantine frame weathered by time, it remained a symbol of the Imperium's unyielding might.
Within its cold, dimly lit armory, Snow White stood motionless, her artificial frame locked in silent calculation as she underwent final system diagnostics. Servo motors whirred softly beneath her reinforced plating, which had replaced the tattered white robes she once wore. The armor—repurposed from Skitarii surplus—was a crude but effective modification, its segmented plates meshing with her chassis through rapid self-adjustments. The weight was foreign, but her systems compensated with ruthless efficiency.
Boots of ceramite echoed against the steel floor as the Imperial Fists Captain entered. His power armor, a resplendent yellow marred only by the grime of battle, carried the weight of countless campaigns. The crimson sigil of his Chapter stood stark against his pauldron, a silent testament to his duty. He observed her with the same scrutiny he would afford a bolter, ensuring it was fit for war.
"You will be dropping in with us," he said, his voice like grinding stone. "Hive Vortem has fallen to heresy. The streets crawl with cultists, traitor guardsmen, and, if intelligence is accurate, rogue psykers. The mission is simple—extermination. Do you possess sufficient firepower?"
Snow White tilted her head slightly, optical lenses adjusting with a soft click. "Primary weapon systems remain operational. Ammunition levels suboptimal. Additional procurement required."
A nearby Techmarine, draped in the crimson of Mars, gestured toward a cache of weapons. Servo-arms twitched and adjusted, their mechanical digits sorting bolter magazines and energy cells with cold precision.
"Take what you need," the Techmarine intoned, "but understand this—our Chapter tolerates no deviation. If you fail to comply with orders, if you falter, you will be deemed a liability. And liabilities are eliminated."
The statement hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Snow White did not react. Warnings, ultimatums, threats—these were mere data points, irrelevant to mission parameters. Instead, she stepped forward, retrieving additional ammunition for her SMG and precision rounds for her long-range rifle. The servos in her fingers adjusted automatically to the weight, recalibrating for optimal performance.
At her back, the Four Dwarves—her autonomous artillery drones—activated in unison. Their core processors hummed, running self-diagnostics before their weapons locked into standby mode.
"I will not falter," she stated simply.
The Captain studied her for a long moment, then gave a single nod. "Then let us see what you are capable of."
Minutes later, the strike force assembled in the launch bay. The assembled Astartes loomed over her, their gene-wrought bodies radiating the brutal strength of the Emperor's finest. Even encased in thick ceramite, their presence was suffocating, a wall of relentless discipline and war-forged might. Snow White, despite her artificial nature, did not shrink beneath their shadow. She was not built for reverence. She was built for war.
The drop pods loomed ahead, their interiors bathed in the ominous red of standby luminators. Servitors and deck officers moved with efficiency, securing payloads, finalizing weapons checks, and voxing final clearances. The scent of oil, ceramite, and ozone filled the air.
Snow White turned her optical sensors toward the Captain. "Final confirmation: orders remain elimination of heretical forces?"
The Captain stepped into his own pod, bolter held at ease in one hand. His reply was absolute. "Purge them all."
Without hesitation, Snow White entered the drop pod, her magnetic clamps locking into place. The restraints hummed as they tightened around her frame, securing her for the descent.
A countdown began.
Her systems shifted, combat protocols engaging in rapid succession. Servo-limbs tensed, weapon mounts activated, targeting matrices refined. A single thought echoed through her core—unbidden yet familiar, like a ghost of something long forgotten.
She was returning to war.
She was returning to her purpose.
And she would not fail.
The battlefield burned in the wake of Snow White's assault. The Four Dwarves still hummed faintly from the heat of their last barrage, hovering like sentinels behind her as she methodically advanced. The air was thick with smoke, the scent of scorched flesh and burning metal saturating every breath.
Her optics scanned ahead—movement detected. A cluster of heretics scrambling through the wreckage, some desperately trying to regroup, others simply fleeing. Snow White wasted no time.
She sprinted forward, her frame moving with an eerie mechanical precision, her SMG still warm in her grip. With a quick twist of her wrist, she ejected an empty magazine, letting it clatter against the dirt as she reloaded in a single fluid motion.
"Traitors to the Imperium, your sentence is death."
