Disclaimer:

I do not own Warhammer 40k, it is owned by Games Workshop. Nor do I own Winter Harrison, Cyrus Addington, or any other elements from Dysfunctional Systems I have incorporated in this story.

The Herald's Shadow

Chapter 1, Descent and Arrival

I fidgeted in my chair as the metallic cacophony of grating and whining reached a new crescendo. Equally alarming clanks and thuds from behind my shaking seat stood reminder to the cargo accompanying us in this enclosed hold.

Besides me, in an equally roughshod affair of a chair, was Mr. Wakefields. When we started this journey a few months ago, he had introduced himself as my caretaker and chaperon. So far, he had failed miserably on both accounts.

Jerk.

Noticing my stare, I really need to stop doing that; he gave a forced, toothy smile. "Don't worry Missy! Might be a tad rocky, but we'll make it through A-OK!" He shouted above the racket.

My name is Winter Harrison, Sir. Thank you.

A harsh thump knocked me forward, nearly pitching me from my seat. Crash-webbing you ask? All I had was a long piece of cloth around my waist; the flight crew used it to tie me to the blocky metal seat. My arms strained as it forced my upper body back into an upright sitting position. My breathing accelerated, heaving stale air in and out of my lungs.

"No need to worry lass, we'll be through the atmosphere in fifteen minutes, and'll land in twenty." They said.

Why? Why oh why do I need to go through all this? Why the hell am I here, sitting in a cargo hold that is obviously NOT meant to transport living things, much less people. On route to a planet I've never heard about to be handed off to a distant uncle.

"Because you're an orphan now, stupid girl," a small voice in the back of my head answered chidingly.

It had happened so fast. The meeting with the Headmaster, the letter, the funeral, then the orphanage, before finally meeting Mr. Wakefields and departing on the journey to meet Uncle Cyrus.

A month ago I was just another girl in the Flavius Boarding Scholatica. Now I don't even have any parents.

I shook my head. Out of all the things I could have thought of, why did it have to be that? I needed to focus on something else. Something less depressing.

Another jolt rocked the ship, thrashing me at my seat. My cruel imagination supplied me with a picture of a plummeting transport, alight like a falling torch.

No, not thoughts about imminent fiery death either.

Finding a taxicab had been a hassle, that's for sure. At least contacting the kid's uncle wasn't.

He'd answered the vox even before the first ring had finished, and had sounded mildly annoyed that I was calling on behalf of the orphanage. Then again, I'm not surprised. Who would want a teenager to be suddenly deposited onto their lap?

Even for the Orphanage, teenagers were considered burdensome. Too old to be sold to the guilds or the death cults, and too young to have any useful skills that merchant or noble families might desire. Chances were, she would have been earmarked for one of the myriad brothels in the lower hive.

I peered at the girl sitting behind me. She was munching on one of the hard bars I'd given to her.

Hm… Slim figure, clean face… with natural light grey hair. She'd definitely appeal to certain types of men. Light grey hair was considered slightly exotic even in the cosmopolitan Hive Redsand. Would have done pretty well client-wise.

Lucky for her, her parents had managed to somehow save up three thousand thrones. How they did, despite being only mid-level officials, was a mystery. What made this entire trip worthwhile was their will. Whoever managed to deliver her to this Cyrus would get two thousand thrones of the inheritance, with the rest being divided equally between her and her uncle.

Interplanetary travel was costly, but with that many thrones on the line, the director had been keen on delivering her before any possible complications with the blasted Inheritance Office emerged. In fact, he'd promised that if I managed to spend below 800 thrones in this trip, I'd get to pocket the difference.

It was a tall order, but a lifetime of frugal spending on behalf of the Orphanage had prepared me. All in all, we've spent little more than 400 thrones on this entire trip. It had been a tad uncomfortable most of the time, travelling in cargo-holds and old maintenance bays, but I was planning on renting actual cabins on the way back, since I'll only be paying for myself.

I spent the next few minutes mulling over the journey back to Hive Redsand. The journey to this planet, Farsight, had been quite a hard one to plan. Traffic to this planet was sparse.

By the time I had a vague idea on the transits I'd have to make, I noticed that the girl had finished her lunch and was staring out of the taxicab window.

The area outside the spaceport was still densely populated. Then again, for her, the most eye-catching sight would undoubtedly be the sky. Typical. Stare at the sky and wonder.

