WH 40k: Transcendence

14:02 Standard Terran time

Cassian moved through the hive's winding streets, his steps steady, his thoughts precise. The towering walls of the Adeptus Arbites precinct loomed ahead, a grim fortress of order and punishment. He had made his decision—now came the hard part.

The truth alone would not be enough. He needed to shape it, control it. A direct lie would be too risky. Instead, he would give them what they wanted: valuable information wrapped in just enough ambiguity to keep himself from scrutiny.

The events of Lower Hive City were distant from him—physically and in implication. No one would believe a scribe from the Mid-Hive had direct involvement. So, he had to make it seem like unfortunate happenstance, the wrong place at the wrong time. A sighting, an overheard conversation, something small enough to be plausible yet significant enough to warrant attention.

He reached the precinct doors. The armored figures of Arbites enforcers stood at their posts, their presence exuding the unshakable authority of the Emperor's law. There was no turning back.

Cassian stepped forward.

One of the enforcers turned to him, his helmeted face unreadable. "State your business."

Cassian exhaled softly, keeping his expression neutral. "I need to report something. It concerns heretical activity."

There was a pause. The second enforcer shifted slightly, then jerked his head toward the doors. "Inside. Speak to the officer at the desk."

The doors hissed open, and Cassian entered. The air inside was cold, sterile, and heavy with the scent of metal and discipline. A few figures moved through the halls, some in black carapace armor, others in robes that marked them as clerks or interrogators. At the reception desk, a stern-faced officer eyed him with practiced scrutiny.

"Name and occupation."

Cassian kept his hands visible, his posture open. "Cassian Vail. Scribe, Mid-Hive Scriptorum."

The officer's gaze didn't waver. "Your report?"

Cassian met his eyes, measuring his words carefully. "I was in the Lower Hive recently, handling a package delivery. While I was there, I overheard something. A group of men talking in hushed voices about a... gathering. They mentioned a location—Foundry 13. They spoke in riddles, but their tone, their secrecy—it felt off. And then, the recent purges…" He let the sentence hang, as if he were hesitant to say more.

The officer's expression didn't shift, but Cassian could feel the weight of his scrutiny. He didn't speak immediately, letting the silence stretch—a tactic meant to unnerve. Cassian held firm, his expression carefully crafted to show just the right mix of concern and uncertainty.

After a long moment, the officer gestured toward a side door. "Wait there."

Cassian obeyed, stepping into a dimly lit room with a simple metal chair and a small table. Interrogation chambers in the Arbites precinct could range from this to far more unpleasant variations, but this was a good sign—if they intended harm, he would already be restrained.

Minutes passed before the door opened again. A new figure entered, clad in the imposing armor of a higher-ranking Arbitrator. His helmet was off, revealing a face carved from stone—hard lines, cold eyes, a lifetime of absolute judgment.

"You have information," the Arbitrator said, voice flat.

Cassian nodded. "I don't know much. Just what I overheard. It was chance, but…" He hesitated. "I thought it was worth reporting."

The Arbitrator studied him. "Why?"

A simple question, but a dangerous one. Cassian had anticipated it. "Because I live here," he said simply. "Because I've seen what happens when heretics are left unchecked. The purges, the Arbites cracking down—it's clear something's happening. If there's something dangerous in Foundry 13, I don't want to be anywhere near it."

The Arbitrator tapped his fingers against the table, considering. "A scribe. Unaffiliated. No known connections to Lower Hive elements."

Cassian remained silent. This was the moment where they decided if he was worth keeping alive.

Finally, the Arbitrator leaned forward slightly. "Your information is noted. If it proves useful, you will be contacted again."

Cassian inclined his head. "Of course."

The Arbitrator didn't move immediately. "And if I were to ask how a simple scribe became so aware of such dangers?"

Cassian met his gaze steadily. "I read reports. I hear things. I work in a Scriptorum, after all."

A flicker of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps curiosity—crossed the Arbitrator's face before vanishing. "You're dismissed."

Cassian stood, keeping his pace even as he exited the room, then the precinct itself. The weight of the conversation lingered in his mind.

He had placed his first stone in the game. Now, he had to see where the board would shift.

—-

Cassian settled into the rhythm of his days, keeping his head down and blending into the endless tide of scribes. Twelve-hour shifts in the Scriptorum passed in a monotonous haze, his hands moving mechanically over parchment and dataslates. The work was tedious, but it kept him unnoticed. After his shift, he maintained his training—strengthening his body, improving his laspistol accuracy, and reinforcing his discipline. He avoided drawing attention, playing the part of a lowly scribe with no greater ambitions.

But whispers found their way through the droning work of the Scriptorum.

"You hear about Foundry 13?" One scribe murmured, glancing around before leaning in closer.

