180 day .Year 988 .M41st millennium
Hive Orion
Lower hive
Matthew let out a long sigh as he stepped out of a door behind the heavy industrial manufactorum. His emaciated body, suffering from malnutrition and overwork, felt profoundly exhausted. His arms and legs ached, and his hands trembled slightly. His work uniform, stained with oil and soot, clung to him stickily like a second skin.
He slipped away from the group of workers, heading toward a familiar dark alley behind the factory building. Even though he knew exactly how dangerous a place like this could be, he was willing to take the risk.
Matthew glanced left and right cautiously to ensure no one was watching. Then, with a trembling hand, he carefully reached into his pocket to pull out his most prized possession. If anyone caught even a glimpse of it, he could be murdered and robbed on the spot.
Matthew pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag to relieve his stress. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke through his nose before dropping the butt to the ground.
He crushed the cigarette butt beneath the heel of his boot, turned around, and prepared to leave. But the very second he took his first step, he felt the freezing touch of metal pressing against the back of his neck. Simultaneously, an arm shot out from the shadows, locking around his throat with terrifying speed and precision.
Matthew froze in sheer terror. From the corner of his eye, he could only see a smooth, clean woman's arm clad in fine gray fabric—a stark contrast to the rags worn by the locals and the grime-and-oil-covered environment of the Lower Hive. Regardless of her appearance, there was no denying that his current situation was incredibly bleak.
At least this wasn't the first time he'd been mugged or extorted.
"Keep quiet. Don't move, and don't try to call for help. Do that, and you'll be safe," a voice whispered from behind him. It was a woman's voice, surprisingly melodic and soft. Yet, beneath that softness lay a deadly seriousness, an absolute resolve, and a chilling pressure that told him she meant every single word. If he twitched even slightly, he would die instantly.
Then again, perhaps a quick death was better than living a life of endless starvation.
Matthew nodded slowly and raised his hands above his head, making his surrender painfully clear. He tried to force himself to stay calm in order to find the best possible way out of this.
Damn it... guess I'm a bit unlucky today. I work fifteen hours a day in a factory, and now I have the rotten luck of getting mugged by a woman? he thought sarcastically, quietly gulping down a lump in his throat.
"Turn around and face me," she ordered, her tone flat but authoritative.
Matthew slowly turned around as instructed, his hands still raised high above his head. He didn't dare make a sudden move or try anything stupid.
But when he finally saw the face of the person aiming a pistol at his head, he was completely taken aback.
The person holding him at gunpoint wasn't some crude, hardened, muscular woman from the Lower Hive. Nor was she a frail, haggard girl withered away by grueling labor and malnutrition... She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
In this part of the Lower Hive, most of the women he encountered were utterly broken down. Their faces were darkened by soot, etched with lines of chronic exhaustion, and their eyes held the hollow despair of working fifteen-hour shifts in the manufactorums. But the woman standing in front of him was so completely different that she seemed to have fallen out of another world.
She had pale, flawless skin without a single blemish or speck of dirt. Her facial features were perfectly proportioned and completely devoid of makeup. Her stark white hair was neatly tied back into a low bun.
She was about the same height as him. She wore a fine gray coat that clearly cost an absolute fortune, layered over a crisp, immaculately white shirt—a level of cleanliness that was virtually impossible to maintain down here. Her leather boots looked incredibly durable and equally expensive.
She exuded an aura of elegance and nobility. Everything about her would have been absolutely breathtaking... if it weren't for the fact that she was gripping a pitch-black pistol, aiming it directly at his forehead with a dead-serious glare.
"Do you know the leader of the Iron Fang gang?" she asked. Her tone was blunt, getting straight to the point and demanding an answer. It sounded so fiercely intense and oppressive that it sent shivers down Matthew's spine.
Matthew's mind raced. He had definitely heard of Chronos, the ruthless man who led the Iron Fangs, ruling the slums and industrial sectors of this zone through brute force and terror. There were heavy rumors that he was backed by nobles up in the Hive Spire. Even the mere mention of his name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of the locals.
Given the current situation, he had no idea who she was or why an Uptowner who looked this pristine would want to kick the hornet's nest by messing with the Iron Fangs. But right now, she had a gun pointed at him, and he knew perfectly well that she could pull the trigger at any second.
