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Bargains and Betrayal
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 03:30:01 +0000 UTCThe hiss of pressurized seals breaking filled the quiet space of the ship’s hold. Cassian pulled his gauntlets free, flexing his stiff fingers as the power armor’s servos wound down with a low whine. Every movement felt heavier now, exhaustion settling into his bones. Blood dried beneath the seams of his armor, and the sharp sting from cuts and bruises reminded him that he was still alive.
The ship was silent, save for the occasional hum of the life support systems. Cassian let himself lean against the wall, head tilting back as he breathed deeply. The air was stale but blessedly free of warp-taint. No flicker of shadows moving where they shouldn’t. No distant whispers gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
Across the room Faron moved with barely concealed tech-lust, the soft whirr of his augmentics punctuating the silence as he hovered over the STC fragment. The Magos had barely said a word since they’d made it back, his mechadendrites delicately inspecting the ancient tech. His hunched frame bent over the artifact as if being near it could grant understanding. Cassian watched him quietly for a moment amused, then pushed himself off the wall with a grunt and began removing the rest of his armor.
The plates came off with a series of sharp clicks, each piece carefully laid out for inspection. His fingers moved automatically, stripping the armor down to its components. The Inquisitorial power armor was a piece of craftsmanship, far more sophisticated than what most imperium wore, but it still needed care. The blackened ceramite showed fresh scoring from shrapnel and claws alike. He frowned, running a hand over a jagged gouge near the chest plate.
Cassian worked in silence, cleaning and repairing each part. He moved with the familiarity of long practice, the maintenance soothing in their repetition. The rhythmic hiss of sealant spray and the soft hum of diagnostic tools filled the room, creating a quiet harmony with the Magos’s murmured binaric cant in the background.
“Remarkable,” Faron whispered, breaking the silence. His mechanical eye glowed softly, lenses whirring as he peered into the STC’s inner workings. “These nanites… Their lattice structure is unlike anything in the current Mechanicus databases.” His mechadendrites shifted, holding a delicate probe that danced over the ancient technology.
Cassian glanced over, curiosity tugging at him despite his exhaustion. “What do they do?” he asked, voice low.
Faron’s optical implant flickered, a sure sign of deep contemplation. “They are… adaptive. Designed to integrate seamlessly with organic tissue. They enhance cellular regeneration, fortify muscular structure, and—” He hesitated, tilting his head. “They can also be prepared to enhance the body.”
Cassian frowned. “Enhancement?”
Faron nodded slowly. “Yes. The nanites can optimize flesh to accept augmentations of all kinds. Mechanical implants, certainly — but also biological grafts, genetic manipulation, even experimental enhancements beyond sanctioned Mechanicus doctrine. A perfect host for innovation.” His voice carried a excited hush, as if orgasming from sheer overload.
Cassian felt a flicker of something deep inside — fascination and amusement. “You know, you sound like the heretics.?”
Faron’s mechanical eye whirred again, considering. “Perspective.”
Cassian shook his head, turning back to his armor. The repairs were simple, just surface-level fixes. That he had completed. His mind still felt raw, like a blade had been drawn across his thoughts and left them fraying at the edges. He forced the memory of the daemon’s voice out of his mind, pushing the feeling of its presence into the deepest corner of his thoughts.
His stomach growled, a reminder of his body’s needs. Cassian sighed and rose to his feet, the weight of fatigue pressing down on him. He crossed the hold to a small storage locker and pulled out a ration pack. The ship’s provisions were nothing luxurious as they were running out, but the taste of synthetic protein and starch was almost pleasant after the horrors they’d endured.
Faron didn’t look up from the STC as Cassian ate, his focus entirely on the ancient technology. Cassian watched him in quiet interest, the Magos muttering to himself in a mixture of High Gothic and binaric cant.
“Magos,” Cassian said after finishing his meal, “you’ve been at that for hours. Don’t you ever rest?”
