Author's Note
For starters I should point out that English is not my native language, so I apologize for the any butchering of said language, which might have happened. Plus this is my first written story ever.
With that said, this is not a work of complete accuracy when it comes to details of the Warhammer 40k universe, so please no fuss, because I haven't researched your favorite Space Marine chapter properly, and so got their preferred brand of breakfast cereals wrong.
Chapter I
The streets were filled with fog and smog, making it impossible to look further than five meters. Not that it was necessary to those living in the lower levels of the Spire. Narrow streets and alleys had created a labyrinth in which any outsider would get lost in a matter of minutes. Every façade looked the same; there was barely anything that could have been used to pinpoint one's position. You knew your way around, or would find yourself soon mugged and sliced up somewhere in the gutter; still, this was a place millions called home. The buildings were like grey blocks, reaching up into the clouded sky, without any sign of that gothic design, which distinguished imperial monuments and wealthier parts of the spire. The acidic rain had left its mark upon the rough material as well, making it look almost porous.
A lone man strode through the streets, getting to work for the early shift, hours before dawn in one of the many garbage plants. He wasn't exactly found of his job but it brought food on the table, at least when the prices were right. A rustling noise to his left in another unlit alley shortly got his attention. Yet after a second or two his eyes were back on the street he was walking. Probably a rat, maybe a gang member, but in his ragged clothes he didn't make a promising target and most likely would be left alone. He yawned, rubbing his reddened eyes, with no real attention to where he was going. After all he worked at that plant for years; he could literally walk the way in his sleep, a skill coming quite in handy on mornings like this.
Suddenly something ran over his feet, making him jump back a bit, just in time to catch a glimpse on a rat. Cursing the small mammal he rubbed his temples, as several more of the little critters, came from another alley to his left. He counted about ten, and gave the alley a short, wary glare, eyes still focused primarily on the ground, the only thing he could actually make out in the brownish fog. Something red caught his attention. Probably another homicide, those happened all the time, and had long lost their shock value. Curiously he stepped closer. First thing he found was an arm, seemingly once belonging to a man, though the rest appeared to be missing. He checked the upper arm, were the limb had been separated from its former owner. The rats already had taken their share, though one could still see large cuts, as if they'd been made with a really sharp knife. Aye, it was not good to refuse payment to the gangs, that one had probably learned the hard way.
The plant worker shrugged and was back on his way, being only five minutes away from his destination by now. It was silent again, the only signs of life being a few lights in small windows, which purpose never had been to be see-through, its glass milky white. His muscles tensed, cramped and his hand wandered down to is abdomen. Warm blood ran over his fingers, his eyes wandering down to hideous bony claws. Flesh and blood covered them, his flesh and blood. A rasped grasp escape is throat, more blood flowing over his lips, down his chin and neck. The claws clenched, still in his body and were turned, before they ribbed out whatever remained of the man's intestine. His body collapsed, his limbs twitching in his last fight, as he was choking up blood, the eyes wide open in shock and pain.
A six limbed creature emerged from the shadows, a long tongue licking the bloodied claws, yellow glowing eyes pinned on its prey. It raised its head sniffing in the air, before it growled and picked up the body, dragging it back to the shadows from whence it had come.
People disappear in the Underhive; no one comes looking for a lone plant worker.
No matter once position, the chambers onboard the Adrastos were sparsely decorated by design. Small and grey, hardly welcoming or comfortable, but functional: a desk, chair, bed and a cupboard where the Inquisitor kept what few personal items he possessed and took with him on his months, sometimes years long missions. The four light bulbs, distributed one at each of the walls, only spread dim light, not more than candles would have, but he didn't require or for that matter desired more light. Inquisitor Basil Nicomedo belonged to the Ordo Xenos, a man of over two hundred years and the first silver hair throughout his black. His right eye had been replaced with a cybernetic, where an Eldar Shurike had hit him, lucky for him having lost enough velocity by that time not to slice deeper into his head. He wore a sober grey suit under a long high collared coat, black on the outside, red on the inside. An Inquisitorial rosette was pinned to the front of said coat.
Currently he was again going over the list of chosen Space Marine, who would make up the Kill Team he was to lead. Seven Marines had been chosen for this mission; it wouldn't be a particularly large team, but certainly sufficient. The Genestealer outbreak appeared to be in an early stage, and Inquisitor Nicomedo could still request any kind of resources the sector had to offer, should it become necessary. However he wouldn't contact local imperial authorities, or even inform them of his presence or mission unless unavoidable; there was still the chance they were already infiltrated by the xenos. Besides; the Inquisition liked to work in the outmost secrecy.