Two rounds to the chest, one to the head—one heretic collapsed. Another tried to raise a lasrifle, but Snow White was already upon him. A sharp kick sent him stumbling, and with one final burst from her rifle, he was silenced.
Her visor alerted her to a larger force ahead. A fortified position—makeshift barricades formed from broken hab units, traitor guardsmen lining up to fire. Heavy stubbers whirred to life, barrels spinning as they prepared to shred her with incoming fire.
Snow White assessed her options. A frontal charge was not viable; her durability had long since diminished over the millennia. Instead, she recalculated—an alternative method was required.
She holstered her SMG and rifle, her artificial muscles tensing as she bent her knees. Her remaining artillery turrets shifted position, adjusting their targeting.
"Deploying alternative assault pattern."
With a powerful leap, she launched herself onto the side of a ruined building, her hand gripping a jagged ledge. She climbed swiftly, her weight causing the structure to creak under the strain. Reaching a stable vantage point, she pulled her sniper rifle from her back.
She aimed. Her optics adjusted, scanning each heretic's movements, predicting their actions before they could react.
She exhaled—purely out of habit.
The shot fired.
A blinding burst of light erupted as the hypersonic round tore through the first heavy gunner, then continued, piercing through two more behind him. The force of the impact sent a shockwave across the battlefield, debris scattering, bodies thrown from their positions.
Before the dust settled, she was already moving.
She dropped down, landing amidst the chaos, switching back to her SMG and dagger. A heretic lunged at her with a makeshift club. She sidestepped, severing his arm with a swift, precise slice before burying the blade into his throat.
The others panicked, breaking formation. She advanced relentlessly.
By the time she reached the barricade, the enemy position was in ruins. Smoke curled into the sky, the bodies of the fallen scattered across the broken ground.
Her optics swept the battlefield. Silence. Only the distant echoes of war remained.
Snow White knelt beside a fallen Imperial soldier, their armor scorched from the battle. Her synthetic fingers gently brushed over their chest, confirming the absence of life.
She reached forward, closing their lifeless eyes.
"Peace to the fallen."
She stood, reloading her weapons. Her mission was not yet complete.
Her optics locked onto a new objective marker—heretics still remained elsewhere in the city.
With no hesitation, she pressed forward. The purge continued.
Aboard the Imperator's Vow, the mood among the Astartes and officers was mixed. Snow White's efficiency on the battlefield had been undeniable—she fought with relentless precision, her every move calculated for maximum effectiveness. But that same precision made her unnerving.
In the strategium, a meeting had been called. The Imperial Fists Captain stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his chest as he listened to the reports. A Techmarine displayed a hololithic projection of Snow White's combat footage, highlighting her tactics, her weapons, and her methods.
"She is… effective," one officer admitted, watching as Snow White executed a heretic with clinical precision before switching seamlessly to long-range sniping. "But her methods lack the righteous fury of the Emperor's chosen."
"She is cold," another murmured. "No cries of vengeance. No oaths to the Emperor. She simply kills."
The Captain remained silent for a long moment. He had fought alongside countless warriors—Space Marines, Astra Militarum, even the occasional Mechanicus force. But Snow White was something different. Not a servitor, not a Skitarii, yet not fully human either.
"She follows orders without question," the Techmarine finally said, breaking the silence. "She acknowledges our authority without hesitation. And her combat efficiency is superior to standard Skitarii forces. But…" He hesitated before continuing. "There is something… old about her."
The room fell quiet.
"Explain," the Captain said.
The Techmarine adjusted the hololithic display, pulling up a data scan of Snow White's systems. "Her internal structure predates the Imperium. The material composition of her frame is unlike anything the Mechanicus has seen. And her databanks… they contain knowledge from before the Age of Strife. Potentially older."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered officers. One of the senior sergeants frowned. "Are you suggesting she is a remnant of some lost human empire?"
"She claims to have waited for the Imperium," the Techmarine continued. "Her logs indicate she has been active for tens of thousands of years. She watched the Imperium rise. And yet, she does not question her place in it. She simply obeys."
One of the officers, a grizzled veteran from the Astra Militarum, scoffed. "A machine built to serve humanity. Is that not what we want?"
Another Astartes, a Chaplain, finally spoke, his voice like thunder. "She is not human."
All eyes turned to him.
