Day 269, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium
Malvic stood still for a moment, his face cold in the dim light of the under-hall. He looked at the lines drawn across the map: red lines marking the gang leaders' locations, yellow lines showing the supply routes to be seized. The words from the report still echoed in his head — "The gang leader rejected the offer." Short words, but their consequences were large and unwelcome. It meant the strategy of buying time and laundering legitimacy with forged papers had stalled before them (even if, in truth, punishment was unlikely — they preferred the appearance of propriety).
His composure did not dissolve into panic; it immediately reshaped into the next calculation. Malvic set his pen down and rose, moving to the tall window to peer down over the filth of the Lower Hive. His cold eyes found opportunity in the chaos. He summoned the operations commander for an urgent briefing; the steel door shutting behind them was the cue. There was no ceremony in the conversation — Malvic gave short, precise orders.
"Mobilize the House Guard. Prepare an Iron Cohort, roughly two hundred strong, with servitor support and fully armed armored transports. Deploy into the area within thirteen hours. No prior announcement." He pointed to another spot on the map. "Field teams will sever the key supply routes, temporarily cut power and water links, and destroy the stockpiles the gangs use as bases. Then capture the gang leader alive. Do not kill, except when unavoidable. Use the capture as leverage to force the remainder to capitulate."
He did not neglect the political dimension. "Intelligence will release a new brief: this operation is a 'regulatory enforcement' requested by local authorities and technically supported by the Mechanicus. Notify local media and the Arbites only one hour before the operation to prevent time for organized resistance." Malvic spoke slowly, as if composing a scene; he knew the presence of the Arbites on the ground would make the troop movement appear more legitimate.
Other orders were issued in sequence: weapons teams prepare crowd-control gear and breaching tools; clear embarkation points for armored transports; issue face coverings to operatives to avoid alienating lower-tier gangs that could still be controlled; have field medics ready for the wounded. Everything must be silent and swift. He also ordered Finance to open secret wallets and shell accounts to pay the gang leader's bounty up front if necessary.
When the directives were given, Malvic lingered a moment, watching those preparing for the operation from the window once more. He offered no encouragement, no slogans, no grand imagery — only a steady confirmation that the plan must succeed and the numbers must add up. Risks were weighed against expected gains.
Orders were transmitted as signals that faded into the small noises of the under-hall. People began to move: weapons were readied, gear donned, servitors primed. Men and machines fused into Korvax's engine of operation. Soon the steel doors would open onto the stair that led down into the Lower Hive, and the Spire's light would leave a cold smile on their heads as the procession descended into darkness.
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Day 273, Year 986 of the 41st Millennium
Lower hive
POV: Raul
Raul's shop was the same as always — dim, with a small armory in the back. He checked the merchandise as usual; right now he was inspecting several pieces of jewelry to see whether they were genuine. Of course, they weren't — they were contraband, stolen from the upper levels — and he planned to fence them when the right opportunity came.
Before long he would leave this planet and move to a civilized world. He'd paid a deposit on a parcel of land with money he'd spent his life earning through smuggling and selling information. He imagined a life of clean air, farming and winemaking, a couple of beautiful wives, and, above all, freedom from this Under Hive and this world.
Today he was in high spirits because he had found a job that would put money straight into his pocket. He'd been lucky to meet that shy woman — as expected, her fee was worth two lascannons.
The nobles had paid well. If he saw her again he'd have to tell her immediately. And speaking of her, she walked into his shop at that exact moment, looking rough.
Erica De la Cruz entered, exhausted; when she pulled off her mask she looked sleep-deprived, several guns slung across her back.
"Oh — hello… Erica, I've got good news. A noble is interested in you and he'll pay a lot! He'll—" Ack! As Raul finished, Erica grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off the counter. Raul hit the shop floor. The woman was shockingly strong; anger and frustration burned on her face and in her eyes.
"Let me finish," Raul tried to calm her as he pushed himself up, but Erica straddled his waist. Raul tried to shove her off, but the scrawny merchant couldn't move her. She rained a flurry of punches into his face.
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Earlier
Eric woke and checked himself, went through his morning routine as usual, and found that the bleeding had stopped, though he still felt uncomfortable. Today he decided to take the day off — he was tired and sleepy after last night's fight, and the dressing hadn't made him feel any better.
Right now Eric was slightly irritable. Today he had to use half his savings to pay a fine to Raul, who turned out to be on the police's payroll.
Last night, on the way here, Eric had fought three mutant, three-armed, bald humans. He'd managed to kill about fifteen of them before they closed in, and he'd scavenged five contraband guns — which he knew exactly what to do with. He would sell them to Raul, because he needed the money. If it got him more cash, he'd do it.
