Kratos5627
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The Price of Information
🕑 Added 2025-03-10 07:31:44 +0000 UTC---
Cassian moved through the lower hive with ease, his steps sure but unhurried. The underhive was a different beast from the Arbites precinct—louder, dirtier, alive in a way that the cold steel corridors of law enforcement weren’t. The air was thick with the scent of rust and unwashed bodies, and the ever-present hum of machinery pulsed in the background, like a mechanical heartbeat.
It had been a while since he came down here. Not since his work with the Arbites began in earnest. But some things never changed—like the need for information. And Joren? He was one of the best sources Cassian had.
The backroom of the drinking hole was dimly lit, the glow-strips flickering in protest of their age. Joren sat where he always did, a bottle in one hand, his boots kicked up on the table. He didn’t look surprised to see Cassian, though his brow lifted slightly as he gestured to the empty seat across from him.
“Well, well. Look who decided to crawl out of his shiny precinct,” Joren drawled, taking a lazy sip from his bottle. “Figured you’d forgotten about us little folk.”
Cassian pulled out the chair and sat, resting his arms on the table. “You know me better than that.”
Joren scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. You’re too stubborn to forget anything.” He leaned forward, setting his drink down with a dull thud. “So, what’s the occasion? Because I doubt you came here just to catch up.”
Cassian didn’t waste time. “I need information. Cult activity. Locations. Anything that’s been moving under the radar.”
Joren’s expression lost some of its casual ease. He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his stubble. “Shit. I was hoping you weren’t gonna say that.”
Cassian stayed silent. Joren wasn’t one to spook easily—if even he looked uneasy, then whatever was happening was worse than expected.
After a moment, Joren leaned in slightly. “You ever hear of the abandoned manufactorum in Section 44 in midhive?”
Cassian frowned. “I’ve read reports about it. Supposedly shut down decades ago.”
Joren nodded. “That’s what everyone thought. But lately? People have been seeing movement inside. Not gangers, not squatters. Something else.”
Cassian’s fingers tapped lightly against the table. “Define ‘something else.’”
Joren’s voice lowered. “Priests.”
That gave Cassian pause. “Priests? What kind?”
“The wrong kind,” Joren muttered. “These ones? They don’t talk about the Emperor. They don’t preach redemption or faith. They talk about blood.”
Cassian felt the faintest chill creep up his spine.
Joren continued, his voice quieter now. “No one gets close, but people hear things. Chanting at night. Strange figures moving through the upper levels. And the people who go looking?” He shook his head. “They don’t come back.”
Cassian studied him. Joren wasn’t the type to buy into ghost stories or hysteria. If he was taking this seriously, then there was something to it.
“You got a layout of the place?” Cassian asked.
Joren hesitated, then dug into his jacket, pulling out a crumpled map. He smoothed it onto the table, his fingers tracing over faded lines. “This is old, but it’s the best I got. Tunnel access runs beneath it, but those passages have been sealed for a while. Main entry is through the loading docks—if you want in quietly, you’ll need to be smart about it.”
Cassian committed the details to memory. This was exactly the kind of lead he needed.
Joren sat back, eyeing him carefully. “Look… I don’t know what you’re planning to do with this, but if you’re smart, you’ll let it go. Whatever’s brewing in that manufactorum? It’s not normal, Cass. I’ve seen gangers, I’ve seen Arbites crackdowns, I’ve seen all kinds of nasty shit in this hive—but this?” He exhaled, shaking his head. “This is different.”
Cassian didn’t respond right away. There was a time when a warning like that might’ve made him hesitate. Not anymore.
He pocketed the map and met Joren’s gaze. “Appreciate the concern. But I don’t plan on dying.”
Joren gave a dry laugh, though there was little humor in it. “You sound way too sure about that.”
Cassian smirked, just slightly. “Confidence is key.”
Joren sighed. “Just… don’t get yourself killed, alright?”
Cassian rose from his chair, adjusting his coat. “I’ll do my best.”
And with that, he walked out, the weight of the upcoming mission settling on his shoulders.
As he moved back toward the precinct, Cassian’s mind was already working. Joren thought he was warning him off—but all he had done was give him the perfect lead.
An abandoned manufactorum. A priest preaching about blood. Missing people.
The pieces were falling into place.
He didn’t believe in fate. Didn’t believe in destiny. But this? This felt like the kind of moment where things started to spiral.
At least He was ready.
—-
Cassian moved quickly through the precinct, his boots striking against the cold steel floor. The air inside was thick with anticipation—officers preparing for battle. The tension was palpable, lingering like the scent of gun oil and incense. The Arbites were always ready for conflict, but this felt different. This was a purge.