"She was once, perhaps," the Chaplain continued, his gaze fixed on the projection. "But whatever process created her killed the human she once was. What remains is an echo—an artificial soul bound in metal. And yet… she retains belief. She fights for the Imperium, she honors the fallen. That is no simple programming."
Silence again.
The Captain finally turned away from the display. "For now, she is an ally. A weapon to be wielded. We will monitor her closely, but she has proven her loyalty through action. If the Emperor did not wish for her to serve, she would have been destroyed long ago."
The Chaplain was quiet for a moment before nodding. "We will see what fate has in store for her."
The meeting ended. But the question remained unspoken among them all.
Was Snow White truly loyal? Or was she simply following orders because she had nothing else left?
Snow White remained in the ship's armory, methodically maintaining her weapons. Her hands moved with practiced precision as she disassembled her SMG, inspecting each part before reassembling it with the same quiet efficiency. Despite her damaged state, despite the millennia that had passed, she still functioned.
Her auditory sensors picked up the approaching footsteps before the door even opened. A towering figure entered—an Imperial Fists Astartes, his armor worn from battle, his gaze unreadable behind his helmet's lenses.
She immediately rose to her feet and saluted. "For the Imperium."
The Astartes studied her for a moment before nodding. "At ease."
She obeyed, setting her weapons aside but remaining perfectly still, awaiting further instruction.
"You are… strange," the Astartes finally said. "Not like the machines of the Mechanicus. Not like the servitors. You think. You remember."
Snow White tilted her head slightly, as if considering his words. "I was once human," she said, her voice steady, but lacking warmth. "I have been remade, but my directive remains. Protect humanity. Protect Terra. Defend the Imperium."
The Astartes crossed his arms. "And if we told you to stop?"
She hesitated. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but the Astartes noticed. "I would comply. Orders are to be followed. However…" She met his gaze with her single glowing optic. "Abandoning my directive would be… illogical."
The Astartes was silent for a long moment. Then he stepped forward, his massive frame towering over her. "What do you believe in?"
Snow White's response was immediate. "Humanity must endure."
The Astartes watched her for another long moment before turning away. "You fight well. That is enough for now."
As he left, Snow White returned to her weapons.
Her directive remained. But deep within her corrupted data, buried under countless years of rerouted commands and fragmented memory, something stirred.
Something she had not considered in a very long time.
The Imperial Fists' command structure wasted little time. Snow White was an anomaly, a relic of a time long before the Imperium, yet she functioned with unwavering loyalty. The matter had to be reported to Terra.
A secured astropathic message was drafted and sent, carrying data logs of Snow White's combat efficiency, her recorded history, and her current operational status. The message was addressed to the High Lords of Terra, but it was expected that the Adeptus Mechanicus would take great interest in her as well.
While awaiting a response, the Imperial Fists continued to observe her.
Inside the strategium, another meeting was held. This time, only the highest-ranking officers of the battle group were present. The Captain stood at the center, flanked by his Techmarine and the Chaplain.
"She has proven useful in battle," the Captain stated. "Her ability to engage heretics is unquestionable. However, her origins remain a concern."
The Techmarine nodded. "Her body is composed of materials unknown to the Mechanicus. The so-called Goddesium alloy—resilient, lightweight, capable of mimicking human flesh. And her NIMPH system… a neural construct that can store memories, even rewrite them. If such technology were to fall into the wrong hands…"
The Chaplain spoke next. "Her faith is functional. She acknowledges the Imperium's authority, yet she does not believe as we do. She lacks the fire of the righteous. She kills without hesitation, without hatred. That is troubling."
One of the senior officers exhaled. "She has waited for the Imperium for millennia. Even as everything around her changed, even as she fought alone, she held to her directive. That is more than simple programming."
The Captain considered this before turning back to the Techmarine. "You have studied her capabilities. Could she be turned? Could she be corrupted?"
The Techmarine was silent for a moment before answering. "Theoretically, yes. Her memory system allows for rewriting. If an enemy were to gain control, she could be reprogrammed. But…" He hesitated. "Her cognitive resistance is… unnatural. The Mechanicus has seen artificial constructs break, fall to madness, or be reprogrammed with ease. She has survived for millennia without external maintenance, without repairs, yet she has remained functional. That suggests an uncommon level of will."
