Day 9


Tide watched through borrowed eyes as the thirteen-year-old girl performed a ritual whose words she didn't know the meaning of, applying oil to a machine whose technical name was unknown to her. It wasn't rare for some hivers to learn basic maintenance such as this, it reduced the strain on the tech-priests, but such citizens still needed some basic training, and they were (usually) adults.

This girl, Ellia he noted, had not received any such training. Nor was she some savant with machines. Even if she were, that would not explain how she repeated the Rite of Supplication word-for-word.

A quick look through her memories was not helpful in the slightest, but only caused him further confusion. Ellia did not work in any factory due to a chronic sickness that came and went keeping her from physical labor. Her parents were barely making enough to support themselves and her and were just basic laborers, not trained in any kind of skill or craft. Despite this, over the last two days she had been hard at work, performing similar rituals on almost every malfunctioning machine she came across. Not out of some sense of duty to repair them, but mostly out of annoyance or simple boredom. She also seemed to have an almost intrinsic sense for finding oil and parts that she might need practically wherever she went.

So, no training, no explanation for why she might know the words of a tech-priest ritual, just more questions.

Thus far, she'd performed maintenance on two lifts, three jammed ventilator fans, and an electric sliding door. Remarkably, she had yet to lose any fingers or limbs to the malfunctioning machines, despite several near misses.

The reason why she was doing this was equally vexing to him. She was bored.

She didn't seem confused about why she knew things she shouldn't. She was just feeling better than she had in years (likely thanks to the parasite that had made its home in her nervous system and immune system) and felt confined in her home.

While he wasn't against children going outside, a hive city's corridors were not a twenty-first century park in either atmosphere or safety. Despite this, she seemed quite deft at avoiding any possible dangers, be they hive ganger, mechanical, or even the few animals that crawled and scurried about in the shadows.

He'd already infected those animals and turned the bulk of them into Flood Spores to further fill out the levels, but a few had been left to maintain normalcy.

While he could not spy on the entire population of those he'd infected, now over eighteen thousand fully Altered and an additional thirty-six million on their way, he could still dedicate a few dozen minds towards 'checking-in' on them, simply hopping from mind to mind and doing a quick look through of their past few days' major events. It wasn't a great method or even very effective, but it was all he could manage for the moment.

It was during Ellia's first such check-in that he noticed her propensity for machines, hard at work fixing up said electric sliding door, whose insides had almost all rusted through after centuries, or even millennia, of neglect.

Originally, he'd wondered if she was some kind of savant with machines. If she had been, he'd likely have tried to somehow encourage her to hone the skill, perhaps even join the Adeptus Mechanicus. He'd yet to manage to get any spores inside the red robed priests of Mars due to the ones who came to the lower levels all having breathing filters that protected them from the airborne variant, so having someone already Altered join their ranks would be of immense benefit.

Despite the Flood's capabilities, there were several restricting factors that were going to make life… difficult for him. The most pressing factor was space travel.

To be more specific, his lack of space travel capability.

The Flood, and the Precursors, didn't use Slipspace. Well, they did, but only if they'd infected a species with Slipspace capabilities. Something which was, surprise, surprise, absent entirely in 40k.

That said, the Precursors did possess a method of Faster Than Light travel. Several, in fact, all of which utilized Neural Physics to a varying degree.

The first method was one which required Star Roads to utilize, a type of Neural Architecture created by the Precursors. They were physical constructs that stretched between star systems and could be travelled along, hence the name. He got the feeling that he could manage to create such a thing if he grew large enough, but he had no idea how large that actually was. He was guessing that it would require a rather… significant portion of the galaxy's biomass simply because he knew the Flood in Halo hadn't ever reached that point, despite consuming a large portion of that version of the Milky Way.

Did anyone call the Milky Way that in the 40k galaxy? He didn't think so, but it would be funny if they did.

