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After being singled out and inducted into the service of the Inquisition, things have not gone quite as you would have imagined. Removed from your past life, you have been tested and measured, questioned and interrogated. But aside from a few lectures given in darkened chambers that left you sick to your stomach and a seemingly endless stream of codes and ciphers given you to memorize and destroy, you have been left largely to your own devices. Lodging under a false name in an anonymous habblock in Hive Sibellus, on Scintilla, the capitol planet of the Calixis Sector, you have bided your time for weeks waiting for the call from your masters, and perhaps, their verdict. At last that call has come and a blank-eyed courier has delivered to you a note featuring the cipher of the Holy Ordos.
The message within was simple and perfunctory, containing a time, a date and a location. The instruction to come prepared and expect company is signed off with a single epithet —The Emperor Protects
At the appointed hour, each of you have made your way through the bustling, faceless masses of the Administratum quarter to an unmarked service elevator platform set in the rear of a vast and imposing building covered in bas-reliefs of skulls, half draped urns, and other symbols of death, crowned by an immense statue of a weeping saint. It appears that you are expected; the wizened face of the platform’s inbuilt servitor studies you and pronounces “Pass” as you climb on board. As the note implied, you were not the only person called, and you make for an uncomfortable and diverse looking group standing in tense silence as the crowds throng by. The servitor control chimes active as the last one of you boards the platform and the elevator descends as the hatchway closes above you all with a thunderous boom. The platform continues downward for some minutes through maintenance levels, deep into the bowels of the government district.
It is an odd group. A man bearing the trappings and robes of an Adeptus Mechanicus stands off to the side, with a constructor interface attached to his left arm and a worn respirator unit worn over his face. Behind him crouches an entirely mechanical construct in the form of a broad tracking canine - a mastiff to those familiar with such breeds.
Across from him stands an arbitrator, dressed in the stock standard uniform of his station, yet he is here not on behalf of the Lord Marshal's designs. Behind that badge of station is hidden a checkered past, and the rare opportunity for redemption in the name of the Emperor's law.
To his right is a tough looking individual bearing the tell-tale fashion sense of Gunmetal City, the infamous furnace hive on the far side of Scintilla, known to breed all manner of hiver scum. Despite his wide-brimmed hat and high-collared duster, the man's strong, upright stance would suggest to the trained eye that he has a military background.
Immediately in front of that individual stands the lone woman of the group, easily as tall as each of the men, and wearing the robes and trappings of an adept. Her long hair is dyed in three mixed strands of red, green, and blue, and her face is covered in bright blush, mascara, vivid red lipstick, and she wears dark eyeliner in a sense reminiscent of the noble class. She stands out as the only one to not be from a hive world, given the ruddy, sun-touched nature of her skin.
There is time for discussion between the four of you, if any of you are inclined to speak. You all assume, correctly, that each of you has received a similar summons, and are all acolytes of the same Inquisitor.
The elevator's slow descent deposits you all at the end of a long, wide grey corridor, lit by lumen globes in the shape of cherubs holding torches. Only a few nearby globes are lit along either side of the corridor, with the rest of the path shrouded in darkness. However, after taking a few nervous steps forward, more globes light up in front of you. With no alternative path presenting itself, the four of you press onward, with more globes lighting up in front of you to guide your way. Behind you, globes flicker out, leaving only darkness behind you. There is nothing of interest in the corridor as you walk, and the air about you smells faintly of chemical disinfectant.
After five minutes of walking, the corridor ends in a large metal door, which unlocks and hisses from the release of pressurized air, then opens with the loud grinding of gears. The room inside has a jumble of dusty metal crates stacked up against one wall, and a hospital gurney, complete with restraint straps left leaning unused against the other. The chief feature of the room is a large mirror that fills the upper half of the wall facing each of you upon entering the room. As the door behind you closes, the mirror gradually becomes transparent, revealing a steel room just beyond it, and a thin-faced man in white medicae robes with a red coat draped over his shoulders, staring out at you.