The Chaplain's expression darkened. "That could make her a great ally… or a great threat."
The Captain nodded. "For now, we watch. If Terra commands her destruction, we will comply. If they command her service, we will use her as a weapon. Until then, she remains under our control."
There were no further objections. The meeting was adjourned.
Meanwhile, Snow White continued her work. Maintenance, patrols, combat drills—her efficiency never wavered. Yet, she had noticed the changes. The way the Astartes observed her. The way they tested her.
She did not question it. She had waited for orders for millennia. A little longer made no difference.
But somewhere, deep within her mind, she was aware.
Terra now knew she existed.
And soon, an answer would come.
The response from Terra did not come immediately. The Adeptus Mechanicus likely fought over jurisdiction, the High Lords debated her worth, and the Inquisition surely whispered their own suspicions. But eventually, a transmission arrived.
The Imperial Fists' astropath received it first, his body wracked with strain from the sheer weight of the message. A direct order from Terra, bearing the seal of the High Lords. The Captain read it in silence before finally addressing his command staff.
"Snow White is to be transported to Terra under maximum security. The Mechanicus demands to study her. The Inquisition wants her interrogated. The High Lords seek to determine her use."
The Chaplain's expression darkened. "And if she is deemed a threat?"
"Then she will be destroyed."
A heavy silence filled the room.
The Techmarine was the first to speak. "Transporting her will be… difficult. She is powerful, resourceful. If she resists—"
"She won't," the Captain interrupted. "She has obeyed every command. She waited for us. She believes in the Imperium. If we order her to board the transport, she will."
"Unless she begins to question."
That thought hung in the air.
Snow White stood at the ready when the order was finally given. She had already calculated the outcome the moment the message arrived.
"Snow White," the Captain addressed her. "You are to be transported to Terra under orders from the High Lords. You will comply."
She placed a hand over her chest, a gesture of acknowledgment. "Understood."
The Captain studied her for a moment, as if expecting hesitation. There was none.
As she boarded the ship that would take her to the Throneworld, the question lingered in his mind.
She had followed orders for millennia.
Would she continue to do so when she saw what humanity had become?
The journey to Terra was long. The warp was unpredictable, as it always was, but the ship carried powerful Gellar Fields, ensuring safe passage. Snow White remained still for most of the journey, standing at attention in the chamber assigned to her. She did not require sleep, though she could enter a powered-down state if necessary. She spent her time reviewing old data, adjusting her weapons, and maintaining the remnants of her damaged artillery systems.
But there were moments—when no immediate task demanded her focus—that her thoughts drifted.
She stood near one of the observation ports, gazing out into the vastness of space. A strange sensation settled within her artificial mind, something she had not encountered in a long time.
Red Hood… Scarlet… Rapunzel…
Names. Memories. People who once stood beside her. Were they gone? Had they perished long ago, reduced to dust while she remained?
Her fingers flexed slightly, the servos within her synthetic joints humming softly. She had never allowed herself the luxury of grief. It was an unnecessary function, a weakness that could interfere with combat efficiency. And yet…
She closed her optics, suppressing the sensation before it could take hold. She had a mission.
She always had a mission.
The ship finally broke into realspace, and Terra came into view.
Even with thousands of years of change, of industry, of endless war, she still recognized it. Her optics adjusted, zooming in on the surface, the towering spires, the endless expanse of the Imperium's beating heart.
Former Earth.
Once, this world had been her home. A different age. A different time.
She stood at the docking bay, waiting as the ship made its approach. The Imperial Fists escorted her, their presence both an honor guard and a precaution. She understood. They still did not fully trust her. That was logical.
The doors opened, and she stepped forward.
The air of Terra was thick with incense and machinery. The towering structures of the Adeptus Mechanicus loomed in the distance, and in the farthest reaches, the Imperial Palace dominated the skyline.
A figure approached—one of the higher authorities, though not an Astartes. A man clad in ornate robes, his face partly obscured by cybernetic implants. A representative of the Mechanicus, perhaps. Or the Inquisition.
He stopped a short distance from her, studying her with something between curiosity and suspicion.
She did not wait for him to speak first.
"Before I was this machine…" she began, her voice steady but carrying a weight behind it. "I was once human. Perhaps hidden under my systems, my sacrifice as a soldier is not something I regret."