Chances were, she was wondering about her future.

"You'll have a nice life here. Your uncle is an administratum official. His wages should be enough to support the both of you." Wakefields said, catching my attention.

Uncle Cyrus the Administratum bureaucrat. My uncle, younger brother of father. He who works on the Agri-world of Farsight. Bachelor.

A detailed picture indeed.

"You're lucky, you know, we've been at a loss on how to deal with orphans from non-military families. Especially teenage ones, ever since the Seirota Institute stopped taking orphans above the age of twelve." Wakefields went on.

He continued talking about the orphanage business. It was decidedly the only topic he knew. The Vellum Conglomerate and their need for more bondsmen; The Seirota Institute and their Jannissaries; the noble houses and their standard bearers and choir attendants.

Occasionally, he'd tell stories about the few orphans that were genuinely adopted.

A rarity.

I followed his ramble. As expected, nothing new. I focused my attention back at the window.

Upon arrival, I had shakily walked towards the unloading deck. What had assaulted me first was the air. It was oily and scorched, but as I finally peered out of the ramp, I saw the heavens. It was mesmerizing.

I had seen the sky above Hive Redsand once before. It had been glaringly red, as if dying and angry. The sky of Farsight was different – it was strangely blue. It had looked kind and inviting. Wakefields had laughed at my dumbstruck reaction, but assigned a name to that particular hue of blue.

Azure.

The sky was azure. Deep, murky blue, with the occasional puffy white cloud and sporadic thin strokes of black – smoke from chimneys climbing towards the heavens. I had seen faded out picts of the skies of other worlds. Both on the dataslates of the scholatica librarium, and the dyed sketches of my great-grandmother.

Nothing compared.

By the time we reached the taxicab fields, the smell of the air had changed as well. New and foreign scents were inhaled, and I was, at the time, still unable to explain it. It was just… refreshing.

It was at that moment one of my father's eternal maxims kicked in. Observe. Narrow down. Classify… And start small.

I wrenched my gaze from the wondrous azure focusing on the buildings and people we were passing. Men with brown and black coats, some walking with evident haste, others with a lack of it… on cobbled pavements of stone and cement. Brightly painted shops interspersed with lacquered steel workshops and warehouses.

How many floors? At least two, generally five or less. Construction materials? Steel, iron, wood, and um… what were those red blocks? Sculpted stone? Oh wait, they're called bricks. Weird… a few well-off middle hivers used bricks as a form of wall ornamentation, but I've never seen them used to build an entire building.

Realizing that I had probably bit off more then I could chew. I stopped gazing out of the window and tried to process what I had… I struggled, badly.

So… this world didn't have hives. Ergo, it wasn't a hiveworld. That meant less people living there. The presence of pavements and steel meant that they weren't as backward as I feared they were. I sighed in relief. Indoor plumbing was assured. A lot of bricks meant that… that they were cheap here? Or because people here are more well off then the vast majority of middle hivers?

Argh. I returned to staring blissfully at the sky.

Then I realized I could lower the glass using a hand crank below the windowsill. As I did, fresh flavored air rushed into the cabin, calming me considerably.

Wait.

Narrow down.

Taxicab. Start from the taxicab. Hm… It was a road-wheeler, but different from those I saw in the Hive Redsand. How? My eyes darted around the compartment, trying to ascertain the obvious dissimilarities. Threadbare. Even the seats were only partially padded. Some of the gears for the driving lever were exposed, as were many springs and mechanisms.

We were also going particularly slow, despite how empty the road was. On a hunch, I poked my head outside the window, and took a quick peek at the wheels. Unlike those in the hive, the wheels here were skeletal, and the rubber on them nearly skin-like in their thinness – far thinner than the wheels I was used to. Perhaps that explained the rickety ride.

Having a… simple starting point, I found it was easier to analyze and digest. The technology here was very utilitarian. It was functional, but not much else. If the taxicab was anything to go by, this world would probably have most of the things that Redsand had, only more rudimentary and rarer.

Pleased with myself, I let the remainder of the drive go by without much thought. I was getting hungry.

One thing did have an impression on me though. There were enforcer patrols, on the streets. At least, I thought they were enforcers. They walked the streets, in twos and threes. Every now and then one of them would casually cradle a stubrifle or shotgun in his hands. Normally though, they would only have a holstered pistol of some kind.