Behind him, beneath a mottled grey sheet, is what appears to be a dead body, held up in some sort of frame for inspection. Above the man and the body float a pair of white skulls, encrusted with a variety of brass instruments and long hypo needles, each of them hovering expectantly.
The man beckons the four of you forward with a gloved hand, at it is at this point that Thiopia, the adept of many colors, notes a small insignia on his robes of a raven clutching a scroll. It is one that she herself knows well, for she has some garments of her own that bear such a crest. It is the symbol of the Hetaireia Lexis, the scholarly organization to which she herself belongs. As she looks up from noting the crest, he gives her the briefest of nods.
"Greetings, acolytes. I am Medicae-Interrogator Sand, and you are the new bloods, are you not?" He looks you all over, though mostly resting his critical gaze upon the three men.
"Worthy additions to our holy war? We shall see... far be it from me to question my better's judgement. No doubt Inquisitor Skane has detected some promise in each of you. Now, to the matter at hand.
"I represent the Holy Ordos of the Imperial Inquisition which we all serve. Our masters have called you here to assist us in the investigation of a matter of interest that has recently, and unexpectedly, come to light.
“Oh, yes, for your information, you are now in the depths of the Templum Mori, the house of the dead where the Lords Prefecta Mortem hold court and the fallen and the lost of the great city are named and counted. It will not surprise you then to know you are here to view a corpse, I doubt it will be your first, but it is, shall we say, quite singular!”
Sand chuckles to himself, but then quickly continues, brushing aside any attempts at questions during the short pause.
“Now if you will kindly attend and pay heed, I will take questions afterward.
“The body has been positively identified as that of one Saul Arbest, male, 23 years of age, hive worker, unskilled laborer certified. Formerly of the Tantalus Indenture, registered habitation: chamber 6/23 stack 717# Coscarla Division, southern zone, Hive Sibelius.
“Subject found dead on the midhive transit rail three days ago as the car returned to the main depot. Preliminary examination at the scene suggested death by drug overdose. Post mortem performed by the biologis forensic, however revealed certain anomalies that necessitated our involvement.
“The cause of death was in fact total systemic failure brought on by tissue rejection of an implanted synthetic graft organ. Said organ destroyed his central nervous system while attempting to overcome the immune response.
“In short this…” The servo skull whirs forward to display a jar containing a ten centimeter long white cord of waving glassy tendrils, still in motion, still alive. “…crushed the life out of him from the inside."
“What’s it for? Unknown, but my opinion would be, in a word, ‘control’—neural and synaptic override, perhaps worse.
“There were other grafts and surgery of a less singular kind also; one lung replaced by a concealed storage cavity, possibly for his use as a courier. Also, one optic nerve removed, skin flayed from his stomach, I’ve no idea why. His system’s awash with alchemic traces, clotting agents, panimmune and the like.
“The surgery was expert, but by the lesions and tissue stresses, I doubt any care was given to whether or not it was painless. In fact, by the damage to his vocal cords, my guess was that he probably screamed as long as he was able to.
“But this little monster is what concerns us. Oh, you don’t need to know the genelore or the Omnissian edict, just that this is not only illegal, it is forbidden, it is heresy. Merely tampering with this kind of dark tech is enough to warrant a death sentence from the Holy Ordos, the Arbites, or the Mechanicus.
“And I’m sure that you, as well as I, am wondering how such a rare and vile thing ended up wrapped round the spine of some anonymous habprole from the dusty end of the stacks.
“The man has no prior criminal record, he was rendered invalid by indenture—laid off if you will, some sixty days ago now and was reported missing thirtytwo days ago by his sister, one Lili Arbest, resident of the same habstack. More than enough time to get himself into all sorts of trouble, I’m sure you’ll agree. These grafts are no more than eight or ten days old at most. We have nothing else on him.
“This is to be a shadow investigation, no open official involvement and no notification of the local authorities, and no one knows he’s here either. Coscarla’s down hive, so a covert approach will draw far less attention than a boot through the door, and be far less likely to kill any leads to our heretic.
