Chapter 7: The Usual Suspects (SGT Tully's POV) Part One: RED

The low hum of the recyc unit is the first thing I hear. A constant drone that blends into the background, but after forty years in this hole, it's as familiar as my own heartbeat. My eyes open to the dim glow of a lumen strip, flickering weakly overhead. Another power fluctuation. Gnarl's boys must be skimming more than their usual share.

I swing my legs over the edge of the cot, the metal creaking under my weight. The chill of the floor bites at my bare feet, a stark contrast to the stale warmth of the bunk. My boots sit where I left them, scuffed and worn, the left one sporting a new crack along the sole. Need to patch that up before the patrol.

Reaching under the pillow, my fingers close around cold steel. I pull out the battered flask, unscrewing the cap with a practiced twist. The sharp scent of amasec fills the air—cheap stuff, but it does the job. I take a swig, the liquid burning a path down my throat, settling heavy in my gut. The familiar warmth spreads, steadying the tremor in my hands.

A man needs his rituals.

I set the flask aside and reach for the tarnished aquila pendant hanging from a nail on the wall. The metal is cool against my palm, edges smoothed by years of handling. Holding it tightly, I bow my head.

"Emperor, grant me the strength to carry the burdens of this day," I murmur. The words come easily; a litany etched into my bones. "Watch over those who serve, and forgive us our failings."

The silence that follows is thick, but it's a comfort. I tuck the pendant into my shirt, its weight resting comfortingly against my chest.

The cracked mirror on the wall shows a face etched by time and wear—a mess of grey stubble, scars tracing jagged lines across sunken cheeks, eyes shadowed but alert. I run a hand over my jaw, contemplating a shave, then shrug. Not much point down here.

Uniform's draped over the back of the lone chair—a threadbare thing that's seen better years. I dress methodically: undershirt, armored vest, the black fatigues marked with the faded insignia of the Arbites. The carapace plates come next, each one strapped and secured with muscle memory. As I fasten the last buckle, I catch another glimpse of myself in the cracked mirror.

Grey stubble shadows a lined face, eyes set deep with the weariness of too many long nights. A jagged scar cuts across my brow, a souvenir from a skirmish years back. I run a hand through thinning hair, shrugging off the vanity. Not much to be done about that.

My gaze shifts to the corner of the room where the power maul leans against the wall, its casing chipped but functional. Beside it, the suppression shield bears the marks of countless engagements—dents and scorch marks, each with a story I stopped telling long ago. The shotgun leans against the opposite wall—cleaned, loaded, ready. I sling it over my shoulder, the comforting heft a reminder of days long past.

Finally, I holster my sidearm, checking the charge. Full. Good. Never trust the indicators down here.

A soft knock echoes from the door.

"Enter," I call out.

The door creaks open to reveal Lannis, one of the newer recruits. Fresh-faced, but with eyes that have seen too much too soon. Nervous breakdown, got two of his buddies killed, but only I know that, no need to make him a pariah in a place where we're all pariahs of one type or another. He hesitates on the threshold.

"Sergeant Tully," he says, voice tight. "Shift report."

I nod for him to continue.

"Minimal disturbances overnight. Patrol Six reported a minor scuffle near the eastern sump pits. No casualties."

"Any more word from the gangs?"

He shakes his head. "All quiet, sir."

Too quiet.

"Thank you, Lannis. Dismissed."

He lingers for a moment, eyes darting to the flask on the table before he catches himself. I raise an eyebrow, and he quickly averts his gaze, offering a curt nod before retreating.

I sigh, picking up the flask once more. Another small sip, just to take the edge off. Can't afford to be off my game today.

I gather my kit, pausing to tuck a worn leather pouch into my belt. The lho-sticks inside rattle softly—a habit I've tried and failed to kick. The first drag fills my lungs with acrid smoke, the nicotine biting but familiar. I exhale, watching the tendrils curl toward the ceiling.

Stepping out into the hallway, the precinct hums with subdued activity. Enforcers shuffle past, armor clanking, eyes downcast. The air is thick with the scent of recycled air and too many bodies in too small a space. I nod to a few familiar faces—Keller, adjusting the sights on his sidearm; Diaz, muttering a prayer over a faded pict of her kid.

