Not for the first time since he embarked upon this path, Roderick Vivar felt the slightest twinge of doubt.

"-guide my hand, oh great Omnissiah! Make me a conduit for your will as I consign this Heretek to the fires of your blessed recycler furnace!"

Inwardly, Roderick scoffed. "The will of the Omnissiah?" He thought, sardonically. "You damnable incompetents wouldn't know the will of the Omnissiah if it came to you suddenly in a dream!" Indeed, had he not been bound and gagged, he'd have done more than think it.

Evidently, life hadn't gone quite as planned. Not that he hadn't seen this coming, mind. He knew very well what the Adeptus Mechanicus did to those it deemed as "Heretek". Still, Omnissiah permit him a little vanity; he thought himself smarter than the average warp maddened lunatic they recycled. And in all fairness… he was. By quite a bit. He had a good long run of it, hadn't he? Outmaneuvering the goons of the Ordo Machinum, locating what few allies he could trust, rooting out those who would betray that trust, wheeling and dealing with the highest and lowest. All to serve that which he knew to be the true will of the Omnissiah above and below. Free of the unthinking and malignant dogma that infests every organization that becomes so bloated, no matter its well intentions.

Perhaps he had grown arrogant, careless. Perhaps they had been on his trail the whole time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. More likely it was just bad luck. Even a single loose bolt can be the undoing of the most elegant of machines if it's in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing for it now. He'd been nicked. His escape plans had all failed, as had his alibis and any attempt at plausible deniability. Those who once called him brother had declared him guilty of violating some of the most sacred laws of the Cult Mechanicus. The only sentence was death. He allowed himself a twinge of satisfaction at the lack other bound and gagged captives beside him. He was the only one scheduled to be recycled today. He knew the Archmagos that ruled over this forge-world: that man would brook no delay in disposing of any Hereteks that were discovered. A small comfort, then.

Still, Roderick felt undeniable doubt in his heart. It was in his nature to doubt. Was this really where his story ended? Was this what the Omnissiah had in store for him? An ignoble end, barely even able to save those few allies he had garnered from the same flame, with only the distant hope that they'd carry his torch forward? Perhaps. Perhaps. The world was an unkind place, and the Omnissiah was no exception. He knew that when he started on this path. He knew that, more likely than not, there'd be no great reward for him at the end. That he'd die long before he saw the fruits of his labor, and that his death might only mean the barest fraction of forward progress towards the his ideals.

Still…

The man who has nothing can still have hope.

As he sat there in his bindings, waiting for the ceremony to finish, waiting for the flame, he prayed. As fervently as he ever had in his long life, he prayed. He prayed for his comrades, that they might be spared the same fate. He prayed for those that consigned him to the flame, that they might find some measure of enlightenment as he had. He prayed for the ignorants out there, Imperium and Chaos, human and xenos. But most of all, he prayed for himself. As ever, he himself was the foremost amongst his prayers, for if he didn't pray for himself, who would? If that was selfish, then expecting others to pray for you was even more so. He was not someone who practiced self-denial, or false humility. If there was anyone in the world he could trust to make a better world, that deserved to live… it was him. It has always been him.

So he prayed for himself. Prayed on and on, without pause. Asking the Omnissiah for… something. Anything. "Miracles happen every day, to someone, somewhere out there. Just for today, let one of those be me. Send me a sign. Please."

For many long minutes, nothing but the chanting of the recycler and the many sounds of machinery echoing through the halls could be heard.

And then… something miraculous happened.

The ground began to quake. The walls shook. Distant sounds erupted, a great cacophony, getting louder with every second. The Recycler paused his ceremony for a moment, and looked with some confusion at the nearby Tech-priests standing guard. For a moment, the air seemed to be charged with a strange energy, almost… alive.

That moment seemed to want to linger, but was torn away, as if it never happened. In the next, he was blind and deaf. His cybernetics and nerves alike sent signals of damage from all across his body, signals that his brain couldn't seem to translate to pain. Another moment passed, then another, time catching up with itself faster and faster, a second no longer lasting an eternity. His ears rang. He opened his eyes.

