Aurelian Standard Time: Three hours and forty-seven minutes after the commencement of the requisition operation.
Sycamore Hive, Upper Hive Governor's Palace.
The circular conference hall on the top floor of the four-hundred-meter-tall spire was packed to the brim.
Hive nobles, bureaucrats of all ranks, Mechanicus Tech-Priests, and Merchant Guild directors... over two hundred people had gathered here.
"Warehouse District Six confirmed lost!"
"Garrison casualty report: two thousand four hundred and thirty-seven KIA! The number of critically wounded is too high to calculate!"
"All smelting furnaces in Refinery Seven have been dismantled! They even ripped out the control consoles!"
"The conveyor belts in Mining District Ten have been entirely severed! The belts just straight-up vanished!"
The bad news flooded into the conference hall like a torrential downpour.
With every report, Governor Buhar Hysman's face turned a shade paler.
The sixty-year-old governor, a distant relative of the main Hysman branch, had managed Sycamore Hive for twenty-nine years. He fancied himself a man who had weathered every storm. Hive riots, gang wars, mining disasters... he had even survived the radioactive mutant beast incursion five years ago.
But today...
"Eight giants who came out of absolutely nowhere..." Buhar gripped the edge of the cherry wood table so hard his fingernails dug into the grain. "Eight Astartes from different Imperial Legions, warriors wearing triple-layered laurel wreaths... they came to my hive city... to rob us?!"
The moment the word left his mouth, he felt the sheer absurdity of it.
The Emperor's Angels of Death. Genetically forged superhuman warriors. The most devastating ground force in the entire galaxy.
They came to a fringe mining world, not to suppress a rebellion, not to purge heresy, but just to steal raw ore, refined steel, machine tools, and smelting furnaces?
What kind of sick, twisted joke was this?!
Was this some sort of Warp sorcery conjured by heretics?
"Lord Governor," Magos Seya Kane, the ranking Tech-Priest stationed in Sycamore Hive, spoke up.
The Magos possessed a moderate degree of cybernetic augmentation. He retained an intact human head and upper torso, but his lower half had been replaced by bipedal mechanical legs, and his right arm was a multi-jointed data probe.
His synthesized voice was frigid and devoid of emotion. "Based on an analysis of the transmitted visual records, the intruders have been confirmed as warriors of the Adeptus Astartes."
He pulled up a holographic projection.
The footage was blurry, a series of afterimages captured by a servo-skull during an intense firefight.
But it was clear enough to make out a suit of bright yellow power armor, the Roman numeral 'VII' etched onto its pauldron.
Atop its helmet rested a triple-layered laurel wreath, the topmost Imperial Laurel reflecting a blinding golden light amidst the explosions.
"Imperial Fists," Seya intoned. "Combat style analysis: staunch, defensive advance. Chainsword application aligns perfectly with the tactical doctrines of the Seventh Legion."
The footage switched. A white blur tore across the screen, a disruption tulwar carving a sapphire arc of light as three soldiers were decapitated simultaneously.
"White Scars. Peak movement speed clocked at forty-two meters per second, consistent with the combat doctrines of the Fifth Legion."
The third clip showed a suit of deep blue power armor standing behind cover, its bolter firing in rapid, precise bursts. Seven shots, seven exploded heads.
"Ultramarines. Marksmanship accuracy at 98.7%, perfectly matching the combat dogma of the Thirteenth Legion's Ultramarines."
The fourth clip, the fifth, the sixth...
The pale grey of the Sons of Horus, the wolf-grey of the Space Wolves, the matte black of the Raven Guard, and finally, the footage captured by the main gate's security feed:
Dark grey power armor, a World Eaters insignia on the chest, shattering a heavy bolter turret with a single punch.
"The identity of the eighth intruder... is questionable," Magos Seya's mechanical eyes flickered. "The livery matches the standard colors of the War Hounds Legion, and the heraldry is correct. However, no distinct berserker traits were observed in the combat logs." He paused. "Furthermore, this unit exhibited... psychic powers."
A collective gasp echoed through the conference hall.
A psychic Astartes?
Could it be the Thousand Sons? But the Thousand Sons' livery was crimson.
