She never fully got over the missing space next to her on the bridge. Every day since Orion was killed in front of her, Artemis sat down at the same seat and continued the same work. And every day she waited, expecting him to saunter in through the hatchway and plop himself down next to her with a dumb grin and an even dumber joke. He never did, of course. Her brother was well and truly dead, and that realization hurt like a fresh wound every single day.
Today would make up for all of that. Today Artemis would avenge her brother. The Astartes would feel her wrath and remain entirely oblivious to it as it melted them to the bone. All she had to do was wait nine minutes.
The chronometer in the corner of her readout was not so eager to comply.
It has to be slow, Artemis thought for the fifth time during her shift. She'd spent a majority of her time with her eyes glued to those ticking numbers. If a threat had appeared on her display, there was a relatively high chance she wouldn't have noticed it until it was already too late.
"Is there somewhere you would rather be?" a viper's voice said from behind her. Artemis started in her seat as she turned to face the Astartes that had spoken to her.
"No, my lord."
Anras sat on his throne, an ornate throwing dagger resting lazily in his hand. He wore no helmet today, the oily black curtain of his hair spilling out across his shoulders. He sat lounging in his seat like he always had in previous days aboard the command deck. Only this time, his posture echoed signs of exhaustion rather than with the lofty vainglory that the visionary was typically known for.
"There is no need to lie, slave," he said. "I know that you belong to Pyotr, as well. It is wise of you to not want to keep him waiting. My brother is infamous for his… high expectations."
Artemis only nodded, though she was not sure if Anras registered the gesture. His eyes never left the blade in his hand, his stare holding a mix of both contempt and reverence. Eventually, though, his gaze turned to her, briefly pausing on the empty seat to her left.
"I killed the one that used to sit there, did I not?" he asked. Artemis swallowed.
"Yes."
"You knew him well. A… brother, perhaps?"
"Yes," Artemis repeated, her grip growing tight on the armrests of her seat.
Anras nodded. "A regrettable decision. Our numbers seem to dwindle by the day. We need every pair of hands we can muster."
She stared at him, forcing her expression to remain neutral. Was that… supposed to be an apology? The concept seemed so novel coming from an Astartes, let alone a Night Lord, that she almost believed that she'd misheard.
An apology accomplishes nothing when spoken for a murder without meaning, were the first words that came to Artemis's mind.
"May I be dismissed to attend to my master?" was what she said instead.
Anras waved his hand limply, the servos in his arm and gauntlet whirring with an equal amount of ambivalence. Artemis quickly stood and barely remembered to bow to the horrible creature before stomping out of the room.
Kosa de la Aganadelaine Chemé-Huit, seventieth daughter of the Suzerain, was not supposed to be cleaning floors. Technically, she was not supposed to be a fuel-loader either, but the gods of the ship didn't seem to notice a singular woman slipping through the hallowed darkness of their vessel's industrial slave labor lines. A mortal was the same as any other unless their skills caught the eyes of their masters. Kosa knew better than to do that. She wasn't…
Regardless, the phlegmatic disposition the Night Lords carried towards their serfs was what allowed Kosa to swab the decking of the upper levels without a marine so much as batting an eye… At least, in regards to her work. She caught numerous leers that betrayed far more sanguine interests.
Boots thumped along the steel decking. It was the soft beat of small, normal-sized leather boots against metal, rather than the breath-stealing chill of ceramite scraping upon the floor as a beast in armor stalked nearer. She forced herself not to look regardless. She mustn't appear too eager. A lady is never aroused by good company. She is only politely and hospitably aloof, her faux-father had always told her. He had a habit for poor advice and even poorer wording.
Eventually the sound of footsteps grew to its apex and a figure passed directly beside Kosa. She casually glanced over just as the newcomer did the same. Artemis the Shepherd met her eyes and gave Kosa a brief nod before carrying on her way. On the surface, it was nothing more than pleasantries shared by two crewmen crossing paths. In actuality, it was anything but.
The next hour was a test of patience beyond anything Kosa had done before in her enclosed world of politics before she was betrayed, sold off, and ended up a slave amongst the Night Lords. She wanted to drop everything she was doing, scoff at every Astartes she saw, and run sprinting down to the lower decks. She did not. Instead, she took her time finishing her work, casually meandered her way to Scab City, exchanged cordial conversation with those she saw in the market, and feigned that a coincidental browsing brought her to her current stand.
"Are these rats fresh?" she asked the man behind the counter. He squashed a roach with his thumb before addressing her.
