The copper scent of Miles's blood still lingered in the laundry room, mingling with the artificial lavender of a nearby detergent box. Miles sat on the edge of the dryer, his arm wrapped in a clean, white tea towel. His head felt like a cracked bell that had been struck by a sledgehammer, but the emerald-green coordinates of Paradyce were steady, pulsing in his mind like a heartbeat.
"You possess the map of a dead world," Danica said, her voice dropping into a low, predatory rasp. She stood in the center of the kitchen, her scarred arms crossed over her black thermal undersuit. The matte-black plates of her Sabbat-pattern armor lay scattered on the floor like the bones of a fallen giant. "A civilian—a nothing—holding the keys to a Necron slaughterhouse. It is either a miracle of the Throne or the most cunning trap ever laid by the Metal Ghosts."
"It's a house, Danica. It's just a house," Miles groaned, wincing as he pulled the duct tape from his bag. "And right now, this 'nothing' is the only person who knows which way to point your chainsword. So, instead of threatening to carve the truth out of my throat, maybe help me fix your gear?"
Danica stared at him, her eyes narrowing as she calculated the risk. Finally, she stepped forward, her movements possessing a fluid, dangerous grace. "I will follow your lead for now, Halloway. But do not mistake my cooperation for trust."
Miles pulled a standard, yellow-handled screwdriver from his new toolbox. As his fingers gripped the rubber handle, the Hum in his brain resonated. It wasn't just a noise anymore; it was a set of instructions.
He touched the tip of the screwdriver to a jagged crack in Danica's black chest-plate. A faint, blue static sparked between the metal and the ceramite.
ARTIFACT - Steel Screwdriver (Mundane)
ENHANCEMENT- Molecular Realignment Field
CHANCE OF SUCCESS - 92%
As Miles turned the tool, the jagged edges of the black plate didn't just close—they knitted together. The scorched carbon fell away, replaced by smooth, unblemished obsidian.
Danica gasped, her hand instinctively flying to her throat. "You... you repair the sacred plates without the binary psalms? You command the atoms themselves?"
"I just... see where the pieces fit," Miles muttered, sweat dripping from his forehead. "But it's not enough. We need real sacred unguents. We need to go to the Cathedral of Industry."
"Put this on," Miles said, tossing her a spare grey hoodie and the baggy black trackpants. "And this." He handed her a faded baseball cap.
Danica looked at the "NO OVERTIME" text on the hoodie as if it were a heretical rune. "This shroud... it is flimsy. It offers no protection against the blades of the enemy."
"It protects you from the police and the neighbors, which are the only enemies I can handle right now," Miles countered. "Hide the armor under the bed. We take the car."
Danica reluctantly pulled the hoodie over her head. Without her armor, she was still an imposing figure—nearly six feet of lean, coiled muscle and intensity—but in the oversized clothes, she looked like a high-level athlete hiding from the paparazzi. She tucked her combat knife into the waistband of the trackpants, her eyes scanning the ceiling as if expecting an ambush from the attic.
The drive to the massive, green-painted hardware warehouse was a lesson in silent terror. Danica stared out the window at the sunny, suburban streets, her jaw locked in a permanent scowl. To her, the sight of people walking dogs and washing cars was an impossible, sickening hallucination.
When they pulled into the parking lot, the smell hit them—the thick, fatty aroma of sizzling meat and grilled onions from the community stall at the entrance.
"The Ritual of the Folded Bread," Miles said, nodding toward the stand. "We eat first. You're starving, and a hungry Sister of Battle is a hazard to public safety."
Danica followed him, her boots thudding on the asphalt. She stood in the queue, a shadow of black and grey amidst a sea of colorful families. When Miles handed her the sausage wrapped in a single slice of white bread, she stared at it with profound suspicion.
"Is this... a ration of the faithful?" she asked, her nostrils flaring.
"It's a Saturday tradition. Just eat it."
She took a bite. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilating as the simple, greasy joy of the "Ritual Sausage" hit her system. In a world of recycled corpse-starch, this was a sensory miracle. "The texture... the heat... it is a blessing," she whispered, her guard dropping for a fraction of a second.
Inside the warehouse, Miles led her past the power tools—which Danica insisted were "primitive yet functional boarding weapons"—to the chemical aisle. He grabbed a can of WD-40 (The Sacred Unguent) and Gorilla-brand Duct Tape (The Binding Strips).
But as he reached for the tape, the Hum in his head spiked into a piercing, electronic shriek.
The lights in the aisle flickered. A low, rhythmic grinding sound—the exact frequency of a Necron tomb-ship—began to echo from a display of "Smart Home" devices nearby. A sleek, stainless-steel refrigerator screen flickered to a toxic, emerald green.
WARNING: LOCAL RELAY ESTABLISHED
SOURCE: Sub-Space Ping via "Smart Fridge 3000"
STATUS: Tracking Blood-Link... 89% Complete
"TARGET... ACQUIRED," a synthesized, hollow voice grated from the fridge's speakers.
"Miles," Danica's voice was like ice. She didn't have her armor, but her combat knife was out in an instant, its blade catching the harsh fluorescent light. "The metal ghosts. They have followed the blood."
"They're using the store's Wi-Fi!" Miles panicked, backing away. "They're 'downloading' a signal into the electronics!"
"Then we perform the Rite of Deletion," Danica said, her eyes burning with a terrifying, holy fire.
She lunged, the knife a silver blur as she targeted the glowing green screen.