Regardless, the ability to create Neural Architecture was well beyond him at the moment. Which left the one he'd have the most immediate access to and was one that only required a Gravemind to utilize, something his Proto-Gravemind would quickly be large enough to achieve. The Gravemind essentially wrapped its tentacles around something, usually a ship, and 'threw' it from the planet.

That was the best description he could give it without getting into Neural Physics jargon that, even as massively increased by the stolen raw intelligence of hundreds of beings combined with the fragmented knowledge of the Precursors as he was, he still had some difficulty understanding the meaning of, let alone actually comprehending the scientific philosophy behind it. This FTL method was short, both in range and the time it took. It took only an instant for a 'thrown' object to reach the other side of the star system by travelling through… somewhere. He wasn't entirely clear on that bit yet, just that it wasn't Slipspace. However, its range was highly limited.

He also knew that it would be a… less than comfortable ride when done by a small Gravemind. If the ship was functioning when it was thrown, it likely wasn't going to be by the time it emerged and would probably crash. Its precision was also… questionable, though not to the degree that he'd miss a continent or something. Probably. The range worsened with distance, so it depended on a number of variables. If such a Gravemind 'threw' a ship too far, it was more likely to just end up lost in the empty void rather than anywhere else, let alone its target destination.

However, that was when done by a small Gravemind, like the one from the Halo games. Larger Graveminds would allow for easier and faster transits, along with a longer range, greater precision, and being able to throw larger craft in a single 'toss'. If he could reach the minimum for Keymind status, he might even be able to throw things to nearby star systems with some degree of accuracy.

However, that was going to be a while. Tens of billions of humans worth of biomass was not something he could easily come by, not without mass slaughter, and even travel to nearby star systems was not enough. He was unlikely to come by any inhabited systems through such a method, let alone one capable of supporting another Keymind to create some kind of chain between the two.

Which left one other method of FTL travel, one not utilized by the Precursors or any people from Halo, and one he was less than interested in trying. Warp Travel.

He knew the jokes about Warp Travel were overblown, to some extent. That did not assuage his fears about travelling through Hell while he had no idea of his actual capabilities in regard to fighting or resisting the Warp, if he was even capable of such things.

Right now, his focus was on survival. If he wanted to survive long term, he knew he needed to get a force, preferably with at least a Proto-Gravemind, off-planet, preferably as soon as the Warp Storm was lifted and before any Imperial attention noticed his presence. However, the dangers of the Warp were almost more dangerous to him than the Imperium and its arsenal of planet-killers.

After all, the Imperium would only kill him.

Yet, as much as he feared the Warp, he needed it. The knowledge that he was in the same boat as the Imperium was morbidly humorous to him.

Perhaps he could one day get access to the Webway, but unless the Eldar came to Monstrum, that was a far-off hope. And, even then, he'd likely have to deal with the space elves, the entirely other Hell that was Commoragh, and probably their Laughing God. He had little doubt about how well-received a Hive Mind that could be an even greater threat than the Tyranids would be.

Which brought him back to Ellia, hard at work replacing several valves that she could not have understood the purposes of, yet did anyways, at least to the degree that she could replace them. No training, no talent, only knowledge that she shouldn't have access to.

Shit, was this the work of Chaos? He fucking hoped not.

Despite possessing far more knowledge on its innerworkings than likely anyone in the Imperium short of Librarians, Inquisitors, and the like, certainly enough to get him shot for heresy if he wasn't already an eldritch abomination, Tide was limited in his ability to determine the signs of Chaos corruption.

There were no signs of mutation within Ellia. Well, beyond the tiny mutations that he had actually caused himself and those mutations that literally all humans had which made them… well, human. Nothing of the obvious signs of mutation and Ellia did not seem to have any… Chaos-y ideas, though that was cold comfort.

What else could it be? A large part of his Proto-Gravemind was dedicated to understanding this strange phenomenon, when a thought had occurred to him.

Had it been… him?