Eventually, I tired out. Having learned how to use sleep to stave off hunger, I fell asleep. It wasn't very comfortable, but I had the entire back row to myself.

I was woken by a shake and a shout. It was Wakefields. He stood standing by the opened door, apparently having paid the driver. We had arrived at Centrali Street.

The Uncle awaits.

Soon we were walking briskly down the pavement. At least, he was. I lagged behind, half carrying, half dragging my heavy and wheel-less luggage box.

I garnered quite a few sympathetic smiles from the people passing by. A friendly man even offered to carry my bags for me. Only to be scared away by Wakefields, who insisted that we weren't looking for hired help.

At least Wakefields carried my luggage afterwards. Which made him fairly grouchy.

I walked jauntily behind him.

The stores here were more… hivelike than the ones I saw before. They were more cramped, and had abundant steel and metal in their construction. Also, it was getting dark, and there was much more people here. The dance of lambent lights and swaying silhouettes were a pale comparison to the business floors of the middle hive, but they were a comparison nonetheless.

Lifted from my burden, I started to realize that many of the passersby were staring at me. To be precise, my hair. Some of the more formally dressed ladies favored me with a disapproving frown.

I would have probably been embarrassed had I not been busy slobbering.

Most of the shops had been restaurants, and the aroma that permeated the street was lavish with the promise of food and beverages. Predictably such smells had awoken my hunger, and it was raising holy hell in my long-suffering tummy.

I asked Wakefields for another hard-bar.

His response: "Be patient missy. We're going to be meeting your uncle any minute now. He'd pay for your dinner, I'd wager." He retorted, before switching the hand carrying my luggage.

Heartless, Throne pinching, miser!

Thank the God-Emperor! About a few minutes later, after an increased frequency of grumbling and grunting, Wakefields exclaimed. "Finale Fooks Diner, Finally!"

He glanced at me, before sniggering at his own joke.

Haha. Root word repetition is humorous!

Pathetic.

Finale Fooks Diner. It wasn't a respectable sounding name, and its appearance didn't disappoint. It looked like the final resting place of an oversized grox-can.

Indeed it was, Cyrus later told me that it used to be a motorhouse, a truck that ferried around a house instead of goods and other stuff. That was, before one of the wheels gave out, and the family it ferried around were too lazy to renew their Mechanicus permit to get a new wheel.

Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to my first encounter with him.

The Diner was shaped like a large oval, just like a Grox-can, with a bar on one side, and tables on the other.

We entered the Diner, Wakefields checking a piece of paper, muttering.

"Finale Fooks Diner, 38th Centrali Street, next to the Grand Materials shop. The table at the shaded corner." He glanced around, ignoring the hearty greetings from the barman. "Ah that must be him."

Indeed it was. I remember being faintly disappointed. For one, I couldn't see his face from the diner door, even as he sipped his drink, it was covered by a scruffy hat of faded grey fabric, with a long, downward sloping brim. Secondly, he had picked the one table that didn't have a window. I liked window gazing.

Steeling myself, I followed Wakefields as he eagerly approached the lone man.

As we walked up to his table, I couldn't help but feel that he was trying to avoid attention, and the clothes he wore did little to rebuff my suspicions. Even his trench coat looked battered and faded, maximizing his inconspicuous look in the crowd of unwinding workers and employees.

Wakefields roughly dropped my suitcase as he reached the table. "Cyrus Addington, I presume?" He exclaimed as I trailed slightly behind him.

The man continued to nonchalantly sip his drink, which I could now see as recaf. He gently placed the stained mug on the iron table, before solemnly regarding my foppish caretaker.

"Um, you're him right?" said Wakefields.

In response, my uncle turned his head directly to me. "Is she my niece?"

I felt like a ganger on the gibbet. He looked me in the eye, locking in on them with his own glistening green pair. I forced my eyes to stay in place, trying my best to hold his gaze.

After what could have only been a moment or two, he broke eye contact. "Yes, she's Baker's daughter all right." he stated, nodding to Wakefields, whilst beckoning us to sit with a wave of his arms.

"Ah, y-yes." My so-called chaperon stuttered, eagerly scooting in to make room for me on the bench. "I'm Alan Wakefields, here to represent the Redsand Orphanage Federation. We've travelled quite long and far, I must say, but it's a pleasure to meet you regardless."