“Find out why and where if you can, better yet, find out how. Best of all, find out who is responsible. Go with the grace of the God Emperor, oh and additional samples would be a blessing if you can procure them.”
The long winded interrogator at last pauses, and it seems that if you have questions, now is the time to ask them.
The message within was simple and perfunctory, containing a time, a date and a location. The instruction to come prepared and expect company is signed off with a single epithet —The Emperor Protects
***
At the appointed hour, each of you have made your way through the bustling, faceless masses of the Administratum quarter to an unmarked service elevator platform set in the rear of a vast and imposing building covered in bas-reliefs of skulls, half draped urns, and other symbols of death, crowned by an immense statue of a weeping saint. It appears that you are expected; the wizened face of the platform’s inbuilt servitor studies you and pronounces “Pass” as you climb on board. As the note implied, you were not the only person called, and you make for an uncomfortable and diverse looking group standing in tense silence as the crowds throng by. The servitor control chimes active as the last one of you boards the platform and the elevator descends as the hatchway closes above you all with a thunderous boom. The platform continues downward for some minutes through maintenance levels, deep into the bowels of the government district.
It is an odd group. A man bearing the trappings and robes of an Adeptus Mechanicus stands off to the side, with a constructor interface attached to his left arm and a worn respirator unit worn over his face. Behind him crouches an entirely mechanical construct in the form of a broad tracking canine - a mastiff to those familiar with such breeds.
Across from him stands an arbitrator, dressed in the stock standard uniform of his station, yet he is here not on behalf of the Lord Marshal's designs. Behind that badge of station is hidden a checkered past, and the rare opportunity for redemption in the name of the Emperor's law.
To his right is a tough looking individual bearing the tell-tale fashion sense of Gunmetal City, the infamous furnace hive on the far side of Scintilla, known to breed all manner of hiver scum. Despite his wide-brimmed hat and high-collared duster, the man's strong, upright stance would suggest to the trained eye that he has a military background.
Immediately in front of that individual stands the lone woman of the group, easily as tall as each of the men, and wearing the robes and trappings of an adept. Her long hair is dyed in three mixed strands of red, green, and blue, and her face is covered in bright blush, mascara, vivid red lipstick, and she wears dark eyeliner in a sense reminiscent of the noble class. She stands out as the only one to not be from a hive world, given the ruddy, sun-touched nature of her skin.
There is time for discussion between the four of you, if any of you are inclined to speak. You all assume, correctly, that each of you has received a similar summons, and are all acolytes of the same Inquisitor.
***
The elevator's slow descent deposits you all at the end of a long, wide grey corridor, lit by lumen globes in the shape of cherubs holding torches. Only a few nearby globes are lit along either side of the corridor, with the rest of the path shrouded in darkness. However, after taking a few nervous steps forward, more globes light up in front of you. With no alternative path presenting itself, the four of you press onward, with more globes lighting up in front of you to guide your way. Behind you, globes flicker out, leaving only darkness behind you. There is nothing of interest in the corridor as you walk, and the air about you smells faintly of chemical disinfectant.
After five minutes of walking, the corridor ends in a large metal door, which unlocks and hisses from the release of pressurized air, then opens with the loud grinding of gears. The room inside has a jumble of dusty metal crates stacked up against one wall, and a hospital gurney, complete with restraint straps left leaning unused against the other. The chief feature of the room is a large mirror that fills the upper half of the wall facing each of you upon entering the room. As the door behind you closes, the mirror gradually becomes transparent, revealing a steel room just beyond it, and a thin-faced man in white medicae robes with a red coat draped over his shoulders, staring out at you.
Behind him, beneath a mottled grey sheet, is what appears to be a dead body, held up in some sort of frame for inspection. Above the man and the body float a pair of white skulls, encrusted with a variety of brass instruments and long hypo needles, each of them hovering expectantly.