"Sergeant," they acknowledge, their gazes meeting mine briefly before sliding away. Respect, tinged with something else. Weariness, perhaps. Or resignation.

The mess hall is a hive of low conversations and clattering utensils. I grab a tin mug of recaf—strong enough to strip paint—and take a seat at an empty table. The liquid scalds my tongue, but I welcome the jolt.

"Rough night!" a voice booms from my left.

I glance up to see Enforcer Briggs dropping into the seat across from me. His face is a mosaic of bruises, one eye swollen nearly shut.

"You look like you kissed a servitor," I remark.

He chuckles, winces. "Just a brawl near the eastern sumps, market street, local vendors tried to hike the prices on us. We had a friendly disagreement. They didn't like the idea of haggling."

"They rarely do." I take another sip. "Make sure you see the medicae before patrol."

He waves a hand dismissively. "Nothing a stim patch won't fix."

I give him a pointed look. "That's an order, Briggs."

He nods, more subdued. "Yes, Sarge."

The chrono on the wall ticks closer to the hour. I drain the rest of the recaf and stand. "Time to round up the squad."

Briggs rises with me. "Heard we're bringing the Sister along today."

"That's right."

He whistles low. "Think she'll be a help or a hindrance?"

I shrug. "Depends on if she can keep up."

The corridor leading to the armory is a maze of flickering lights and leaking pipes. I navigate it by habit, sidestepping a puddle of something best left unidentified. Voices drift from ahead—raised, agitated.

Turning the corner, I spot two enforcers squared off, fists clenched.

"I told you, that's my gear, Jaquelin!" one snarls.

"Back off, Sykes," the other snaps. "Finders keepers."

"Enough!" I bark, the word slicing through the tension. They freeze, turning to face me.

"Care to explain?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

Sykes shuffles his feet. "Just a... misunderstanding, Sarge."

I fix them both with a hard stare. "We don't have time for petty squabbles. Gear up and be ready in five."

They nod hurriedly, scurrying off in opposite directions. I sigh inwardly. Keeping this crew in line is like herding grox hounds.

In the armory, I find Derren, our quartermaster, organizing crates of ammunition. He looks up as I enter, his mechanical eye whirring softly as it focuses.

"Need supplies for the patrol," I state.

He gestures to a pile of gear on the bench. "Already prepped. Extra charge packs, shock grenades, and a medkit—figured you'd be bringing the Sister."

"Good man." I clap a hand on his shoulder. "How's the auger array holding up?"

He grimaces. "Barely. Could use new parts, but you know how it is."

"Make do. We always have."

He nods, returning to his work.

As I secure a spare power pack to my belt, a presence looms at the edge of my vision. I turn to see Valeria, the Sister Hospitaller, standing in the doorway. Her power armor gleams even in the dim light, the insignia of the Adepta Sororitas prominent on her shoulder guard. Bee hovers silently beside her.

"Sergeant Tully," she greets, her tone crisp.

She looks about as out of place as a pearl necklace on a servitor. Still, for today, that's the point. Something new, an unknown factor, a big scary unknown factor in power armor with a chain blade bolted to her gauntlet, yes, that will keep things civil. God Emperor, I hope it will…

"Morning, Sister," I reply. "Ready for a stroll through paradise?"

She inclines her head. "I am prepared for today's patrol."

I smirk. "We'll see about that."

The rest of the squad filters in—Keller, Diaz, Sykes, Jaquelin, Briggs, and a few others. They eye Valeria warily, not quite sure what to make of her. Can't blame them. The Sororitas are a rare sight down here.

"Alright, listen up," I announce, pulling their attention. "We've got a busy day ahead. We're making the rounds—Gnarl, Lutefisk, and Trebor all want a word. Keep your wits about you, and remember: we're there to talk, not start a firefight."

A few grumbles, nods of acknowledgment.

"And keep an eye on each other," I add. "No one goes off alone. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," comes the chorus.

I catch Valeria's gaze. There's a determination there, a fire that hasn't been snuffed out by this place. Yet.

"Jaquelin, how's Bessy this morning?"