Eric touched his chin and thought: if Raul really was an informant, there was a chance Raul would double-cross him by reporting him for dealing illegal weapons — and then fine him again. A weapons dealer who was secretly with the police. It didn't make sense, and yet it did. Whatever.
Eric put on his clothes, drank some water, slung the stolen guns over his shoulder, took money from the metal box, and left his lodgings for Raul's shop. He passed the fight site from last night and saw the bodies still there, but he paid no mind and kept going.
When he reached the alley that led to Raul's shop, Eric raised his assault rifle into a ready position and proceeded cautiously. Who knew what might be lying in wait inside? He moved through the maze of darkness and managed to reach the shop entrance safely.
Eric opened the door and saw Raul inspecting jewelry. He removed his gas mask; Raul glanced up and seemed slightly more interested in him than usual. Raul pocketed the jewelry and stood to greet him in his customary sly tone, this time sounding pleased.
"Oh — hello… Erica, I've got good news. A noble is interested in you and he'll pay a lot! He'll—" Ack! Irritable, sleepy, and worn out, Eric heard Raul's words and — before Raul could finish — grabbed him by the collar and yanked him off the counter. Raul's weight wasn't much, and Eric's body had become stronger from hard work, so he pulled Raul down easily.
Wasn't yesterday bad enough? And now this in the morning? He didn't want to hurt or kill anyone, but he couldn't stand it — Raul was treating him like merchandise, like an object to sell. He needed to teach anyone who thought like that a lesson.
Eric threw Raul to the floor; the jewelry and goods fell out of Raul's cloak. Raul tried to rise and offer an excuse.
"Let me finish—" Raul began, but Eric didn't listen. He kicked Raul down again, straddled his waist, and rained punches into Raul's face. Raul tried to fend him off but couldn't. A blow knocked Raul's face covering loose, and Raul cried out in despair. He was battered and bleeding; his face was bruised, and some of his teeth were broken.
"Listen!!! This noble just wants you!!! To be his model for fittings!!! I only meant to tell you so we could split the cut! Stop it now!!!!" Raul shouted, tears mixing with blood.
.
.
.
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.
.
Eric sat motionless on a metal chair that creaked with every shift. In front of him was Raul — a tall young man with a scar running across his left cheek — pressing an ice pack to his face. His features still held the lingering displeasure from the earlier incident.
"...Are you sure you want to take this job? I'm not going to say it twice. It's risky, but if it succeeds, you'll have enough money to get out of the Z district. You won't have to work in a factory for another two years," Raul said in a low voice, folding his arms, still annoyed from being punched.
Eric was silent. He looked down at his hands, callused from lifting at the plant. His body was still tired from last night's shift, but the idea of getting away from here kept running through his mind.
"...So what would I actually have to do?" he asked at last. Raul raised an eyebrow and flopped down onto a rusted metal cot.
"Simple, Erica. Either a fitting model or just a model. This noble likes your look and wants you to work for him."
"What?" Eric blurted, frowning.
"Listen till I finish. People from this noble's household need a new model to try on the clothes she's making or designing — fashion stuff. You don't have to say anything. Just wear what they tell you, pose for the photos. It's not the kind of work you're imagining," Raul continued. Eric remained still.
"Look, I know you hate people staring at you like that. But if it means you get out of here — a decent room in the mid-district, clean water, cheaper utilities, less crime — wouldn't that be worth it?" Raul sighed and looked him straight in the eyes; his tone was more persuasive than threatening.
Eric lowered his gaze slowly. Conflicting feelings surged — doubt, shame, and the desperate wish to escape the life he hated. He finally exhaled and said, "...I'll think about it." That much money could move him somewhere better, someplace with a higher quality of life and a chance at better work, maybe something he used to do.
"Don't think too long. There are plenty of others ready to take those jobs," Raul shrugged, stood, and walked to the counter. He opened the metal drawer underneath with a loud creak, reached in, and placed something onto the scarred wooden table — a lightweight, ivory-white fabric that shimmered under the flickering bulb above, the lace trim at the hem visible in detail. (Writer's note: to be clear, it's not a sheer lacy nightgown.)
"This is the sample outfit they sent to try on first," Raul said, tossing the fabric-wrapped bundle to Eric. Eric caught it off-guard. He opened it…and almost immediately wanted to shut it again.
In his hands was a lightweight white lace nightgown that looked like it had come straight from an upper-hive girl's bedroom. It was far too short and so sheer that Eric felt a flutter of unease.
"...You're joking, right? This is—" Eric whispered, trying to put the garment back as if it were something hot.