He considered the vast number of minds he was connected to, his Altered. They had no mental connection to one another, just to him. And, while Ellia should not have had this knowledge… he did. More specifically, various minds within him had possessed similar knowledge. Had he subconsciously been sharing information with her? How would that have even worked?

He looked through Ellia's mind again, looking for anything he might have missed, only to find the answer practically hit him in the face: dreams. Ellia had been having strange dreams over the last few days, starting on the day she'd become fully Altered. He'd disregarded it at first because he'd thought them meaningless. In hindsight, a grievous error he would not repeat.

The dreams were strange and ephemeral, barely remembered to the degree that she had even forgotten that the information she'd acquired had come from them. Yet, he could see similarities between the 'dreams' and the memories of those who had such knowledge.

Was he leaking? He chose another Altered at random and peered into their memories, looking for if they'd had any strange dreams. As he'd thought, they had and had learned a new skill as well, though one far less useful than the new mechanical capabilities of Ellia. This Altered could now shuffle a deck in several ways with the skill of a seasoned card shark, courtesy of another worker from the factory, though he'd never been able to before. Another Altered had learned to count to a hundred, despite having never been given an education. More and more Altered he checked on and he found almost all of them had been having dreams, with only the most recently changed having had none.

He was leaking, but there seemed to be some kind of strange order to it all. Ellia had learned many things related to mechanics, yet nothing else. Not all of those skills were from a single set of memories either. They weren't entirely random and disjointed; they were focused on specific things. Mechanics, cards, math. What was also strange was that no one seemed to really care or even notice that they now had knowledge they didn't previously.

If there was an order to it, could he control it? He found the mind of a sleeping Altered and felt the Flood within him. The infection had taken root within his brain, connected to virtually every part of it. It took an in-depth look, but Tide saw the dreams the man was having. At the moment, it was a perfect relay of every memory Tide possessed in regard to cleaning. Not cleaning anything specific, just cleaning in general. There was a surprising amount of it. Another look through the man's memories showed he'd been having similar dreams, though he barely remembered them after waking up, for several days now and had been taking more efforts to keep himself and his home clean.

Huh.

Tide knew the Flood from Halo likely hadn't ever infected someone and chosen to only remain partially dormant within them, as he had with the Altered. So, that might explain why he had no understanding of what was happening.

Either that, or it was a really strange Chaos trick. Honestly, with Tzeentch, he couldn't be sure, but he was leaning towards it being his own doing, unintentional though it had been.

With less than a thought, he silenced the dreams of the man, letting him rest peacefully for a few moments before another thought occurred to Tide. An instant later, the man began to dream again, this time receiving dreams consisting of almost every memory Tide possessed in regard to Pokémon, which was… significant in its scope.

It was the first thing he thought of, don't judge.

He was about to settle in to wait for the man to wake up and see if this man possessed the knowledge that even daemons probably wouldn't know, when something else drew the bulk of his attention, though he left a bit of his mind to watch over the Altered.

For now, though, he had intruders to deal with.

There's never anything new in the Underhive. That was a well-known fact among the gangs.

Oh, things changed. Territories, belonging to both beast and human, grew, shrank, moved or were wiped out all the time. Some parts of the levels collapsed, revealing ancient sections, or were blocked sealing others away.

But the only way things changed was by growing older. Even the people who came down to the lower levels, whether willingly or not, weren't really new. Just replacements for the dead.

No, there's never anything new in the Underhive. The people, the animals, the territories, the way of things. Even the equipment they used was practically ancient. The more that changed, the more things stayed the same.

So, when things changed again in the Underhive, no one thought anything of it. A hive of wasps were expanding their territory it seemed or maybe another hive had shown up. They'd expand a bit, mark out their territory, and then the power struggle would continue between the locals, both man and beast. The wasps were aggressive, dangerous, but they could be taken down with a concerted effort from a gang that wasn't stupid. Easier to wait and pick their squads off once they had settled down. Easier still to just move on and leave the critters alone.