Gaining steam, his mouth went autopilot. And blabber he did for a few minutes.

"…She might be a bit shy and quiet, but she's a nice girl. It's an honor to be able to deliver her to her new home, no matter how uncomfortable the journey might have been. And… oh! You did say you were a hungry a while back didn't you?"

I nodded in a very unladylike fashion.

"Of course," Cyrus raised his hand, signaling for one of the waiters. "What do you want?"

I was hungry, so I wasn't feeling particularly picky. "I'd have anything so long as they're not hard-bars."

Cyrus grabbed the menu offered by the newly arrived waiter. "Well, how about wet grox noodles?"

Grox. My tummy groaned in anticipation. The last time I had actual grox meat was during the amber festival a year ago! "They have canned grox chips here?"

Overhearing me, the waiter sniffed "Canned grox chips? 'Ell no! We serve the real stuff lassie!"

"You have remoisterized grox meat?!" I half shouted, more in incredulity than anything else. Only the upper hivers got to eat that stuff!

"Remoister-what?" We stared at each other in mutual befuddlement.

A hearty laugh sounded from the table next to us. I turned to see a black uniformed old man who obviously found our predicament funny.

"She's an offworlder Cassie! Stop being so daft!" He teased.

"Shut yer yap Vladsky! Call me daft again and I'll tell me pa bout yer tab!" She snapped back.

"Hey, I'm just a poor old mercenary risking life an limb to guard you! A small tab is all this sentinel is asking for." He retorted, before turning back to me. "Point is Cassie, she's probably never had fresh meat in her life." He winked at me. "Trust me, the food here is leagues better than any other world. You'd love it!"

Cassie was staring at me with pity. "Never had fresh meat? At yer age?"

My uncle politely coughed.

"One wet grox noodle bowl and water cup for my niece please." Cyrus said. "Mr. Wakefields, I do believe I have a few letters to sign?"

Cassie gave me one last horrified look before storming to the kitchen, and yelling something to the cook inside.

"Ah yes, did you bring the pict-copies of your identification forms?" Finally put back on track, Wakefields started to guide my uncle through the handover process.

After what was essentially a swap of papers and documents, my uncle deftly filled in the forms.

When it came to the handover statement though, he paused. "It doesn't need her signature?"

"No. The Inheritance Office abolished that requirement years ago," Wakefields said. "Besides, she'd accept it, she knows what's good for her."

My uncle mirrored my frown.

"Well, Winter, before I sign these papers, I want to make sure you know what you're getting into." Cyrus said. "My work often ensures I stay perpetually busy. If you are going to be my charge, I'd expect you to be able – or at least learn to – take care of yourself."

I nodded, mumbling my understanding. I've spent the last 2 years in a boarding school, so I figured it wouldn't be too hard. Emperor's Throne, I knew Wakefields would have a world of hurt for me if I refused.

For a moment, Cyrus looked like he wanted to say more. Instead though, he simply signed the declaration paper.

"It's done," He said. Handing Wakefields the document, which was eagerly accepted.

I peeked a look at it. His signature was an exquisite one, a flourish of stylized letters with a mix of curves and hard angles above an arching underline. Definitely not the signature of a poor layman he was trying to portray.

Despite that, I smiled in mix of relief and trepidation. A new home, a suspicious uncle, but a home and uncle nonetheless.

It was at that moment Cassie barged in with a steaming bowl of noodles in her hand. "Right, where's the poor grubless girl? Cuz I got the good stuff!" She declared.

My smile widened. Now there was something that held no unknowns.

Of course, as I was soon to learn, even sure things could be affected by external factors.

What were those factors? A sudden scream, the chattering sound of gunfire, and most decisively, the symphony of shattering glass and bullet impacts.

Everyone made noises of alarm, but my uncle's voice carried above the din.

"GET DOWN!"

AN: A special message for any DySyst fans who don't know warhammer 40k at all. I will try (and have been trying) to make this fanfic as reader friendly as possible for the initiated in 40k lore. Most unique words can be extrapolated from the context, if not described outright.

Now a general message: This fanfic is going to be 25k to 50k words long. I've outlined it detail, and I think the results show. PLEASE REVIEW. There's only so much you can understand from watching the visit statistics. So please, tell me of your thoughts and comments. :)