Faron blinked, as if pulled from a trance. His mechanical eye whirred as it refocused on Cassian. “Rest is inefficient. Understanding must be earned.”
Cassian snorted. “You say that, but you’re going to rust yourself into the floor at this rate.” He leaned back against the bulkhead, savoring the moment of calm. “Besides, if we die tomorrow, what good will understanding do?”
Faron tilted his head, considering the words. “Knowledge is its own reward. Survival is secondary.”
Cassian chuckled. “Remind me not to take life advice from you.”
Faron gave a dry, mechanical sound that might have been a laugh. “Duly noted.”
They lapsed back into silence. Cassian closed his eyes, feeling the weight of sleep dragging at him. The ship hummed quietly around him, a soothing counterpoint to the chaos they’d left behind. He let himself drift, just for a moment, allowing the exhaustion to pull him under.
As sleep claimed him, a whisper curled at the edges of his mind — faint, almost imperceptible. He shifted uncomfortably, reinforcing the walls around his thoughts. The presence faded, leaving only silence.
---
The days blurred together, each one marked by the steady timeline. Cassian had slipped into a quiet rhythm aboard the ship — eating, training, and reinforcing his mind against the constant pressure of the Warp. Even here, in the cold metallic corridors, he could feel the faint pull of the daemon's lingering attention, like the brush of icy fingers against the back of his skull.
It never stopped. The greater daemon might have lost him in the tunnels, but its awareness had grazed his mind, and now the pressure remained. Whispers scraped at the edges of his thoughts, promises of power, of understanding. He ignored them. Every time the whispers came, Cassian pushed back harder, his mental walls growing thicker, more refined.
The Warp clawed at him. He made sure it found no purchase.
His body ached in that dull, satisfying way after days of exertion. The armor repairs had been tedious but necessary. He’d spent hours with his tools, recalibrating the servos, ensuring the joints moved smoothly. Power armor demanded respect, and Cassian treated his like an extension of himself. The scratches and dents from the tunnels remained — scars to be polished later. For now, the armor functioned, and that was enough.
Magos Faron had barely surfaced from his own obsession. The fragment of the Nanite STC had consumed the tech-priest's attention. Cassian often caught him hunched over the data console, mechadendrites twitching as they interfaced with the ship’s cogitators, muttering binaric chants to the Omnissiah while pale blue light glimmered off his optics. Occasionally, Faron would launch into excited monologues about self-replicating machine swarms and genetic integration, most of which Cassian only half-listened to.
It was quiet. And Cassian let himself relax for a moment.
Then the stone started humming.
It started softly, a faint vibration in his pocket. Cassian paused, bolter halfway through a strip-down. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out — the communicator Faevelith had given him.
It was small, smooth, and cold to the touch. The stone shimmered faintly in the ship’s dim light, veins of pale blue running through its crystalline surface. As Cassian turned it over in his palm, he felt a faint tug at his mind, like the brush of a whisper just beyond hearing. The stone was ancient — older than any human empire. Eldar craftsmanship. Psychic resonance. No wires, no circuits. It worked on a level he couldn’t fully understand, yet it felt oddly familiar, like an extension of his own thoughts.
The hum deepened, resonating against his skull. Words bloomed in his mind.
“Mon-keigh.”
Cassian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Faevelith.”
The voice was like silk over steel. “You still live. Unexpected.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair, the bolter forgotten on the table. “Disappointed?”
“Hardly. It means you can still serve your purpose.” There was a pause. “I am ready.”
Cassian frowned. “Ready?”
“The Phoenix Lord.” Her voice was colder now, distant. “My preparations are complete. The hunt begins.”
Cassian felt his pulse quicken. “You’re really going through with this.”
“You question my resolve?” There was no anger in her tone, only the faintest trace of amusement. “You forget our arrangement. You wished for a key to the Webway. That price is yet unpaid.”
“Right.” Cassian rubbed his temple. “And that price is me.”
“Expendable, as agreed.”