So, when the wasps didn't stop, didn't even slow down, but kept going, some people finally took notice.

There's never anything new in the Underhive.

That thought had been in her head for the last hour now. She couldn't say why, couldn't explain the feeling of foreboding that the corridor before her exuded. Her instincts were telling her to walk away. To turn back and run.

Her name was Lysilla and she had gotten far in the Underhive by listening to her instincts. She had also gotten far by not being an idiot.

Usually, those two things went hand in hand and they had carried her to her position as the top lieutenant of the Three-Eyed King. They were what had kept her alive in that position as well and she knew very, very well that if she listened to her instincts now, she'd be dead in hours. She had her orders and she had to follow them, ironic considering she had come to the Underhive to escape such a life. No one pissed-off the Three-Eyed King and she shuddered at the memories of what he'd done to those who had defied him, the strange witchcraft he had levied against them, cackling madly all the while as their flesh bubbled and burned.

No, whatever was down this corridor couldn't be worse than that, Lysilla told herself. She had wiped out wasp hives before, this would be no different. Her instincts disagreed, but for the first time in nearly seven years of living in the Underhive, she shoved them aside.

"Alright," She growled out, gesturing to one of the three other beings with her. "Grease, promethium ready?"

Grease replied with a grunt that sounded more like a mix of a cough and wheeze. Why the Three-Eyed King had made a man whose vocal cords had been destroyed by smoke inhalation in a massive fire be in charge of the flamer was beyond her, but she had to admit he was damn careful with the hefty, and deadly, weapon. Perhaps she had just answered her own question, but she suspected it was more to do with the Boss' madness than anything else.

She had asked perhaps two times already since they had left and she suspected the others had recognized her nervousness. Well, not all of the others.

"Hoog want sparky," Hoog said, gesturing with a hand that was larger than Lysilla's head and could have crushed it like an eggshell. The Ogryn mutant was dumber than bricks, but Lysilla had seen him in a fight and there was little wonder that the Imperial Guard 'recruited' so many of the massive mutants.

"You can have the sparky later, Hoog," Lysilla promised sweetly, not even mentally entertaining the idea of giving the Ogryn a flamer.

"Okay!" Hoog said, a wide grin on his face. "Hoog hold you to that!"

He'd forget the promise in less than an hour, she knew from experience.

"Can I have it?" Came a suave voice and Lysilla suppressed a shiver at how utterly pleasant the voice sounded. She sent a glare at the man, if he could even be called that, who had spoken.

Crick was a mutant. While Lysilla would never have described herself as particularly religious, few in the Underhive were, she was still an Imperial. Not exactly a law-abiding one, but even she held some disgust for mutants. Hoog was alright, even endearing with his stupidity and obedience, but Ogryn were practically bred and at least seemed somewhat human, if they were ten feet tall and had enough muscle to make a person's head explode with a flick to the forehead. Crick was none of that.

He was short, only four feet tall, though that was mostly due to the hunch he always moved in. That, at least, wasn't a part of his mutation as she knew he could straighten his back. He preferred to move like that, for reasons she didn't want to think about. Not mentioning the insane pleasure he seemed to take from the suffering of others, his physical appearance was just as rotten as his personality.

His face was long and pointed, almost like a rat's head, and he had filed his teeth into sharpened points. His eyes were pitch black, with only a fleck of silver within them. He had pale, hairless, white flesh which flaked constantly and seemed tender, but was tougher than a centipede's hide. Thin, deceptively strong fingers ended in wickedly sharp claws that clicked and scraped against one another gratingly almost every time he gestured. Crick liked to gesture.

"NO!" Hoog roared, and Lysilla cringed at how the sound echoed up and down the corridors. The wasps didn't hunt by sound, but plenty of other things in the Underhive did. "SPARKY MINE!"

"Shut it, Crick," Lysilla spat, before turning to Hoog. "Don't worry, Hoog, I promised you would get it."