The only one in the room with a face more augmetic than flesh, courtesy of intimate contact with a frag a few years back, turns and gives me a lipless smile. "Purring like a kitten with a cold, sarge." The smile fades and she shrugs, "she'll make the rounds, headlights are still out though. Munitorum keeps insisting they've arrived; I keep telling them to pound grox shit."

I mutter a curse, "we'll have to make do with lamp packs." It's also not beyond reasonable conjecture that Jaquelin, or one of any number of others traded those headlights for contraband, booze, or favors. Even so, I doubt it, vices or no, no one wants to die and having actual headlights would go a long way to ensuring that doesn't happen.

"Let's move out," I order, leading the way toward the transport bay, "we'll brief enroute to the geothermal substation."

As we make our way through the precinct, I can't shake the feeling of unease gnawing at the edges. Something's shifting in Sector Sigma, and I aim to find out what before it swallows us all, or at least, me.

The engine coughs and sputters beneath us, a beast on its last legs. The open-top Chimera rattles as we trundle along, each jolt and shudder a reminder of the sorry state of our equipment. Jaquelin grips the controls with white-knuckled determination, her augmetic eye scanning the dim path ahead. Lamp-packs strapped to the front cast wavering beams into the gloom, barely piercing the thick shadows of Sector Sigma.

I stand near the rear, one hand gripping a rusted handle to steady myself. The squad is scattered around the transport's open bed—Keller checks his shotgun for the third time, Diaz mutters a prayer under her breath, and Briggs absently taps a rhythm on his thigh armor. Valeria sits apart, her posture rigid, Bee hovering silently at her shoulder. Her power armor catches the scant light, an ivory beacon amidst the grime.

"Eyes up!" I call over the din of the engine. "We're entering the outer zones."

They shift their attention, gazes sweeping the darkened expanse around us. The air is thick here, laden with the stench of decay and ozone. Above, the cavernous ceiling stretches into shadow, a labyrinth of pipes and rusted gantries disappearing into the abyss. Faint pinpricks of red flicker like dying stars—a faulty lumen here, a breach in the hive's layers allowing a trickle of light from above.

"First-timer's briefing," I announce, casting a glance at Valeria. "Pay attention, Sister."

She meets my gaze, her expression unreadable behind the visor of her helm. "I'm listening."

"Sector Sigma isn't like the rest of the underhive," I begin. "It's a damned cathedral of ruin. Used to be the crown of the hive a few millennia back. Now it's a graveyard of forgotten glories."

The Chimera lurches over a pile of debris, and I tighten my grip. "Look around. Streets wide enough to march an army through, buildings that scrape the belly of the hive a kilometer above. But don't let the open space fool you—danger hides in every shadow."

As if to punctuate my words, a distant screech echoes from somewhere in the maze of structures. Valeria's eyes flick in that direction, hand drifting toward her sidearm.

"Mutants," I say. "Scavvies, feral gangs, things without names, packs of rogue servitors. They keep to the unlit zones, but they're always watching."

Keller spits over the side. "Saw a pack tear apart a group of drifters apart last week. Three minutes and poof, nothing but clean white bones."

"Lovely imagery," Valeria remarks dryly.

"It's reality," I reply. "And reality here is grim."

We pass a cluster of shanties huddled against the base of a collapsed tower. Makeshift shelters cobbled from scrap metal and tattered cloth. Pale faces peer out as we rumble by—sunken eyes reflecting the lamp-light, whispers trailing in our wake.

"Those are the drifters," I explain. "Too poor or broken to join the gangs, too stubborn to die. They scrape by on whatever they can find."

"Why don't we offer them assistance?" Valeria asks.

I chuckle without humor. "Assist them how? We barely have resources for ourselves. And bringing them into the precinct would be a death sentence—for them and us. Besides, they don't even know they need assistance. They've been born and died here for countless generations."

She opens her mouth to argue but thinks better of it. Instead, she surveys the surroundings, perhaps seeing the underhive truly for the first time.

"Mind the gaps," Jaquelin warns from the front. She swerves the Chimera around a yawning chasm where the street has collapsed into the levels below. The vehicle groans in protest, but holds together.

