Kratos5627
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Testing the Utility
🕑 Added 2025-03-10 05:37:33 +0000 UTC
Cassian sat in the cold, windowless office, his hands resting on his lap. The room smelled of old parchment and the faint metallic tang of recycled air, a scent he had grown used to over the years in the Scriptorum. But today, he wasn’t here to transcribe records or organize files.
Across from him, Arbitrator Varus reclined in his chair, fingers idly tapping against the desk. The man’s face was unreadable, his eyes sharp with a quiet scrutiny that felt more like dissection than conversation. Cassian didn’t fidget. He didn’t ask why he’d been summoned. He simply waited.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Varus finally spoke.
“You’re done in the Scriptorum.”
Cassian blinked.
He hadn’t expected that, but he didn’t let the surprise show.
“The Administratum is short on manpower, and the Arbites need men who can shoot as well as they can read,” Varus continued. “Your skills are wasted in that archive.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. “And you’ve already proved you can kill.”
Cassian held his gaze. There was no flattery in the man’s voice, no false praise. Just a simple statement of fact. He had killed. The first time, it had been out of necessity, an act of survival.
He had thought that would be the end of it. A footnote in his life. Another moment lost in the grinding wheels of the Imperium’s endless machine.
Instead, it had changed everything.
Varus slid a dataslate across the desk. “There’s a hab-block in the lower hive. Reports of disappearances. Blood cult activity. You’ll lead a group to clear it out.”
Cassian picked up the slate. The details were sparse—suspected heretics, possible Khorne worshippers, civilians, small numbers.
And no reinforcements.
If he failed, no one would come looking.
Cassian’s fingers tightened slightly around the slate. He understood now. This wasn’t just a mission. It was a test.
Varus studied him, waiting for hesitation, reluctance.
Cassian simply nodded.
“Understood.”
---
The hab-block loomed before them, a rusting carcass of metal and decay. It was a dead place, forgotten by the Imperium, inhabited only by those too desperate or too mad to leave.
Cassian stood at the edge of the corridor, studying the entrance. The building had several points of entry, most of them choked with debris, but the main doors were still operational. That was where the cultists would expect an attack.
He glanced at the men under his command. Two Arbites enforcers, hardened but arrogant. They carried their shock mauls and standard-issue lasguns with the bored confidence of men who thought this was just another routine purge. Behind them, three conscripted gangers shifted uneasily, hands twitching near their weapons. They had no illusions about what this was.
Cannon fodder.
Cassian didn’t care about their lives, but he wouldn’t waste resources, either.
“We don’t go through the front,” he said.
One of the enforcers frowned. “Why not? We hit them fast, hard. Burn them out.”
“And if they have heavy weapons? If they barricaded the doors and are waiting with auto-guns?” Cassian asked, his tone calm, almost conversational. “How many shots do you think you’ll take before you hit the floor?”
The enforcer opened his mouth, then closed it.
Cassian turned back to the hab-block. “We smoke them out.”
The gangers exchanged glances, unsure whether to be relieved or suspicious.
Cassian crouched and began marking points on the map. “We cut off the exits. Seal them in. Then we force them into a choke point.” He tapped a narrow corridor at the back of the building. “Here. They’ll have no choice but to come through.”
One of the gangers hesitated. “And if they don’t?”
“Then we burn the whole place down.”
No one argued after that.
---
The first sounds of gunfire came from inside the building. Muffled shouts, the occasional scream.
It was working.
Cassian crouched behind cover, watching the corridor. Smoke billowed from the lower levels, thick and choking, obscuring everything. Then came the figures—shadows moving through the haze, desperate and disoriented.
He raised his lasgun.
The first man barely had time to react before Cassian’s shot took him in the chest. The impact sent him sprawling, a smoking hole burned clean through his torso. The others followed, some scrambling for cover, others charging forward in a blind rage.
Cassian picked his targets methodically. A burst to the throat. A precise shot through the eye. Each kill clean, efficient.
The enforcers fired in staggered volleys beside him, cutting down anyone who made it past the initial wave. The gangers? Less useful. One was firing wildly, shots sparking off the walls. Another hesitated, visibly shaking.