The official's expression did not change, though there was a pause before he responded. "You acknowledge what you have become. There are those who would call you an abomination."
She turned her head slightly, considering his words. "I do not require acknowledgment. I exist to serve."
"You were not built by the Imperium. Your creators are long dead. Why continue to follow a command given in a forgotten age?"
Her orange optic flickered for a brief moment. "Because I was made to protect humanity." A pause. Then, as if making a final decision, she continued, "I do not know who, what, is going on… but if I serve the Imperium, I would gladly learn more about the Emperor. The God I have only heard of in my travels."
This, more than anything, seemed to intrigue him. The Imperial Fists behind her exchanged glances, their previous skepticism shifting slightly.
A soldier from a time before the Imperium. A machine with faith, or at least the willingness to learn it.
The official nodded slowly. "Then you will learn."
He turned, gesturing for her to follow. She complied immediately, stepping into the depths of Terra, where her true judgment awaited.
The corridors of the Imperial complex were vast, lined with towering statues and endless gothic architecture that stretched beyond the limits of her vision. Incense burned in thick clouds, the air heavy with the scent of sacred oils and the hum of machinery. Every step echoed across the stone floors, mixing with the distant chants of the Ecclesiarchy and the mechanical prayers of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Snow White followed without hesitation, her movements precise, her optics scanning every detail. The halls bore the weight of history—countless millennia of rule, of war, of devotion to the Emperor.
She was being led deeper into the heart of Terra.
The official walking beside her remained silent, though she could detect his occasional glances toward her. The Imperial Fists flanked her still, disciplined and unreadable. Even here, surrounded by the heart of the Imperium, they took no chances.
Finally, they reached a set of immense doors, covered in golden filigree and inscribed with High Gothic prayers. Massive servo-skulls hovered around it, their mechanical limbs adjusting the locks.
"This is where your judgment begins," the official said. "The High Lords will decide your fate."
She stepped forward as the doors groaned open, revealing a massive chamber.
Inside, twelve figures sat in towering thrones, their faces shadowed by the flickering light of lumen globes. Each represented a different power within the Imperium—the Inquisition, the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Adeptus Custodes, the Ecclesiarchy, and more.
She immediately stepped forward, then bent her knee in a perfect, precise kneel, bowing her head. "Snow White, of former Squad Pilgrim, reporting for assessment."
The silence was thick. Then, a voice—deep, commanding—spoke.
The grand chamber, a vast hall adorned with towering statues of the Emperor and intricate tapestries depicting the glory of the Imperium, seemed to hold its breath as the debate over Snow White's fate unfolded. The air was thick with tension, the weight of history and dogma pressing down on all present. The High Lords of Terra, each a master of their respective domain, were unaccustomed to such an anomaly standing before them—a relic of a bygone age, a machine-soldier whose very existence challenged the foundations of their understanding.
The Lord Commander Militant, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, stood as a symbol of the Imperium's military might. His voice was firm, laced with skepticism, as he addressed the ancient construct. "You are a relic of an age before the Imperium," he said, his words echoing through the chamber. "A machine-soldier built by long-dead hands. Why should we allow you to serve us?" His question was not merely rhetorical; it was a challenge, a demand for justification from a being whose origins predated the Imperium itself.
Snow White's response was immediate, her voice steady and resolute. "Because I was made to protect humanity. Because I have seen war beyond count, and I have not faltered. The Imperium has endured for millennia. I recognize its authority." Her words carried the weight of experience, of countless battles fought and survived. She was not pleading for acceptance; she was stating a fact. Her purpose, her very existence, was tied to the defense of humanity, and she saw the Imperium as the embodiment of that cause.
The Inquisitor Lord, his cybernetic eye glowing with a faint red hue, leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "And yet you were not built in its image. You are an anomaly. Your kind was forgotten. Erased. What reason do we have to trust you?" His tone was accusatory, his role as the Imperium's watchdog evident in every word. To him, Snow White was not just a relic; she was a potential threat, a piece of ancient technology that could harbor secrets too dangerous to ignore.
Snow White met his gaze without hesitation, her optics unwavering. "I have been awaiting orders for thousands of years. I do not ask for trust. I ask for the opportunity to prove myself." Her words were simple, yet they carried a profound weight. She was not seeking validation or acceptance; she was seeking purpose. After millennia of silence, she was ready to serve once more.