"Could they be impostors?" a noble asked, his voice trembling.
"Impostors?!" Buhar sneered, pointing furiously at the close-ups of the triple-layered laurel wreaths on the projection. "Do you have any idea what those laurels represent?!"
He stood up, his voice shaking with rage. "The Legion Laurel requires a warrior to be an exceptional paragon within their entire Legion! The Victor's Laurel is only awarded by a Primarch for securing victory in at least three major campaigns! And the Imperial Laurel..."
Buhar's voice dropped, tinged with a terror bordering on reverence. "...requires a nomination from a Primarch and a rigorous review by the Departmento Munitorum on Terra, confirming their unparalleled and irreplaceable contributions to the Holy Emperor and the Great Crusade. Across the entire galaxy, the number of Astartes qualified to wear an Imperial Laurel can be counted on two hands! And now, eight of these Champion warriors banded together to come here and steal our ore?! What the hell do they even want?! If they melted those laurels down and sold them, they'd be worth more than the damn rocks!"
The conference hall plunged into dead silence.
Everyone understood the sheer absurdity of the Governor's words. It was like the Emperor Himself leading the Custodes down into the Underhive of the City of the Holy Anthem just to rob someone of their damned corpse starch.
It made absolutely zero logical sense.
But the facts were playing out right before their eyes.
"Lord Governor!"
A lieutenant of the local enforcers, drenched in blood, burst into the conference hall. He had lost his helmet, and a deep gash, exposing bone, ran across his face.
"They... they stuck this in the central warehouse district!"
He shakily raised a metal plate.
Magos Seya's mechadendrite snatched it and scanned it.
The holographic projection enlarged the image.
Etched into the metal plate in High Gothic were three lines of text:
[This material has been requisitioned by the Imperial Legions for the Great Crusade.]
[For inquiries, please contact the Departmento Munitorum, Bureau of Logistics, Archive Classification: ALPHA-976-M30-007.]
[Glory to the Emperor.]
Stamped below it was the official seal of the Departmento Munitorum, exquisitely forged.
"The Departmento Munitorum..." Buhar stared at the seal and suddenly started laughing.
The laughter started soft, then grew louder and louder, until it finally morphed into a manic, unhinged roar.
"The Departmento Munitorum?! HAHAHA! The Departmento Munitorum!!"
He violently flipped the table in front of him, sending wine glasses, data-slates, and ornaments crashing to the floor.
"Ninety percent of every ton of ore we produce goes to Terra as the Imperial Tithe! We only get to keep ten percent to keep this hive running! And now the Munitorum sends people to rob us of that ten percent?! And they sent eight fucking Champion Astartes to do it personally?!"
He grabbed a crystal goblet and hurled it against the wall, shattering it into a million pieces.
"What is the meaning of this?! Is the Imperium's left hand robbing its right hand?! Have the high lords of Terra gone so mad from poverty that they've resorted to stealing the very pants off their own subjects?!"
"Lord Governor..." a Merchant Guild director in a purple-and-gold robe stammered. "What do we do now? The Tithe..."
"I KNOW ABOUT THE TITHE!" Buhar roared, cutting him off and spitting in his face. "The annual Tithe collection is in three months! Without these minerals, what are we going to pay it with?! Your head?!"
"B-but those Astartes said..." The director's voice grew smaller and smaller. "...said it was an Imperial Legion requisition..."
"BULLSHIT!" Buhar slammed his palm onto the desk, instantly cracking the solid wood. "Requisition?! Is this how they fucking requisition things?!"
He stood up, his corpulent body trembling with fury.
"Lord Governor, please calm down..."
"CALM DOWN MY ASS!" Buhar glared at Magos Seya with bloodshot eyes. "Contact the City of the Holy Anthem! Contact Patriarch Achil, contact Lord Occus! Contact the Ninth Legion! Didn't Lord Sanguinius just arrive? Ask him if this is some new Imperial policy! If it is..." He ground his teeth together. "...then we will ask Holy Terra! We will ask the Emperor Himself! We will ask if the glory of the Great Crusade is sustained by robbing His own people!"
--
Goal = 250 Powerstones.
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