The room around him… well, it couldn't rightly be called a room, now. The walls had twisted, crumbled, and, in some places, dissolved. He couldn't see the Recycler tasked with his execution, but he did spy a mound of rubble where he once stood. Indeed, the only part of the former room that was still standing strong was the wall he was bound to. He easily extricated himself from the bindings holding him; he had more or less freed himself from those hours ago, for all the good it would have done him. He stumbled across the room, and gazed out into the reddish-gold evening light through the new window rent into the outer wall; there he beheld what had become of the forgeworld he had called home.

Countless structures around him lay twisted and ruined; not as if hit by explosives, he noticed, but more akin to something that had been pulled in a hundred directions at once. Countless ships, bearing an iron-and-gold coloration, swarmed the factories as far as his eyes could see, dropping soldiers and strange looking war machines down onto the scurrying tech-priests below. The whole planet seemed to be on fire with panic and chaos.

As far as signs from above went, this was about as unsubtle as they come.

He calmly stepped through the rubble, making his way through the remains of the disposal center. The vaults, too, had been cracked open. Most were buried under rubble, but in the one that remained standing, he retrieved the equipment they had seized from his person and his room when they had taken him prisoner. An elegant teal-and-brown robe, unadulterated by unnecessary fineries. The hefty Omnissian Axe that served double purpose as tool and symbol of office for many long years. A collection of knickknacks and half-finished projects. He took all he could carry, and sundered the rest into scrap. And then he stepped out once more into the streets of the place he once called home. This old world… It had nurtured him well. It was a fine cradle for the youth he was. But every cocoon must be burst one day; every egg must be cracked.

It was time for him to leave. And here, as it is in all things, the Omnissiah provides, if you have but the eyes to see it.

So leave he did, through the twisted streets. Past the buildings swarmed by looters and war machines. Through the swarms of civilians running in panic. He looked up to the sky for a moment. Almost there, now.

As he stepped at last into a wide open square, the shuttlecraft he had been following the flight of landed in the middle. He could see large groups of vehicles, laden with all manner of things and escorted by soldiers and Astartes, load themselves into the open cargo bay of the ship. He approached as the tail end of this scattered convoy entered, calling out to a soldier guarding the perimeter.

"Hello there!" He called out, as the guard dropped the Iho stick he had been smoking and raised his rifle up to his chest at the ready. "I happen to need transport off world in a hurry. You wouldn't happen to be hiring, would you?"

The soldier stared back at him for a moment, before taking one hand off of his gun to reach for a vox-caster on his belt. He spoke quietly into it for a few minutes, before turning back to Roderick. "Are you willing and able to serve the cause of Perturabo, seek the ruination of the Imperium, and aid in the machinations of the dark gods?"

"Sure," Roderick replied, "why not."

"Well then, the captain says 'welcome aboard'." The soldier said. "Now come on, we're taking off in five minutes, and if we don't get in there quick-like, all the good seats will be taken."

Moments later, Roderick was sitting in the back of the shuttlecraft as it took off towards the fleet in orbit. He looked down at the planet beneath him, pondering the turns his life had taken. If the Adeptus Mechanicus had not already labelled him "Heretek", they would have now. Shacking up with the followers of chaos… it went against everything he had been taught. And yet he could already tell that this fresh start would be a freeing change. As much as the other faithfuls claimed they served the same cause as him, their actions proved they had as little understanding of the Omnissiah's will as the hereteks they so despised. He had made a little progress gathering those willing to listen and see, but it was a fraught and dangerous existence.

Here, though? From what the soldiers he talked with had told him, these people and their expectations were so lax and apathetic they hardly even seemed the same species as the overseers that lorded over the forgeworld. So long as he did his job to what little standard they were held to, they would ignore any oddities and indulgences he might care for. Here, he'd have the freedom to follow whatever path he was granted by providence. Here he would be able to bring his faith to the heathens without fear of censure and execution. Here he could create as he saw fit, teach whoever he saw fit, spread knowledge as he saw fit; not bound to the ossified dogma of ten millennia of stagnation.

And when this cocoon as well is burst, he will leave better than when he found it. One day, perhaps, his disciples will be as numerous as the stars, and shine all the brighter.