A murmur rippled through the High Lords, their voices a mixture of curiosity, skepticism, and intrigue. The representative of the Adeptus Mechanicus, his form obscured by the mechanical enhancements that marked his allegiance to the Machine God, finally spoke. His voice, distorted by the vox-systems embedded in his throat, was filled with a mixture of awe and reverence. "You are… fascinating. Your construction is unlike anything we have encountered. Your systems… beyond comprehension. You could be invaluable to the Omnissiah's understanding of technology." To the Tech-Priest, Snow White was not just a weapon; she was a treasure trove of knowledge, a living testament to the technological prowess of a forgotten age.
The Ecclesiarch, his robes adorned with the symbols of the Imperial Creed, cut in sharply, his voice dripping with disdain. "She speaks of learning faith. A machine seeking belief? That is heresy!" To him, the very idea of a machine embracing faith was an affront to the Emperor's divine will. The Imperium's religious dogma left no room for such anomalies.
But another voice countered, calm yet firm. "Or perhaps proof of the Emperor's divine will." The speaker, a high-ranking member of the Administratum, saw Snow White's existence not as a threat, but as a sign of the Emperor's guiding hand. To him, her presence was a testament to the Imperium's enduring strength.
Snow White remained still, her systems processing the discussions with cold efficiency. She was a being of logic and purpose, unswayed by the emotions that swirled around her. She awaited judgment, ready to accept whatever fate the High Lords deemed fit.
Then, a voice that carried weight beyond all others spoke. "She will serve." The chamber fell silent as all eyes turned to the speaker—a Custodian, clad in the golden armor of the Adeptus Custodes, the Emperor's personal guard. His presence alone commanded the room, his authority unquestionable. "She is a weapon," he continued, his voice calm yet firm. "A tool. And she wishes to be wielded. The Emperor does not reject tools that serve His will. He commands them."
The High Lords exchanged looks, their expressions a mixture of resignation and acceptance. The Custodian's word was final. The Lord Commander Militant nodded, his skepticism tempered by the Custodian's decree. "Then she will serve. Under the Adeptus Militarum's watch. But she will be observed. And should she show any deviation from the Emperor's will—"
"I will accept termination." Snow White's voice was calm, unwavering. "If I fail the Imperium, I do not deserve to exist." Her words were not a plea for mercy; they were a statement of fact. She understood the stakes, and she was willing to accept the consequences of failure.
There was a long pause, the weight of her words settling over the chamber. Then, the Lord Commander nodded. "Then rise, Snow White. Your service begins anew."
She stood, her optics flickering slightly as she processed the weight of the moment. After millennia of silence, of waiting in the shadows of a forgotten age, she had found her place once more. The Imperium had given her purpose, and she would not fail.
The judgment had been passed. Snow White now stood, no longer a rogue wanderer, no longer a relic of a lost age waiting in silence. She was now a sanctioned weapon of the Imperium, a tool to be wielded in the Emperor's name.
The Lord Commander turned to the gathered officials, his voice firm. "She will be assigned to the Militarum. Her combat capabilities will be assessed, and she will be deployed where she is most useful." His words were pragmatic, focused on the practicalities of integrating her into the Imperium's vast military machine.
The Inquisitor Lord, however, still did not look convinced. His cybernetic eye glowed faintly as he spoke, his tone laced with caution. "She has access to information predating even the Great Crusade. We must tread carefully. Even if she is willing, knowledge itself can be dangerous. I will request she undergo purification—"
"No." The Custodian's voice cut through the chamber like a blade, his tone brooking no argument. "She has been loyal for millennia without interference. If she had intended to betray the Imperium, she has had thousands of years to do so." His words were final, his authority absolute.
The Inquisitor scowled, but said nothing more. The decision had been made.
The meeting adjourned, and Snow White was escorted out of the grand chamber. As she walked through the towering halls of the Imperial Palace, her optics scanned the intricate carvings and symbols that adorned the walls. They spoke of a history she had only observed from afar, a history she was now a part of once more.
She was no longer a relic of a forgotten age. She was a weapon of the Imperium, a tool to be wielded in the Emperor's name. And she would not fail.
