It was late at night when Raynor returned to the sewer base. This time he didn't bring the usual scraps; he carried the last galvanic battery and a "Military Spec-7" high-output cell he'd scoured from the black market.
Sarah's condition appeared to be worsening. The light from the crystallized wound flickered erratically, and fine, spiderweb cracks had begun to mar the surrounding carapace. The number of Hormagaunts had increased to nearly twenty, but their movements were sluggish, their shells dull and matte.
The only thing that gave Raynor a modicum of comfort was the appearance of a few Termagants—the Tyranid's basic ranged infantry. Their presence meant the swarm was beginning to manifest basic firepower.
When Sarah looked up at him, the murderous intent in her compound eyes remained, but a hint of undeniable exhaustion shadowed her gaze.
[Raynor]: (Puts down the two batteries) "Your injury is spreading."
[Sarah]: (Slowly absorbing the energy. The reaction is more intense this time; the glow on the wound stabilizes briefly before returning to chaos.) "Hiss..."
[System Translation]: The contamination is spreading. Synchronization rate with the Hive Mind has dropped to 10.3%.
At 10.3%, she was almost entirely independent. It also meant she was fighting the Warp-taint alone, without the vast psychic support of the Hive.
"I need your help," Raynor said bluntly. "I found a place where you can get what you need. There are armed humans there, but if we move together, we can take them down."
[Sarah]: (Staring intently at him. A long, heavy silence follows.) "Hiss!"
[System Translation]: Agreement reached, with conditions: She has priority access to all biomass obtained. In the event of unavoidable danger, she retains the right to evacuate alone.
"No problem." Raynor nodded. He was there for her biomass anyway; he just needed the results.
Sarah's bone blade slashed impatiently at the ground, finally emitting a low hiss that sounded like a begrudging compromise.
[System Prompt]: A temporary cooperation agreement has been reached.
"We move tomorrow night," Raynor said. "I'll get the maps and intel. You just try to stay stable."
As he left, he looked back. Sarah was huddled in the shadows, her crystallized wound burning like a slowly smoldering, ominous purple flame.
That night, Raynor didn't close his eyes. He used his tax office clearance to access old civil files, digging up the original structural diagrams of the water purification plant. He also spent his remaining credits on black-market components to fashion several crude stun grenades.
The next day at the office, he was a ghost, his mind already in the Furnace Area. He visited a machine shop that was months behind on its tithes. The owner, a man with hands permanently stained by grease, panicked at the sight of the uniform.
"Sir, please! Business has been slow. Give us a few more days!"
Raynor ignored the plea, glancing toward the back yard filled with rusted machinery and towering pipes. "I can waive your tax obligations for the quarter," Raynor said suddenly. "But I need information on the Sharktooth Gang."
The man's face went pale. "Sir, I... I don't know anything."
Raynor's lips curled into a cold, thin smile. "Are they using this alley to transport 'goods' into the purification plant? Tell me, and I 'adjust' your bill. Hide it... and I'll ensure the Arbites find your lack of cooperation suspicious."
Conscience was a luxury the Warhammer universe couldn't afford. The owner buckled. "Every three or four days, after 10 PM. They bring a shipment from the north through the back alley. About ten men, all armed."
"The next one?"
"Tonight."
When Raynor returned to the sewers that evening, Sarah looked sharper. Among the Hormagaunts, several had notably brighter shells—she was concentrating her limited resources on an elite vanguard. Raynor unfolded his hand-drawn maps and explained the plan.
...
As night fell, the abandoned water treatment plant resembled a rusted steel behemoth crouching in the toxic smog. A bonfire flickered in the courtyard where four thugs sat drinking, while five others patrolled with autoguns and scrap-metal machetes.
Just as the gang settled into their routine, the front gate creaked open. A thin man in a Tax Bureau uniform strolled in, a cold, predatory smile on his face. "Evening, gentlemen. Tax season has arrived early."
The thugs were stunned by the audacity of a lone official. They reached for their weapons, but Raynor was faster. He hurled his crude stun grenades.
[BANG!]
The low-quality explosives detonated with a blinding flash. "You motherfu—!" A thug's curse ended in a gurgle as a bone blade emerged from the shadows and severed his throat.
The instant the grenades popped, twenty Hormagaunts that had been clinging to the darkened ceiling dropped like a rain of knives. It was a bloody "death from the sky."
Shouts and chaotic footsteps erupted from the underground tunnels. More Sharktooth members surged out—at least ten more, fully armed. At their head was a burly, grease-stained man with a buzzing chainsword fused to his right arm: "The Butcher."
They rushed into the courtyard only to find a landscape of gore. Alien monsters were already gnawing on the remains of the sentries. The Butcher felt his blood run cold.
"Boss, what are those things?!" a henchman screamed.
The Butcher, refusing to look weak, raised his autogun and fired at Raynor. The bullets whizzed through the air, only to be deflected by a massive, dark silhouette that lunged in front of the tax officer. Sparks flew off a chitinous shell.
"ROAR!!!"
A purple, armored behemoth standing three meters tall rose before them. Her spine was a ridge of saw-toothed bone, and her four sickle-shaped blades hummed with killing intent. Sarah, the Hive Warrior, had descended.
"It's over... throne help us, it's over!" The Butcher's fighting spirit shattered. He knew what that monster was. He collapsed to his knees, beginning to stammer incoherent prayers to the God-Emperor.
His underlings tried to fire, but they were silenced by a volley of acidic spore-slugs from the Termagants emerging from the darkness behind Raynor. It wasn't a fight; it was an industrial-scale massacre.
As the Hormagaunts closed in to tear the Butcher apart, Raynor's voice cut through the wet sounds of the slaughter.
"Sarah! Spare him. He's still useful."