"I know a little," Matthew replied, his voice low and trembling slightly with fear. He tried not to look panicked as he spilled everything he knew about what this woman wanted.
"Chronos is the leader of the Iron Fangs. They're an armed syndicate that rules the slums and factories in this sector. I've heard they have some nobles backing them. They maintain control and rule this place through fear, all while serving their masters," Matthew babbled quickly, his eyes glued to the ominously steady muzzle of the gun. The woman in front of him listened intently, her face so completely stoic that he couldn't read her emotions at all.
"Keep talking," she said, her brow furrowing. Matthew's meager confidence instantly vanished. Terrified that she might decide to pull the trigger right then and there, he hurriedly continued.
"Chronos is a massive guy, huge... easily a full head taller than a normal person. He's cunning and absolutely ruthless. He likes to wear armor with curved horns, and he has a beard that is... how do I put it? It's really magnificent. And he looks terrifying whenever he wields his magic weapon," Matthew explained as best as he could, his voice shaking. He had no idea that the blue light and energy wreathing the man's sword or axe was actually Power Weapon technology; all he knew was that it could cut through solid steel like scissors through paper.
"Their main base is in Sector 45, about three sectors north of where we are right now," he added.
"Give me the specific route. I'm not a local," she interrupted. Her voice grew slightly louder, carrying a faint tinge of irritation. Matthew paused for a moment in confusion. He didn't know if it was weird that someone dressed so well didn't know which way was north, but he didn't dwell on it. He desperately tried to recall the route and the landmarks as quickly as possible.
"First, you need to look for the old Ministorum Cathedral. There's a statue of a saint right in front of it. You have to walk in the exact direction the saint is facing. After that, you'll come across an apothecary and a weapons shop right next to each other. The direction those storefronts face points straight toward their territory and hideout. It might be a bit tricky to navigate because of the gloom down here in the Lower Hive, and the closer you get, the more gangers you'll run into," Matthew gulped, throwing in a warning out of a strange mix of goodwill and terror. The young woman nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied with his answer. She gradually lowered her gun, though her intimidating gaze remained locked onto him.
"You can go back now. And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will come back for you," she threatened before vanishing into the shadows of the alley, fast and completely silent. Matthew stood frozen in place for a moment, just to make absolutely sure she was gone. At the same time, he questioned himself as to why he hadn't just bolted out of there the second she finished speaking.
This wasn't the first time he'd been extorted or threatened... It was just that usually, the ones shaking him down were stinking gangers, filthy thugs, or hulking brute-women ready to snap his neck barehanded. But this time, he was mugged and interrogated by a woman so jaw-droppingly beautiful she looked like a fallen angel. It was such a bizarre and strangely pleasant experience that he didn't even know how to react.
"Oh, crap!" Matthew muttered, his face turning pale as he suddenly realized he had been out way past his break time. He sprinted back toward the manufactorum so he could clock in on time. Otherwise, his already pathetic wages would be docked even further.
________________________________________
Eric let out a sigh and slumped down onto an air filtration unit installed outside a building in one of the alleys. It seemed his roleplay had been far more convincing than he thought, and threatening someone with a gun to extract intel had worked out much better than expected. At first, he assumed he would face a lot more resistance. But hey, this was good.
At the very least, he was smart enough to pick a target a factory worker—who was roughly the same size as him... or perhaps just a scrawny, malnourished man, unlike the hulking brutes he usually ran into.
From the intel he just gathered... it sounded an awful lot like the person he had to assassinate was a Space Viking.
All the evidence pointed directly to it. Wearing a horned helmet, having a magnificent beard, and being massively built—that was a Viking through and through. And if his target actually used an axe? Definitely a Viking.
Oh... in the 41st Millennium, this bizarre future where I woke up in a woman's body on a distant planet, living in a gigantic slum-factory hybrid called a Hive City. I've fought aliens, met cyborgs, and dealt with priests who look like they stepped straight out of a cyberpunk world every single day. I'm in debt, I have a terrible boss (Vann), and I've had to survive Orks. Everything here feels so ridiculously fantasy-like. It's incredibly weird. And now, I'm dealing with a Space Viking... What's next? Am I going to run into a dwarf? Eric grumbled internally, reflecting on all the sheer absurdity he had encountered so far.