"Not joking. They want a woman who looks delicate and proportioned. You already look that way, and you're a bit too sturdy," Raul replied flatly, rubbing the cheek Eric had punched.
"I—!" Eric nearly snapped back, but the words caught in his throat. He pressed his lips together. Confusion churned in his chest. A fleeting image flashed through his mind: when he was his old self in the old world, he might have drooled at a sight like this. Now he was the one who would have to wear it. He swallowed hard.
"…I'm not sure I can wear something like this," Eric said quietly. In truth, he was embarrassed even to be bare-chested when he was alone. Raul snorted a laugh.
"Don't act like it's a big deal. You won't be parading through the mid-district — they'll just photograph you in a room. It'll take less than an hour. Hopefully."
Eric stared at the outfit for a long moment. The fabric was fine, soft, and far too thin. For someone who used to be a man, it felt humiliating and terrifying to decide. At last he sighed.
"If it really gets me out of here… I'll try," he murmured.
"Good. Then meet me in three days at the Mid District, Level Thirteen. Don't be late." Raul gave a thin smile — part satisfaction, part mockery.
"Wait — take me with you. I don't know the route."
"Fine, fine — you're persistent. Come by here and I'll get you up, either by the lift or a back route," Raul said with an annoyed tone.
He studied the lace and Eric's pale face for a moment, then nodded with satisfied calm. He rummaged under the counter; metal grated softly as he produced a small pouch and a metal box of assorted items, setting them in front of Eric.
"Take these." Raul said, opening the pouch to reveal a bar of herbal soap, a small shampoo bottle with a peeling label but still bright color, a soft towel, a jar of powder, a jar of skin cream, and at the end of the box a small comb and a folding hand mirror — little things he'd like to have right now.
"Pretty faces like yours shouldn't have soot all over them. If you're going to sell your looks, you need to be clean and—well—presentable enough to get money out of them. Understand? The noble likes your face, but not like this," Raul said with a sly smile. Eric took the items with trembling hands. Outwardly he seemed grateful, but his eyes hid many emotions. He'd wanted things like these for a long time, but receiving them now felt awkward.
"Thanks," he murmured uncertainly. Then, remembering why he'd come, he hurried to speak.
"Wait, Raul. I'm here to pay the fine today — about the contraband guns — and I'll sell these guns to you," Eric said, reaching for his money pouch. Raul raised an eyebrow and, sounding bored, replied,
"You probably ran into Officer Jericho giving you trouble. He's always like that. Don't worry about the fine — I'll handle it." He took the pouch and counted the money.
"Do you think I'll get into trouble?" Eric asked nervously. He knew the area was dangerous and knew next to nothing about the upper levels. The word "noble" conjured images: the very top class, living in luxury, feudal and power-hungry, entitled — people with absolute authority. If one of them set their sights on him, what would that mean? Eric could defend himself to some degree, but he wasn't a professional soldier or a seasoned fighter.
"You think you'll get in trouble? Ha. Let me tell you something — women like you are the trouble," Raul said, laughing and clutching his stomach. "Strong and aggressive as hell. At least the girls from the Moloch gang were aggressive from the start — not like you." Eric frowned and replied, irritated.
"Hey!!! It was just a misunderstanding!" he protested. He'd only been sleepy, annoyed, and angry about last night, and Raul's vague comments made misunderstanding easy.
"Fine. But don't let it happen again," Raul said, sounding triumphant. His obnoxious tone made Eric ball his fist, fighting the urge to punch him again. Eric sighed, said his goodbyes, put on his mask, released the safety catch on his gun, and walked out of the shop with a paper bag and the pouch containing soap, shampoo, and the small items.
Eric thought about what had happened today. In three days he would do the most humiliating thing he had ever done — but he'd already made up his mind. It was money that would make his future more comfortable (and it would be even better if Raul didn't skim a brutal 20% commission). Eric moved carefully through the dark, tangled alleys as usual. At first it seemed like nothing would happen, but as he neared the main thoroughfare he heard the sounds of a fight — the sort of thing that happened every day, except it really shouldn't be taking place here. When he reached the main street he took off his mask, rubbed his eyes, and put it back on as he approached.
Soldiers clad like knights, bearing a cog-and-copper-sword emblem on their chests, were holding rifles that fired red beams as they fought the gangs.
Knights in a future world?
It must be a hallucination, Eric told himself. Knights with laser rifles in a future world? I must be losing my mind.
(This is Eric's view of ordinary Korvax household troops — soldiers equipped better and trained on par with the Imperial Guard.)
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Writer's note: Eric doesn't know much about laser weapons or the advanced technology of Warhammer 40k. If he saw a Titan, a starship, or the wonders of the Warhammer 40k universe, he would be stunned — mouth agape.