The list began with the Ultramarine Apothecary Seneca; ever since the Hive Fleet Behemoth, the chapter had vast experience with Tyranids, which would be an advantageous during the coming mission. With him came another brother, Sergeant Tullius, Tactical Marine. It continued with Brother Cornelius from the Crimson Fists and brother Maccius of the Raven Guard, the latter an Assault Marine. There was also a Devastator from the Salamanders, Sergeant Nadim, along with another of the Red Scorpions, Brother Quintus. Finally from the Blood Ravens came Scout Sergeant Cyrus. Except for Cornelius, each of these men had already served in the Deathwatch, and Nicomedo was glad for these experienced veterans. He had only once been in contact with Genetealers before, though it had been on a merchant's ship, and he had learned that they were enemies not to be underestimated. A Genestealer was a Tyranid, about the size of a man, with six limbs, powerful claws, vicious teeth and tough exoskeleton. To boot, they were fast and agile, preferring sneak attacks and coming in large packs.
Aside from the Astartes, Nicomedo was also accompanied by his own operatives, a hand full of people, following him into every mission each for at least two decades now. The Inquisitor leaned back in his chair, a hand wandering to his chin, stroking it then as he pictured them in his mind. There was his Interrogator, Nathan Mandrake, a tall and rather skinny man, but talented psyker with a bright mind and serious demeanor. He had the tendency to annoy his fellow Acolytes with information, no one really cared to learn about. Lucian Brennan on the other hand was a former guardsman who had taken to bounty hunting before being recruited by the Inquisitor. Large, with broad shoulders, he dwarfed any other of Nicomedo's Acolytes, and that along with his bald, scarred head with a face showing almost always grim determination, had sometimes been sufficient enough to discharge a critical situation.
Another of his Acolytes came directly from the Guard's Storm Troopers; Seth Nelson had been at the wrong time at the wrong place, leaving him only with the choice to either be executed or join the Inquisitor. It had proven difficult to integrate him into the band, and he had long remained the outsider. Brennan had usually kept him in check, and one day simply thrown out the stash of booze he'd found in Nelson's room. To this day, Nicomedo wasn't sure how he'd acquired it in the first place. The Storm Trooper had gotten better after the latest recruiting; with two more in a similar situation, Nelson had become more accepting of his situation. Nowadays the former Storm Trouper kept his brooding for when he was alone.
The two latest addition to his Acolytes was a medicae called Jane Pravin, who, when he first met her, had been still in training by the Officio Medicae, but had already shown much skill nonetheless. While she had been rather intimidated and almost scared by her new duties in service of the Inquisition, Jane had pulled through, and proved also skilled in the field, after Brennan had shown her how to shoot. At the time the Inquisitor recruited her, she'd taken care of the man in the hospital Nicomedo had come for in the first place. He was an Untouchable, a true Pariah, and the idea had been to use him against an Eldar Farseer, successfully so, and he'd proven useful in other missions afterwards as well. An Untouchable was a psychic Blank, a human who possessed the rare Pariah Gene that made them generate no presence in the Warp, they were essentially soulless, and so his proximity to someone who possessed even a modicum of psychic ability could be quite painful or even lethal. Horaz Taylor was such a blank, and even to someone without any psychic abilities his presence was irritating, causing discomfort and even prompting hostility. Those properties had gotten him into the hospital back then in the first place.
Nicomedo was curious of how they would work together with Veteran Space Marines. So far the contact had been limited to brief encounters, a day at most, while this mission would have them work together for weeks likely. Even among themselves, Space Marines of different chapters could provide calamitous conflict, despite the fact that those chosen for the Deathwatch were professional enough to usually put their petty differences aside. It would be interesting to see though, how they would interact with "normal" humans. He straightened his suit and coat, and picked up his Bolt Pistol, a smaller model than the Astartes Mark III, before leaving his chambers. The corridors of the Adrastos had the same gun-metal grey coloring of the room, lamps emitted cool light, and the humming of machines was omnipresent as he strode to the bridge. Only few servants crossed his way, as they were preparing the ship for departure. Soon they would leave for Victoria Primus.
On the bridge he met with his Ship Mistress, a former Rogue Trader, who provided her ship to the Inquisitor for almost a hundred years. By this time Vivian Samael could be considered just as much a part of the Inquisition as any of his Acolytes.
"You seem tense." Nicomedo noted upon his arrival, smiling at her warmly.
The Ship Mistress was about as tall as he was, of slender build and dark skin, from which her high, white collar set itself apart. Her brown eyes darted at him. "Seven Astartes; of course I'm a little unnerved, and so is my crew. Do I have to remind you this ship is not adequate for warfare?"
"If this mission goes well, it won't come to that." He assured her.
Nicomedo could hear her snort. "When does it ever go well?"
omnes eodem cogimur
We all are constrained to the same place