"A crackdown. The Arbites swept through," another whispered back.

"Throne, just like that?"

"Not just a few arrests. A purge. Every name on the records—gone. And anyone who might've been involved? Disappeared."

A pause. The scratching of quills and the clicking of typebars filled the void before another voice joined in.

"Means they found something serious," an older scribe muttered under his breath. "Arbites don't wipe out entire networks unless it's bad. Real bad."

Cassian kept his expression neutral, his eyes locked on the report he was transcribing. He didn't react, didn't let his movements falter. But inside, he processed everything. The Arbites had moved on the cult's base in Foundry 13. That was fast. Efficient. No survivors.

He had done it.

A quiet sense of satisfaction settled in him, but he buried it just as quickly. This wasn't the end. The Arbites had taken the bait, but now they would be watching. And watching meant watching everything—including him.

---

Days passed. Cassian continued his routine, training in the brief hours he had after work, pushing himself beyond exhaustion. His accuracy with the laspistol improved—not by much, but enough to notice. His body adapted to the strain, his endurance creeping forward, even if it was slow. Every small gain was another step forward.

Then, without warning, the Arbites came.

It was after his shift, just as he left the Scriptorum. The streets of the Hive were as they always were—crowded, restless, a mass of bodies moving with mechanical efficiency. He had just turned a corner when the presence of armored figures in black halted his steps. The crowd instinctively parted around them, civilians keeping their heads low, avoiding even the briefest glance.

The Arbitrator stood at the center, his carapace armor marked with the sigil of the Adeptus Arbites. He was not as hulking as a Space Marine, but there was a weight to him, a presence that made people shrink away. Cassian understood why. The law of the Imperium was absolute, and the men who enforced it were its executioners.

The Arbitrator's gaze locked onto him.

"Come with me."

Cassian exhaled slowly. He didn't hesitate, didn't argue. He simply nodded and followed.

---

The Arbites Precinct Fortress was a stark contrast to the rest of the Hive. Its walls were thick, reinforced, an unbreakable bastion of Imperial law in a city where crime festered in every shadow. The interior was cold—practical, efficient, without excess. Cassian was led through towering halls, past cells lined with reinforced plasteel, past halls filled with enforcers of the Emperor's justice.

The room they led him to was small, barren. A single metal table, two chairs. A harsh glow from a lumen strip above. Cassian sat when instructed, his posture controlled, his breathing measured.

Then the Arbitrator sat across from him.

Cassian took him in fully now—his features were hard, weathered by experience. His armor bore the marks of countless battles, his bolt pistol resting in its holster, always within reach. There was no warmth in his eyes, no emotion.

"You gave us information," the Arbitrator said, his voice even, unreadable. "That information led to a successful operation. But that also means you knew something dangerous. That makes you worth questioning."

Cassian met his gaze, unflinching. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

A pause. The Arbitrator studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, he leaned forward slightly.

"You've been keeping your head down, scribe. You've made no missteps. That's either a sign of innocence or calculated deception."

Cassian let out a breath, controlled. "I only wanted to survive. I reported what I saw because I knew it was dangerous. That's all."

Another silence stretched between them. Then, the Arbitrator nodded, just once.

"Then perhaps survival is something we can help each other with."

Cassian's mind worked rapidly. This was the moment. The Arbites wouldn't trust him fully—not yet. But they were offering something. An opportunity.

"You want me as an informant," Cassian said carefully.

The Arbitrator didn't confirm or deny it. "You have an ear where we don't. You know how the Hive breathes. That makes you valuable. And in exchange… perhaps you can make a request."

Cassian had already thought about this. He couldn't overstep. He couldn't seem too ambitious. He had to be reasonable.

"I want to learn," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I don't have experience with technology, with self-defense. I only know Low Gothic. If I'm going to be useful to you, I need to understand more."

A pause. Then, the Arbitrator leaned back slightly. Cassian couldn't tell if he was considering it or if he had already made his decision.

"A reasonable request," the Arbitrator finally said. "Basic training. Weapons handling. Some education in High Gothic. Nothing more."

Cassian nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though inside, he felt a small spark of victory. It was a start. A foundation to build on.

But the Arbitrator wasn't finished. His gaze hardened. "This is not trust. This is not friendship. You are useful—for now. But if we find any reason to doubt you, if we so much as suspect deception…" He let the sentence hang, but Cassian didn't need him to finish it.

He understood perfectly.

"I know," Cassian said simply.

The Arbitrator studied him for a long moment before finally standing. "Then we'll see if you're as useful as you claim."

Cassian watched as the man turned and left the room. Only then did he allow himself to exhale fully.

This was a game of survival. A dangerous game where a single misstep could mean death.

But now, at least, he had a piece on the board.

—-

Word count 1820