"How much farther?" Diaz calls out.

"Another twenty," I reply. "Assuming we don't hit any snags."

I move toward the center of the group, raising my voice to be heard. "Listen up! We're heading into Gnarl's territory first. You know the drill, but let's review for our guest."

A few smirks and sideways glances, but they pay attention.

"Gnarl fancies himself a king," I continue. "Controls the geothermal substation—massive piece of tech that keeps the hive's lights on. He's arrogant, loud, and devout in his own twisted way. Claims to worship the Omnissiah, but he's no Tech-Priest."

"Does he pose a threat?" Valeria inquires.

"Only if provoked," I answer. "He likes to bluster, show off his toys. But he's smart enough to know that crossing us brings unwanted attention."

"Protocol?" Keller asks.

"We let him talk, nod along, and make sure he understands the balance remains. He called us, not something that happens often and never with good news. Still, we're not there to start trouble."

I fix Valeria with a hard stare. "That means no sudden moves, no challenges, no preaching. Understood?"

She bristles slightly. "I am capable of discretion, Sergeant."

"See that you are. Gnarl's got a short fuse, and his men are jumpy. Last thing we need is a firefight in the substation."

Briggs chuckles. "Remember when Harkin made a joke about Gnarl's 'holy machines' because of how full of holes they were?"

"Yeah," Sykes grumbles. "We were picking shrapnel out of our armor for days."

"And Harkin," Briggs agrees.

"Point is," I say, cutting them off, "keep it polite and professional."

Valeria nods. "Understood."

The Chimera navigates a narrow passage between two leaning hab-blocks, their upper floors fused together by time and decay. Above, silhouettes scurry across makeshift bridges—gang lookouts, or worse.

"Watch those rooftops," I warn. "Never know who's planning an ambush."

Bee emits a soft hum, its augur array scanning the area. "Multiple heat signatures detected. No immediate threats."

"Handy little device," Briggs remarks.

"Magos Harspes's creation," Valeria replies. "Bee is quite resourceful."

"Just keep it close," I advise. "Wouldn't want someone deciding to add it to their collection."

We emerge into a wider avenue, the structures here more substantial. Pillars carved with faded iconography line the street, remnants of a bygone era. Ahead, the looming silhouette of the geothermal substation rises, its bulk disappearing into the darkness above. A monolith of metal and machinery, it hums with a deep, resonant thrum that vibrates through the bones.

"There she is," I announce. "Gnarl's palace."

The squad grows quiet, the weight of the structure imposing even after countless visits. Valeria gazes up, a mixture of awe and apprehension on her face.

"It's... enormous," she whispers.

"Supposedly runs through the entire hive," I tell her. "Channels geothermal energy from the planet's core all the way to the spires."

"And he controls it?"

"Less than one percent of it," I correct. "But enough to matter, at least down here."

As we approach, lights flare along the substation's exterior—harsh spotlights that snap on one by one, illuminating the approach. Shadows dance as figures move into position along the balconies and platforms jutting from the structure.

"Showtime," I mutter. "Remember, let me do the talking."

The Chimera rolls to a stop at the base of a wide staircase leading up to a massive set of doors. They're adorned with cogs and circuitry patterns, a crude homage to the Mechanicus.

"Gnarl's got a flair for the dramatic," Diaz comments.

"Better than bullets," I reply.

We disembark, boots hitting the ground in unison. The squad forms up behind me, weapons at rest but ready. Valeria stands to my right, Bee hovering just over her shoulder.

"Stay close," I remind her quietly.

She nods, eyes fixed ahead.

As we ascend the steps toward Gnarl's so-called castle, I can't help but notice the theatrics he's set up since our last visit. Torch sconces blaze with unnatural blue flames, casting eerie shadows across the worn metal walls. His gangers line the path, armed to the teeth and wearing mismatched armor adorned with cogs and wires—a crude attempt at mimicking Mechanicus aesthetics.

"Welcome to the kingdom," Briggs mutters sarcastically behind me.

"Stow it," I whisper back. "Eyes sharp."