Moving on, he began planning the assassination, using the intel he'd acquired to inform his decisions—relying on whatever meager tactical knowledge he had retained from his temporary stint in the PDF forces.
First, he would need to disguise himself to blend in flawlessly with the locals. This would make movement easier and keep him from drawing unwanted attention.
Second, he had to navigate to the Iron Fang's base or hideout. He'd start at the old Cathedral, walk exactly in the direction the saint's statue was facing, pass the apothecary and the weapons shop, and then follow the direction the apothecary was facing to finally reach the gang's headquarters.
Third, he would conduct close and long-range surveillance without alerting them, then use that data to his advantage—logging their patrol schedules and pinpointing blind spots where he could slip in completely unnoticed.
Fourth, he would have to find some way to get close to the gang leader. Then, he'd assassinate the target, complete the mission... and head back to wait at the drop-off point for Colonel Drago to pick him up.
Eric smiled faintly as he formulated his plan. He felt genuinely proud of his own genius. If he could solve complex mathematical equations, planning a simple assassination should be a walk in the park.
But he immediately frowned as he reevaluated the final phase of his plan. Getting inside the base was admittedly a rather desperate endeavor, because there were really only a few ways to infiltrate the place.
Option one: sneak in when the guards or patrols let their guard down.
Option two was the most desperate, dangerous, and undignified method: he could intentionally let himself get captured so they would bring him directly to their boss. He didn't even want to guess what kind of horrific intentions they'd have for capturing him, but he could use that moment of vulnerability to assassinate the target. However, this method carried the massive risk of being horribly assaulted by the gangers long before he ever laid eyes on the leader.
Option three: he could take out one of the gang members, steal their uniform and armor, and disguise himself as a new recruit to infiltrate the base and assassinate the boss.
As the plans and variables grew increasingly complicated, Eric's right hand instinctively moved to cup his chin. He looked exactly like someone stressing over how to file their taxes after earning a massive paycheck for the first time.
But suddenly, he grabbed his head in sheer frustration, realizing he had missed the most crucial piece of information—the one thing he absolutely could not afford to miss.
"Which way is the old Cathedral, anyway?" Eric mumbled in dismay. What good was his brilliant, complex plan if he couldn't even get to the base? He didn't even know the direction or the location of the old Cathedral.
"Why the hell didn't I ask that guy which way the Cathedral was?" Eric kicked himself for his carelessness. He had failed to ask for what seemed like the most basic, trivial piece of information, but in this situation, the detail he missed was actually the most important of all.
He took a deep breath to calm himself down, knowing full well that panicking and stressing over it wouldn't do him any good. If he didn't have the info, all he had to do was find another local or slum-dweller and either ask them nicely or threaten them for it.
But as he sat there thinking, his ears picked up a sound. His hand instantly flew to the grip of his pistol, moving with the lightning-fast speed of pure instinct.
As the sound drew closer, he recognized its rhythmic, steady nature... It was undoubtedly a human walking directly toward his position.
Eric leaped to his feet, raising his gun into a ready stance. He retreated into the darkest corner of the alley, taking cover behind the ventilation unit. When the footsteps were close enough, he peeked out slightly. It was an Iron Fang ganger, wandering into the alley for a smoke break.
The ganger wore crudely forged scrap armor and an iron helmet that looked like a much lower-quality knockoff of standard PDF issue. In his hands was a submachine gun that looked like it had been cobbled together from scrap metal. The man's posture showed absolutely zero vigilance. He puffed on his cigarette, completely oblivious to any potential danger. To Eric, the ganger's behavior and body language didn't stem from the confidence of an untouchable warrior, but rather the sheer arrogance of a thug who believed no one would dare mess with him. And he was dead wrong.
Eric raised his pistol, aimed directly at the man's head, and pulled the trigger without a moment's hesitation.
Phut!
A sound so soft it was barely audible escaped the suppressor. In that fraction of a second, the man's body crumpled to the ground, a coin-sized hole bored straight through his temple.
Eric stared at the pistol in his hand in sheer amazement. He had to admit, this was the first time he'd fired the weapon, and it was unnervingly quiet. Aside from the muted puff from the suppressor, it made practically no noise. The trigger mechanism and the slide were virtually silent upon firing.