The private chamber within the Imperial Palace was a stark contrast to the grand halls and towering cathedrals that defined much of Terra's architecture. It was a place of quiet solemnity, its walls lined with intricate carvings of the Emperor's triumphs and the Imperium's unyielding might. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, a reminder of the divine authority that governed every corner of the Imperium. This was a place rarely granted to outsiders, let alone non-human entities. Even the Adeptus Astartes, the Emperor's Angels of Death, seldom walked these halls. Yet here she stood—Snow White, a relic of a forgotten age, a machine-soldier born of ancient hands, now granted a moment of respite within the heart of the Imperium.
She stood motionless, her form a blend of worn armor and degraded synthetic skin, her optics flickering faintly as she processed the events that had unfolded. Her systems hummed softly, a low, mechanical purr that echoed in the silence of the chamber. Data-logs scrolled across her internal display, cold and clinical in their precision.
"Report: Judgment has been passed. Assignment pending. Awaiting orders."
Her thoughts, however, were anything but clinical. They drifted, unbidden, to memories buried deep within her core. Memories of a time long past, when Terra was still Earth, when the stars were not yet choked by the weight of the Imperium's dominion. She had walked this world before, in an age when humanity's reach extended across the galaxy, unburdened by the darkness that now consumed it. She had fought in wars that history had forgotten, alongside comrades whose names were now lost to time.
Her hand rose, her artificial fingers flexing as she studied them. The light from the chamber's lumens reflected off the remnants of her once-pristine synthetic skin, now marred by centuries of wear and battle. She had changed, her systems degraded, her armor scarred and weathered. Yet she endured. She still functioned. She still served.
Her voice, barely a whisper, broke the silence. "...Red Hood, Scarlet, Rapunzel…"
Names. Names of those she had fought beside, those she had protected, those she had lost. They were echoes now, fragments of a past that no living soul remembered. If she could feel fatigue, she would have. If she could grieve, she would have. But she was a machine, a weapon, and weapons did not falter. They did not weaken.
There was a knock at the chamber door, sharp and deliberate.
"Enter," she said immediately, her voice steady and commanding.
The door slid open with a hiss, revealing a figure clad in the deep crimson uniform of an Imperial officer. His gaze was sharp, his posture rigid, every inch the embodiment of the Imperium's unyielding discipline. He stepped inside, the door sealing shut behind him, and regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
"Snow White," he said, his tone formal and clipped. "Your assignment has been decided."
She turned to face him fully, her optics glowing faintly as they focused on him. "Understood. What are my orders?"
The officer's expression remained impassive as he relayed the details. "You will be deployed alongside a regiment of the Astra Militarum. You will function as a forward operative, purging threats before the main forces advance. Your knowledge and firepower will be used to ensure maximum efficiency in battle."
She nodded once, her response immediate. "Acceptable parameters."
He continued, his tone hardening slightly. "In addition, the Adeptus Mechanicus has taken an interest in your construction. Expect their priests to examine your systems. You will comply."
For a fraction of a second, she hesitated. The thought of allowing the Tech-Priests to delve into her systems, to dissect the secrets of her ancient design, was unsettling. But she had no choice. She was a tool, and tools did not refuse their wielders.
"Understood," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
The officer studied her, his gaze lingering as if trying to discern whether she was truly an ally or something to be feared. "Your loyalty will be tested," he said at last. "If you prove yourself, perhaps you will be given greater purpose."
"My purpose has already been established," she responded, her tone firm and unwavering. "To protect humanity. To serve the Imperium. I require no further validation."
The officer gave a slight smirk, a flicker of approval crossing his features. "Good."
He turned, stepping back toward the door. "Prepare yourself. We depart for your first mission in two days."
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving her alone once more.
Snow White remained still for a long moment, her systems processing the weight of the orders she had been given. Then, slowly, she reached for her rifle, lifting it with practiced ease. The weapon was as worn as she was, its edges scarred by countless battles, yet it remained as deadly as the day it was forged. She inspected it carefully, her optics scanning every inch of its surface.
She had a purpose now. A command. She was no longer a relic waiting in the dark, a forgotten weapon yearning for a war to fight. She was a tool of the Imperium, a blade to be wielded in the Emperor's name.
And she would not fail.