The massive double doors at the entrance groan open, revealing a grand hall that must have once been an administratum hub. Now it's a gaudy throne room, filled with salvaged banners and relics of dubious authenticity. At the far end sits Gnarl himself on an elevated dais, flanked by hulking brutes with improvised augmetics.

Gnarl rises to his feet, arms spread wide. He's a mountain of a man, draped in a patchwork robe that glitters with embedded circuitry. His dreadlocked hair is threaded with metal beads and wires, and a pair of cracked goggles rest atop his forehead.

"Sergeant Tully!" he bellows, his voice echoing through the chamber. "You've graced us with your presence at last!"

I stride forward, keeping my posture relaxed but assertive. Valeria matches my pace on the right, her armor gleaming under the flickering lights. Bee hovers just over her shoulder, its optics scanning the room.

"Gnarl," I reply evenly. "You requested a meeting."

He descends the steps from his throne, his entourage following like shadows. "Indeed I did, but I see you've brought... distinguished company." His eyes roam over Valeria, curiosity and a hint of awe flickering across his features.

"Allow me to introduce Sister Valeria," I say before he can continue. "An angelic healer sent by the Emperor himself to aid us against the foul darkness stirring in Sigma Sector."

A hush falls over the hall. Gnarl's bravado falters for a fraction of a second as he takes in Valeria's imposing figure. The gangers exchange uneasy glances, shifting their grips on their weapons.

"An angel, you say?" Gnarl recovers, a wide grin splitting his face. "Truly, we are blessed this day!"

Valeria inclines her head slightly but remains silent. Her helmet conceals her expression, adding to the mystique.

"And this," I gesture to Bee, "is a sacred envoy of the Omnissiah, sent to observe and guide."

At the sight of Bee, Gnarl's eyes widen. He drops to one knee with surprising grace for a man of his size. "Behold!" he cries, voice filled with reverence. "An angel of the Machine God graces our humble abode! All-processing Omnissiah we are not worthy of such a visitation!"

His followers quickly mimic his posture, a ripple of kneeling figures spreading through the chamber. Weapons clatter to the floor as they bow their heads.

"All hail the Omnissiah's divine messenger!" Gnarl proclaims. "We are your faithful servants!"

I suppress a smirk. Didn't quite expect that reaction, but I'll take any advantage I can get.

"Rise," I say, perhaps a bit more magnanimously than usual. "We have matters to discuss."

Gnarl stands, composing himself. "Of course, Sergeant. Anything to aid the herald of the Omnissiah come to rid us of this menace and reward us for our devotion!"

I glance sideways, noting the shouts of acclamation, the bowed heads, even a few on their faces murmuring prayers they've no doubt made up on the spot. Gnarl's no fool, Bee and Valeria may be my trump cards here, but he's using them as well, self-righteous bastard.

"Your message mentioned trouble," I prompt.

A shadow crosses his face. "Yes. My outposts are under attack. Power junctions compromised, my men... incapacitated."

Valeria tilts her head. "Incapacitated how?"

He hesitates, eyes flicking to her uncertainly before settling back on me. "Found them disarmed, staring into nothing. They wouldn't speak, wouldn't even scream under... questioning. It's as if they've been hollowed out."

I study him closely. The bravado is cracking. "Any idea who's responsible?"

"It must be Lutefisk or that lunatic Trebor!" he snaps, fists clenching. "They're envious of my dominion."

"Any proof of that?" I ask evenly.

Gnarl bristles. "Their territories border mine. Who else could it be?"

"Someone new, perhaps," Valeria suggests softly.

He scoffs, but there's uncertainty in his eyes. "New, down here? Not without my knowing it."

"Describe the attacks in more detail," I press.

He exhales sharply. "Fine. My patrols vanish near the fringe zones. When we find them, they're like empty shells. Weapons gone, but no signs of struggle. No blood, no bodies. Three power nodes, same story, defenders at their posts, stripped of weapons, unresponsive. No tags, no colors, not a mark on them!"

"Strange," I murmur. No gang markings, no territorial tags. Doesn't fit the usual patterns.

Valeria steps forward. "Did they mention anything before you... dealt with them?"