It seemed the gun in his hand was no ordinary pistol, but an instrument designed explicitly for silent assassination.
Looks like luck is finally on my side, Eric thought. It seemed he wouldn't have to resort to his most desperate, high-risk assassination plan after all. He quickly hurried over to the body and dragged the corpse deep into the back of the alley so no other gangers or passersby would spot it. Then, he began stripping the corpse of anything useful and started preparing his disguise.
Less than five minutes later, Eric strode out of the alley equipped with new clothes, armor, and weapons, leaving the ganger's corpse lying in the shadows, sripped nearly bare
____________________________________________
Hive Kathion outskirts a windswept no-man's-land
A sandstorm howled across the flats near Hive Kathion. One heavy armored patrol vehicle of the PDF rolled forward, its crew a handful of seasoned veterans and a larger number of newly inducted troopers. They were on a routine sweep; so far, everything had gone smoothly.
The mission was dull too long spent patrolling without so much as an ork sighting or a trace of enemy activity. That was preferable to the ambushes other squads had suffered, though each unit had been lucky enough to spot the foe in time more often than not.
Ahead on the road someone had crudely lashed a yellow object to the ground; a trail of cordage ran from it for hundreds of metres. In a storm like this the driver's visibility dropped to almost nothing. Against orks they relied on thermal optics and auspex sensors to locate and engage targets tools that usually gave them the edge, since most greenskins revealed themselves by heat or motion before they closed.
Of course, those systems had limits. Auspex arrays vary in quality; personal thermal sights are useful but small; none of them detect inanimate objects, and each has a finite operating radius.
When the patrol passed the yellow object, an enormous explosion tore the vehicle apart.
The blast flipped the armored scout instantly. Several troopers were killed on impact; the survivors scrambled clear and established a hasty defensive perimeter.
"Form a firing line now!" the sergeant barked. His arm was broken, but he forced himself to raise a lasgun and direct the handful of men left to hold their positions. He knew all too well how ambushes from rebels and genestealers could arrive in a heartbeat.
"Have you sent the distress signal?" he snapped at the signaller, who had already been injured. The radio man nodded and answered, "Affirmative, sir. Reinforcements en route ETA fifty minutes."
The sergeant ground his teeth. Fifty minutes was a lifetime in their situation. The vehicle's auspex array was ruined; every personal thermal sight had been smashed by the blast.
"Something's coming," a trooper shouted, pointing toward a sound. All weapons swung to cover that sector and then another detonation cracked out.
At first the shot sounded like an explosion, but it wasn't. A trooper standing in the line suddenly collapsed; the others dropped and returned fire toward the noise.
A long, high cry rose from the storm
"Waaaghhh!"
anda wave of orks poured from the weather like a living tide. They were green, brutal, heavily muscled, with red eyes and savage grins. Their clothing and armor were cobbled together from scavenged scrap, and they carried crude blades and axes; some had jury-rigged scrap pistols.
Despite being outnumbered, the PDF stood and fired. Lasgun beams stitched red through the dust; dozens of orks fell where they ran. Their crude armor did little against focused lasfire, and still more orks pressed through the storm, seemingly endless. Ammunition dwindled, but the troopers held their ground with grim determination.
Unseen in that chaos, a small squig with a yellow charge strapped to its back darted between the orks and toward the wreckage. Most of the men did not notice it in time—only one trooper did. He raised his lasgun and aimed at the strange red figure bearing the yellow device.
He squeezed the trigger. The lasgun clicked—dead. He tried again; nothing. He fumbled for his bayonet, but it was too late.
The squig leapt into the trooper cluster and the device detonated.
The blast killed those nearby instantly. The surviving orks jeered and began looting the wreckage grabbing weapons, armor, anything valuable. In the scramble some Boyz squabbled over the spoils while others loaded the captured vehicle for their own use.
Then a lanky, grease-mottled ork appeared: a mek with a red paint can in hand. He raised the can and proclaimed, with characteristic ork bravado, that by the will of Gork and Mork the great Waaagh! had begun. He ordered the Boyz to flip the heavy vehicle upright, made a few crude adjustments to its internals, hammered at its wheels with a hammer, and satisfied the mek painted the hull bright red.
With a chorus of cheers the Boyz clambered aboard the refurbished scout and drove off before the paint had even dried