He pushed open the door to Vain Derrus’ office, stepping inside without hesitation. Derrus looked up from a dataslate, his expression neutral. But there was an edge in his eyes, the kind of weight that only came before bloodshed.
“You’re back,” Derrus said, setting the slate down. “That was fast.”
Cassian didn’t waste time. He pulled a worn-out map from his coat and spread it across Derrus’ desk. The parchment was old, the ink faded, but the markings were unmistakable.
“Joren gave me this,” Cassian said. “Abandoned manufactorum in Section 44. It’s active—strange movement, figures coming and going at night, and a priest preaching something that isn’t the Emperor’s word.”
Derrus’ brow furrowed. “A priest?”
Cassian nodded. “Joren heard chants. People disappearing in the surrounding area. Tunnels that should be sealed aren’t. He said it feels…wrong.”
Derrus exhaled through his nose, leaning forward. “And you trust this source?”
Cassian met his gaze. “He’s never been wrong before.”
Derrus was silent for a moment, staring at the map, his fingers tapping against the desk. Then he gave a small, humorless smirk.
“You really know how to find trouble, Vail.”
Cassian shrugged. “I just follow the trail.”
Derrus straightened. “Good work. This lines up with some reports we’ve had, but nothing solid until now. We needed a location, and you just handed us one.”
Cassian nodded. “What’s the plan?”
Derrus didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pressed a comm-bead in his ear.
“Get me Sera, Gaius, and the others. We’re meeting now.”
The meeting room was dimly lit, a single lumen casting long shadows over the table. A small group of enforcers gathered, their faces hardened, their armor worn from past engagements.
Derrus stood at the head of the table. The map Cassian provided was spread out in front of them.
“We have confirmed cult activity in Section 44,” Derrus began. “The manufactorum has been compromised. We don’t know their numbers, but we know they’re organized. This isn’t a gutter-cult of scavengers—it’s something more. Our job is to root them out before this spreads.”
The enforcers exchanged looks. None of them were surprised.
Gaius, a veteran officer, crossed his arms. “What do we know about their defenses?”
Derrus nodded toward Cassian. “Vail, give them what you’ve got.”
Cassian leaned slightly over the map, keeping his voice measured. He wasn’t in command here, but he could provide insight.
“The main entrance is through the loading docks. That’s their most defensible position—they’ll expect an assault from there. The manufactorum itself is old, which means plenty of collapsed sections, broken stairwells, and rusted catwalks.”
Sera, another officer, frowned. “Any secondary entry points?”
Cassian tapped a section of the map. “Upper levels. If we can breach from the top floors, we can cut off their escape routes and trap them inside.”
Derrus considered this. “We’ll split into two teams, then. Main force takes the docks. Secondary team moves in from the upper levels. If they try to run, we gun them down.”
Gaius nodded approvingly. “And explosives? We could breach multiple points at once.”
Cassian shook his head. “Too risky. We don’t know how unstable the structure is. One bad detonation, and we’re burying ourselves along with them.”
Derrus smirked slightly. “Good thinking.”
Sera exhaled, crossing her arms. “Weapons? We go in expecting autoguns and stubbers, but if they’ve got las weapons or worse…”
Derrus’ expression hardened. “Then we adjust. Shock and awe. No drawn-out fights—we hit them fast and end it quickly. The longer we stay, the worse it gets.”
The room fell silent for a moment. Everyone understood what that meant.
Cassian watched them, reading the room. These were seasoned officers, but even they weren’t underestimating this mission.
Derrus finally spoke again. “We move in three hours. Get your gear ready.”
The precinct became a controlled storm of motion. Enforcers moved with purpose, checking weapons, preparing armor, running final diagnostics on their gear.
Cassian moved through the armory, securing his own loadout. Shock maul at his side, combat shotgun slung across his back. His armor was already strapped on—heavy, reliable, built for war.
Derrus stopped beside him, tightening the straps of his own gear.
“You ready?” he asked.
Cassian loaded a fresh shell into his shotgun. “Always.”
Derrus studied him for a moment, then gave a small chuckle. “You’ve changed, Vail.”
Cassian glanced at him. “That a problem?”
Derrus shook his head. “Just an observation.”
Cassian didn’t respond. He had changed. And he’d keep changing, adapting, until nothing could touch him.
Across the room, officers murmured quiet prayers, reciting battle hymns under their breath. Others checked and re-checked their weapons. Some sat in silence, eating their rations as if it were their last meal.
Cassian observed them, but he didn’t waste time on rituals or superstition.
Faith wouldn’t save them.
Only preparation would.
Derrus clapped him on the shoulder. “Three hours. Get some rest while you can.”
Cassian simply nodded.
He knew he needed time to prepare himself.
—-
Word count: 1700