That seemed to calm down the angry Ogryn, whose face had already begun to turn red with rage. He smiled, his massive chest heaving, but frowned when Crick cackled.

"Dumb brute," Crick muttered, lips drawn back in a snarling smile. Despite his twisted appearance, Crick's voice was perhaps the only normal thing about him. Yet, somehow, that just made it worse, that confirmation that this thing was still, somewhat, human.

"HOOG NO DUMB!" Hoog yelled again, smashing his club into the ground, and Lysilla planted a hand on the abhuman's arm, though not out of some idiotic idea that she might be able to restrain him. If the Ogryn wished it, he could easily kill all three of them with there being little they could do to stop him. Even a blast from the flamer would likely only piss him off.

"It's okay, Hoog, it's okay," Lysilla said, as softly as she could while shooting death glares at Crick. The Three-Eyed King's favorite pet just kept smiling, his tongue running over his teeth. "We're nearly at the area from the report. Crick, scout ahead."

"Yes, ma'am," Crick said with a mock salute that had Lysilla's hand inching towards her holstered stubber, but the mutant was already loping away, soon disappearing into the darkness of the corridor. He did not need the lamp packs the rest of them did to see in the dark, moving as easily in it as he did in the light. Perhaps even a bit better.

Lysilla found she could breathe easier with the departure of the mutant and Hoog seemed less tense as well. Grease's thoughts were a mystery to her. While his face was covered by a thick set of rags and goggles, she knew it would not matter. The burns made determining anything from what was left of his face more than difficult and there was no change in his body language that implied anything but full alertness.

They continued onwards. Crick was a malicious sort and while she didn't think he would outright sabotage their ad hoc team's efforts, it wasn't like he would not also be punished if they failed, she didn't trust him enough to not take his time reporting back any dangers. So, she remained alert, even as her eyes swept the darkness for any signs of strangeness.

It wasn't long until they found something out of place. It was only with the light of her lamp pack that she noticed it in the corner of her eye.

She brought the lamp pack over, eyes narrowing as her hand came to rest on the butt of the stubber holstered at her waist. It was long and thin, a tendril or vine of some kind. It emerged from a crevice in the wall, almost like a plant that had sprouted there, but it looked like it was made of flesh. As she came closer, drawing her stubber, the smell hit her like a brick wall.

It was a familiar scent, the sickly-sweet stench of rotting meat. Already dead then, whatever it was. And it seemed something else had found it as well. What looked like a few plants with red tips that almost looked like some kind of spring moss sprouted from the meat-vine. She wasn't familiar with the type of plant, so she quickly retreated a few steps. In the Underhive, even the plants could kill.

Still, it could be important. She should probably get some, like Crick, to grab a few of the things to bring back-

A scream pierced through the darkness of the corridors, a sound of surprise and terror that she had never heard from Crick before yet recognized to be his voice. In a moment, her stubber was drawn, lamp pack pointed down the corridor where the mutant had gone down. Hoog had readied his club and the flamer carried by Grease was held at the ready, its igniter burning brightly even in the light of the lamp packs.

For a long while, they remained there, eyes scanning the darkness, in no rush to help their mutant compatriot. A minute ticked by, then two, Lysanna's ears straining the whole time. Then, she heard it, the soft pattering clicks of a pair of clawed feet.

Crick stood at the edge of the lamp packs' light, only his unique silhouette distinguishing him from some monster of the Underhive they'd need to put down.

"What happened?" Lysanna demanded, even as she lowered her stubber. Hoog and Grease similarly lowered their own weapons, though the Ogryn seemed displeased at having to do so.

"Sorry," Crick said, his voice strangely plain and monotone. Lysanna arched an eyebrow. An apology? That was new.

"Don't worry about it," Lysanna managed to say through her surprise.

"Alright," Crick replied. He took a step forward, coming fully into the light and, for a moment, Lysanna's eyes widened at what she saw.

Then she brought her stubber up and opened fire.