The man beckons the four of you forward with a gloved hand, at it is at this point that Thiopia, the adept of many colors, notes a small insignia on his robes of a raven clutching a scroll. It is one that she herself knows well, for she has some garments of her own that bear such a crest. It is the symbol of the Hetaireia Lexis, the scholarly organization to which she herself belongs. As she looks up from noting the crest, he gives her the briefest of nods.
"Greetings, acolytes. I am Medicae-Interrogator Sand, and you are the new bloods, are you not?" He looks you all over, though mostly resting his critical gaze upon the three men.
"Worthy additions to our holy war? We shall see... far be it from me to question my better's judgement. No doubt Inquisitor Skane has detected some promise in each of you. Now, to the matter at hand.
"I represent the Holy Ordos of the Imperial Inquisition which we all serve. Our masters have called you here to assist us in the investigation of a matter of interest that has recently, and unexpectedly, come to light.
“Oh, yes, for your information, you are now in the depths of the Templum Mori, the house of the dead where the Lords Prefecta Mortem hold court and the fallen and the lost of the great city are named and counted. It will not surprise you then to know you are here to view a corpse, I doubt it will be your first, but it is, shall we say, quite singular!”
Sand chuckles to himself, but then quickly continues, brushing aside any attempts at questions during the short pause.
“Now if you will kindly attend and pay heed, I will take questions afterward.
“The body has been positively identified as that of one Saul Arbest, male, 23 years of age, hive worker, unskilled laborer certified. Formerly of the Tantalus Indenture, registered habitation: chamber 6/23 stack 717# Coscarla Division, southern zone, Hive Sibelius.
“Subject found dead on the midhive transit rail three days ago as the car returned to the main depot. Preliminary examination at the scene suggested death by drug overdose. Post mortem performed by the biologis forensic, however revealed certain anomalies that necessitated our involvement.
“The cause of death was in fact total systemic failure brought on by tissue rejection of an implanted synthetic graft organ. Said organ destroyed his central nervous system while attempting to overcome the immune response.
“In short this…” The servo skull whirs forward to display a jar containing a ten centimeter long white cord of waving glassy tendrils, still in motion, still alive. “…crushed the life out of him from the inside."
“What’s it for? Unknown, but my opinion would be, in a word, ‘control’—neural and synaptic override, perhaps worse.
“There were other grafts and surgery of a less singular kind also; one lung replaced by a concealed storage cavity, possibly for his use as a courier. Also, one optic nerve removed, skin flayed from his stomach, I’ve no idea why. His system’s awash with alchemic traces, clotting agents, panimmune and the like.
“The surgery was expert, but by the lesions and tissue stresses, I doubt any care was given to whether or not it was painless. In fact, by the damage to his vocal cords, my guess was that he probably screamed as long as he was able to.
“But this little monster is what concerns us. Oh, you don’t need to know the genelore or the Omnissian edict, just that this is not only illegal, it is forbidden, it is heresy. Merely tampering with this kind of dark tech is enough to warrant a death sentence from the Holy Ordos, the Arbites, or the Mechanicus.
“And I’m sure that you, as well as I, am wondering how such a rare and vile thing ended up wrapped round the spine of some anonymous habprole from the dusty end of the stacks.
“The man has no prior criminal record, he was rendered invalid by indenture—laid off if you will, some sixty days ago now and was reported missing thirtytwo days ago by his sister, one Lili Arbest, resident of the same habstack. More than enough time to get himself into all sorts of trouble, I’m sure you’ll agree. These grafts are no more than eight or ten days old at most. We have nothing else on him.
“This is to be a shadow investigation, no open official involvement and no notification of the local authorities, and no one knows he’s here either. Coscarla’s down hive, so a covert approach will draw far less attention than a boot through the door, and be far less likely to kill any leads to our heretic.
“Find out why and where if you can, better yet, find out how. Best of all, find out who is responsible. Go with the grace of the God Emperor, oh and additional samples would be a blessing if you can procure them.”
The long winded interrogator at last pauses, and it seems that if you have questions, now is the time to ask them.
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