Gnarl's jaw tightens. "Nothing useful. Most didn't utter a sound, even as they died. A few were found already babbling. Eyes in the dark and whispers in the vox. Utter nonsense that my interrogation methods had no impact on."

"Eyes and whispers," I echo. Could be fear talking, or something more.

He glares at me. "I don't care for riddles, Tully. I need this threat eliminated."

"Intervention requires investigation, understanding," I counter. "If we act blindly, we risk igniting a war."

"War is certainly preferable to this... this unseen menace," he growls and spits.

I sense his fear—a powerful man grappling with the unknown. "Your men, were they all found in specific locations?"

He pauses. "Mostly near the old transit tunnels. Places we've held for years without issue."

I unfold a worn map, spreading it on a nearby crate. "Show me."

Gnarl leans over, jabbing grimy fingers at several points. I note the positions—disconnected, yet all near the border of Quadrant D, along the touching territories of Lutefisk and Trebor true, but closest to where they touch the black.

"Quadrant D," I muse. "The Black."

He shifts uncomfortably. "No one goes there, no attack comes from there. Don't you dare try to encourage fear in my own house!" Gnarl thunders but I can hear the slight tremor in his voice, "All access ways are blocked, tunnels collapsed, entryways sealed, roads blockaded, no one in no one out, not even Trebor is mad enough to try crossing the black to get to me!"

"Perhaps something's changed," Valeria suggests.

He shakes his head vehemently. "It's cursed. Machines fail, vox goes dead. It's death to enter."

"Desperate times," I remark. "Maybe someone found a way to use it to their advantage. When was the last time you checked all these supposedly collapsed tunnels, sealed entrances, and blockaded streets?"

Gnarl narrows his eyes. "If you're suggesting we venture there—"

"I'm suggesting we consider all possibilities," I interrupt. "Tell me, have you reinforced your positions?"

"Of course," he snaps. "Doubled patrols, but morale is low. Whatever's out there has my men spooked more than facing Trebor's psychos."

"Yet you haven't retaliated," I point out.

He glares. "Against whom? I strike Lutefisk or Trebor without cause, and we plunge into chaos. I may be king, but I'm no fool."

First sensible thing he's said.

Valeria glances at me. I catch the uncertainty in her stance—she's out of her depth but trying to piece it together just the same.

"Perhaps we can investigate the attack sites?" she offers.

Gnarl looks at her skeptically, then at Bee. The sight of the servo-skull seems to bolster his deference. "If the Omnissiah's herald wills it, who am I to refuse? My territory is open to you, fair angel, Sergeant. Travel as you see fit."

"Your cooperation is appreciated," I say. "In the meantime, keep your men alert but restrained. No aggressive moves."

He grimaces but nods. "Very well. But I expect results, Tully. Quickly. Word that I've been attacked will travel quickly and if no retaliation is offered then I look weak. I must remedy that, and soon."

"Understood."

As we turn to leave, Gnarl's voice drops to a low murmur. "And Tully... if you find this threat, eliminate it but bring me back a head or two. I won't have my kingdom threatened by shadows or my men defeated by phantom beliefs in spirits and eyes in the dark."

"Count on it," I reply.

Outside the throne room, the stale air feels a touch lighter. Valeria falls in beside me. "He's scared," she observes.

"Terrified," I agree. "And that makes him predictable."

She hesitates. "Do you think it's wise to involve ourselves directly?"

"Got any better ideas?" I glance at her. "This is how we keep the peace—by nipping problems in the bud."

Bee emits a soft hum. "Data suggests a pattern may be forming."

"Care to enlighten us?" I ask.

"Attack locations correlate with proximity to Quadrant D access points," Bee states.

"What's in Quadrant D?" she asks.

"Additional data unavailable." Bee responds.

"Officially? Nothing beyond what I've told you," I add, "just a massive expanse of empty. No power relays run that way, no water pipes in and out, just supposedly an abandoned temple, sealed for long centuries surrounded by kilometers of darkness and shadow. Unofficially? Nightmares and old tech that doesn't play nice with others, vox most of all."

She takes a deep breath. "Then that's where we need to go."

I stop in my tracks, turning sharply to face her. "Absolutely not," I say, more forcefully than intended. The squad halts behind us, sensing the tension.