"Caught them just this morning," Phihks said as Kosa eyed a skewered and roasted pest. He was disconcertingly good at this. She saw no indication in his voice or expression that they were conspiring together. It almost made her question if he was even in on it, despite the next phase of their operation being wholly his idea.
Kosa nodded and indicated the rat that she wanted. Phihks handed it over without demanding a trade or barter. The gesture was the only whisper of any collusion between the two of them. He gave her gritty and black smile as she turned away, her veins exalting and pounding with blood despite the small part she played.
Phihks was a princeps.
At least, he could have been if those damn inductors hadn't skewed his examination results. They were too concerned with their shiny portrait of Titanica glory for a rough and jagged piece like Phihks. He didn't fit into their puzzle right, nevermind that the point of a Legio is destructive function and not indulgent pageantry. They weren't a damn Knight House, after all. Sure, he may have almost stabbed one of the adepts when he first saw them, but a man was supposed to defend his home. You didn't just let anyone with a robe and a pair of augmetics traipse their way through your hovel, spewing rhetoric about serving the Omnissiah. That's how you lost your kidneys, and Phihks wasn't going to fall for that trick again.
As his footsteps echoed and bounced off the walls of the lower deck, he found himself unsure as to why he was thinking about this. His failed assessment was decades ago, he'd gotten over it—mostly. Perhaps the darkness and silence of the lower decks made being haunted by old ghosts easier. Perhaps he was just trying to keep his mind off the embers of caution that were crackling in his gut.
Phihks wasn't afraid. Oh, no. He always survived. Always. He didn't have any doubt that this would work out for him, just like things always did. He did, however, worry that he may fail his friends. He was confident in his idea, but they were still counting on him. That was unfamiliar territory for him.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the small carton within, shaking out a single lho-stick and lighting it. Phihks didn't normally smoke, but he made an exception today. He needed to draw attention.
The reaction came as soon as the first few puffs of caustic vapors filled the air. He heard footsteps rapidly approaching. They weren't sprinting from the sounds of it, but there was an animated energy coursing through the decking as armored feet reverbated up and down the corridor. Soon, figures in crimson armor appeared from the gloom. Two of them wore their pronged-helms that Phihks always thought looked a little silly—but he supposed one could get away with that sort of thing when they were too busy ripping out throats to be laughed at. The third World Eater's head was bare, his forehead creasing to the pulsing rhythm of the machines embedded in his skull, and his eyes wide with wild thirst.
"Prey…" he said with reverence. It almost seemed like a surprise to him that Phihks was standing there. Like the rat catcher was some sort of divine gift.
Phihks let his lho-stick drop from between his lips and let out a soft gasp. He then pissed himself. Intentionally, of course. There were no half-measures when it came to putting on a convincing show for the gods.
The marines chuckled amongst themselves, the lead one pointing his chainaxe at Phihks and gunning the trigger. "Run, little thing. You will glorify your blood that way."
Good little slaves did not need to be told what to do more than once. Normally, Phihks was not a good little slave, but he made his second exception of the day for this as he turned and began to sprint down the corridor.
He immediately heard whoops and salivating jeers as they waited only eight heartbeats before pursuing. Phihks knew that these gods were not like the ones dressed in storming midnight. They would not toy with him. He was dead the moment they caught him—and catching him was all but an inevitability.
Fortunately, Phihks always survived.
As soon as he rounded the corner, he crashed into a metallic pillar. The impact sent him tumbling to the ground, his bones shrieking with the pain of kinetic force bearing down upon them. The thing attached to the pillar cocked its head and reached down to grab Phihks by the front of his shirt, pulling him off his feet and into the air so that he could look into the creature's red eyes.
"Hello, little mouse," the Night Lord said. Two of his brothers flanked him on either side. "You scurry to us just in time for a hunt. A fateful thing, indeed."
Before Phihks could respond, a bludgeon in red ceramite slammed his shoulder into that of the Astartes holding him aloft. The Night Lord was forced to drop him and Phihks quickly scuttled his way up against the wall as Carnage Stitchers fell in to confront their fellow ascended kin.
"That is our prey, Night Lord," the berzerker breathed.
The Astartes shoved the World Eater away from him. "Yours? This is our ship. All within it is claimable by us."
"We found it first!" he insisted.
"You have no right to the lives of our slaves."
Phihks suppressed a smile. That was something the two legions had in common. Both hunted—be that for enjoyment or need, it didn't matter. This sort of contention was bound to happen eventually, Phihks simply ushered it along.