“Charming.”
“You knew what you were agreeing to, Mon-keigh. I have no use for half-measures.” The stone pulsed in his palm, almost like a heartbeat. “I offer you this chance to honor your word. Aid me, and the Webway shall be yours.”
Cassian let the silence stretch. His mind drifted back to the tunnels, to the daemon’s whispers, to the weight of the STC fragment now sitting in the ship’s hold. He’d already danced close to death once. Now Faevelith was calling him back into the fire.
He sighed. “When?”
“Soon.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “Rest while you can. You will need your strength.”
The stone went cold in his hand, the connection fading. Cassian stared at it for a long while before slipping it back into his pocket. He leaned forward, rubbing his face with both hands. The quiet felt heavier now.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself. “It’s never easy.”
The Warp hummed faintly in the back of his mind. Cassian pushed it away and picked up his bolter. There was work to be done.
---
Cassian sat across from Magos Faron, the dim blue glow of the cogitator screen casting sharp shadows across the cabin. The faint hum of the ship’s systems filled the silence as the Magos adjusted his optics, the lenses whirring softly as they refocused. Between them, the STC fragment rested in a containment unit, quiet and inert.
Cassian broke the silence first. “She contacted me.”
Faron looked up from his data-slate. “The Eldar.” It wasn’t a question.
“She says she’s ready. The Phoenix Lord.” Cassian rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. “She wants me to hold up my end of the deal.”
Faron made a soft clicking noise, somewhere between disbelief and disdain. “You’re actually considering it.”
Cassian leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “We need that key.”
“And you believe she’ll give it to you?” The Magos’ voice was dry, mechanical. “She’s Aeldari. Treachery is in her bones.”
Cassian exhaled slowly. “I don’t trust her. Not for a second. But without that key, we’re stuck here. You saw what’s out there. That daemon… if we stay much longer, we’re as good as dead.”
Faron tilted his head, the light catching on his augmetics. “And if she kills you after she gets what she wants?”
Cassian’s jaw tightened. “That’s why we need a backup plan.”
Faron leaned forward slightly. “A contingency.”
“Exactly.” Cassian tapped the table. “She’s powerful. Fast. I’ve seen her move — she makes Astartes look sluggish.” His brow furrowed. “If things go wrong, I need something that can slow her down. Something… unexpected.”
The Magos hummed in thought, mechadendrites curling and uncurling. “Aeldari reflexes border on precognition. Conventional weaponry will be ineffective unless deployed at point-blank range.”
“I noticed.” Cassian scowled. “What about traps? Proximity charges, shock grenades?”
“Primitive.” Faron waved a mechadendrite dismissively. “I might have something better.” He tapped into the ship’s cogitator, pulling up schematics. “The ship’s armory has a few arcane devices — Mechanicus relics.” His optics flickered. “One, in particular, might serve our purpose.”
Cassian leaned in. “What is it?”
Faron’s mechadendrite clicked against the screen, highlighting a small, palm-sized device. “Gravitic imploder. Designed for containment breaches aboard Mechanicus voidcraft.” His mechanical fingers tapped rhythmically against the table. “Creates a localized gravity well, collapsing anything within a few meters.”
Cassian raised a brow. “That’d work.”
Faron inclined his head. “It won’t kill her. But it’ll slow her down long enough for you to act.”
Cassian considered that. “And if that fails?”
Faron’s optics gleamed. “Pray.”
Cassian snorted, shaking his head. “Figures.” He stood, sliding his bolter onto his back. “Alright. We go along with her plan. But if she turns on us…” His eyes darkened. “I’ll make sure she regrets it.”
Faron’s mechadendrites clicked in agreement. “May the Omnissiah guide your aim.”
Cassian exhaled, tension settling in his shoulders. The plan was shaky, but it was better than nothing. He glanced toward the containment unit, where the STC fragment pulsed softly in its casing. One problem at a time.
“Let’s get to work.”
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