Valeria meets my gaze evenly. "Why not?"

"Quadrant D is off-limits," I state. "For good reason. It's a dead zone—tech fails, vox goes silent. People who venture in don't come back."

"Yet if that's where these attacks are originating, we have a responsibility to investigate," she counters.

I suppress a surge of irritation. "There's no proof of that yet, what we have are guesses. Our responsibility is to maintain the peace and protect critical infrastructure. Marching into the Black is a fool's errand."

Her eyes narrow behind her visor. "Preventing a gang war is part of maintaining the peace, is it not? If venturing into Quadrant D can stop that, it's our duty to do so."

I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "Listen, Sister. You may be willing to throw yourself into the abyss, but I've got a whole precinct to think about. I'm not leading them into a death trap again based on conjecture!"

"Conjecture?" She gestures toward Bee. "The data suggests—" she hesitates, eyes narrowing behind her visor. "What do you mean, again?"

I sigh heavily, feeling the weight of memories I'd rather forget pressing down. The squad's eyes are on me, but it's Valeria's piercing gaze that holds me.

"Over a decade ago," I begin, keeping my voice low, "we had a new Proctor assigned to the precinct—Jeremiah Grosch. Fresh from the upper hive, full of ambition and ideals. Quadrant D caught his eye immediately. Became an obsession."

She listens intently, Bee hovering silently beside her.

"I warned him," I continue. "Told him the stories, the disappearances. But he wouldn't listen. Thought he could uncover some hidden relic or technological treasure, make a name for himself."

I pause, the vivid images flashing unbidden: the eager faces of the fifty men who followed Grosch, the rumble of the three Chimeras as they disappeared into the darkness.

"He took fifty of our best and three Chimeras," I say quietly. "Went marching into the Black on a fool's errand to that damned temple. None of them came back. Not a word, not a trace."

Her voice softens slightly. "I'm sorry."

I shrug, masking the old hurt. "I had to cover it up. Fabricated reports of a massive gang uprising, claimed heavy losses in the suppression. Had to explain the missing men and equipment somehow."

"That's why the Proctor's death was never reported," she realizes aloud.

"Exactly. If the higher-ups knew we'd lost that many men without a fight, they'd have shut us down—or worse, sent more of us in there. I've been keeping this precinct running ever since."

She considers this, the gears turning behind her eyes. "With respect, Sergeant," she says firmly, "we have more information now. These attacks—"

I shake my head. "You don't understand what it's like in there. The Black eats men alive. Tech fails, minds break. It's not just about being prepared."

"Then we'll be cautious," she insists. "But we can't ignore this."

I look away, staring into the murky distance where the shadows seem to writhe. Memories of Grosch's confident smile, the hope in the men's eyes—they all haunt me still.

"Sergeant," Valeria's voice softens. "I know you've suffered losses. But sometimes facing the darkness is the only way to protect those we care about."

"Is this about facing the darkness? About me and my men? About the infrastructure?" I give her a steady look, "or is this about your missing friend?"

The silence of her muted breathing through the helmet is testament enough.

I meet her gaze again. "This isn't some noble crusade, Sister. Down here, the darkness usually wins."

"Not if we shine the Emperor's light into it," she replies much more quietly and in a voice that makes her seem suddenly very small. Guilt elbows me in the ribs but I ignore it.

I let out a dry chuckle. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"I have to," she says simply.

I take a deep breath, weighing my options. The others are watching, waiting for my decision. They're good people—flawed, sure, but they deserve better than being led to slaughter.

"Fine, I won't write it off completely." I relent. "But we do this investigation my way. We gather every piece of intel we can. If everything points to sector D… well… we're just as dead if we let the gangs loose on each other, either from them or the neckbreakers the hive sends down to see us once they find out what's been going on these last ten years. But let's be perfectly clear, this is my call, got it?"

She nods. "agreed."

"First stop is Lutefisk," I state. "He has access to the cogitator arrays at the water treatment plant. Maybe Bee can interface with them, get us more data on Quadrant D."

"That sounds reasonable," she admits.

"Then let's move," I command, turning to the squad. "Mount up! We're heading out."