The Carnage Stitcher snarled, gripping his axe and roaring the motor once again. The three Night Lords immediately drew their weapons. A silent tension passed between all six gods in the corridor. An acknowledgement. An inevitability. One that Phihks had no interest in still being present to witness.
As the rat catcher silently crawled away, he waited until he was far enough to no longer be audible before giggling and cackling to himself as he listened to the sounds of weapons swinging and gods bleeding.
Cai was dying. Slowly, but certainly. He hadn't had a surgeon or anyone confirm the condition, but he knew. Every day he woke up feeling a little bit weaker, feeling as if something were gnawing at him from within, devouring him from the inside. Some days the only thing that got him out of his cot was the knowledge that anything his masters could do to him would be far worse than the lethargy and illness of a slow, gradual death.
He hadn't told anyone. He didn't see much point. There wasn't anyone he was particularly close to and he didn't have any family aboard. He figured he just wouldn't show up one day and everyone would assume that the Astartes had hunted him for sport. It was a better alternative than everyone feeling sorry for him.
"What do you think, Cai?"
The boy jumped, completely missing everything Jep had said to him as they leaned over the cogitator banks in the fuel-loading station of the Enginarium decks. He quickly scanned his eyes over the read-outs and said the first thought he had.
"We could lace a fuel-line with ammonia and run it through. Then we'd just have to follow the smell to find the leak."
Jep frowned and scratched the beard that he hated but was too stubborn to shave. Cai knew neither of them actually intended to fix the leak, that they were only posturing for the sake of the crew who weren't in on Artemis's scheme.
"I don't… Hm," Jep demurred. "Promethium already has quite a scent. If we were going to find it based on that then I imagine we'd have already come upon it by now."
Cai snorted and rolled his eyes. "Jep, the whole deck always smells like promethium. We just don't notice because we're so used to it."
Jep blinked, then reddened in the face. "Ah… Y-yes. I suppose that's a good point."
It was at that moment that Phihks decided to stumble into the station, a tin flask in-hand, and barely enough cognition to stay on his feet.
"DID YOU KNOW I WAS ALMOST A PRINCEPS?" he called in a volume that was probably perfectly reasonable to his ears, but agonizingly loud for everyone else.
Jep notably deflated as he watched the man slosh about, his blush further deepening. Cai could already tell what he was thinking: This is what he meant by 'the signal'?
"Brelja…" he sighed, a hand covering his face.
"Already on it," the woman said, striding over to the intoxicated wretch of a man. She put her hands on his shoulders and began to firmly steer him out of the room.
"THE MECHANICUS JILTED ME!"
"I'm sure they did, Phihks," Brelja said with an amused grin. Once they were firmly out of the room, Cai knew that she would be running off to report to Artemis while…
"Sorry about that, everyone!" Jep called to the confused workers. "Please get back to work! Erm, also, Krasper, take a team and head to sector G3. It needs a maintenance check."
Krasper, a man with leathery skin and a much more formidable beard than Jep nodded curtly and began to round up people to do as he was ordered.
Only they wouldn't be going to sector G3. They would be going to L9, and they would be doing something far more incendiary than a standard tune-up on the fuel-line there. Cai met Jep's eyes and the man nodded to him with a grim expression. They were either going to soar or plummet here.
Cai coughed and saw flecks of red in his hand. He wiped it away on his shirt and grinned darkly to himself. In his case, it would be both but, oh, how wonderful it'll be to feel the wind again before he falls into that darkness forevermore.
Naduvion ignored the first three hails from his brother on the vox before he relented and answered.
"What?"
"Why weren't you answering your damn vox, you shit-sniffing swine!" Va'ul Dreeve snapped, the sound of clashing weapons filtering through the distorted background noise.
"I was busy," Naduvion replied as he adjusted the frame of his latest portrait in his chambers. It depicted the streets of Nostramo using the red hues of blood for paint, reflecting the dread planet's elegant brutality and that of its offspring. The skin he had used as a canvas helped compliment the message, as well.
"Get down here!" Dreeve hissed.
Naduvion sighed, ripping the portrait from its frame and tearing it in two. It still wasn't quite right. It was missing something primal, something quintessential that elevates the soul and spirit of the art. "I do not wish to spar today, brother."
"Spar?" the other Night Lord spat through a strained grunt. "You think I wish to spar, you damn fool? Half of the Company is already down here! The World Eaters have turned against us!"