Cassian made a mental note of that.
Then the real threat emerged.
A towering brute, taller than the others, his body covered in crude scars. He wasn’t wearing armor, but he didn’t need it—lasfire sizzled against his flesh, but he didn’t slow. He roared and surged forward, a massive cleaver raised high.
The enforcers stumbled back. One of the gangers bolted.
Cassian stepped forward.
A single, precise shot. The lasbolt struck just below the man’s eye, burning through the skull and into the brain. The berserker collapsed mid-charge, his momentum carrying him a few more steps before he crumpled to the floor.
The rest of the cultists hesitated. And in that hesitation, they died.
Minutes later, it was over.
The air stank of burnt flesh and smoke. Bodies littered the corridor, blood pooling in thick, dark smears. The gangers stood frozen, still processing what had happened. The enforcers, to their credit, didn’t look shaken. Just... thoughtful.
Cassian lowered his lasgun, surveying the carnage. He had dictated this battle before the first shot had been fired.
He turned as Varus stepped into the corridor, stepping over the corpses without a second glance. The Arbitrator took in the scene with mild interest, then let out a short, approving breath.
“Efficient,” he said.
Cassian said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Varus smirked. “You’re not just a survivor now.” He met Cassian’s gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You’re a part of us.”
Cassian didn’t react.
But inside, something shifted.
The Imperium needed him now.
That meant leverage.
For now, he would play along. For now, he would do what was expected. But this was no longer about simple survival.
Power wasn’t given. It was taken.
And Cassian intended to take everything.
---
Cassian sat across from Arbitrator Verrus, the dim light casting long shadows across the cluttered desk. The office smelled of recaf and old parchment, a stark contrast to the burnt ozone and blood that still clung to Cassian’s uniform. His body ached from the battle, muscles sore in places he hadn’t realized he’d strained.
Verrus flipped through Cassian’s after-action report with his usual methodical calm, scanning each line without hurry. The silence stretched, but Cassian didn’t rush to fill it. He had learned enough about the Arbitrator to know he would speak when ready.
Finally, Verrus set the dataslate down and steepled his fingers. “You handled yourself well,” he said, tone unreadable.
Cassian met his gaze. “I survived.”
Verrus smirked. “More than that. You adapted. Kept your head. That’s rare for someone without formal training.” He tapped a finger against the slate. “Your report is thorough. No embellishments, no self-praise. I like that.”
Cassian inclined his head slightly. “No point in dressing up the facts.”
“No,” Verrus agreed. He leaned back, regarding Cassian with something that wasn’t quite approval, but close. “Tell me, how do you think you could’ve done better?”
Cassian had already dissected the engagement in his mind. “The breach was slow. Enforcers were methodical, but the delay gave the cultists time to react. A more aggressive push could have cut them off before they fortified their position.”
Verrus nodded. “And?”
Cassian’s fingers tapped against the armrest. “The conscripts panicked. I had to keep one from losing it mid-firefight. If I had prepared them better, maybe they wouldn’t have hesitated when the killing started.”
Verrus raised an eyebrow. “You think that’s your responsibility?”
Cassian considered his words. “If I have to rely on them, then yes. Their failure affects me.”
“Pragmatic.” Verrus seemed pleased. “You also made the right call pulling back when you did. You understood the limitations of your position.” He let the words hang for a moment before his smirk returned. “Most fresh conscripts would’ve gotten themselves killed trying to play hero.”
Cassian didn’t respond. He had no illusions about heroism.
Verrus exhaled through his nose, glancing at the report once more before setting it aside. “You’re off to a good start. But this was just a test.”
Cassian had suspected as much. His first combat mission wasn’t just about killing cultists—it was about proving himself.
“Next time, it’ll be harder,” Verrus continued. “The Imperium has no shortage of enemies, and we have no shortage of work. You’ve shown you have potential. Now you’ll prove if you can sharpen it.”
Cassian simply nodded. He had already made his decision when he pulled the trigger.
Verrus studied him for a moment longer, then gestured toward the door. “Get some rest while you can. You won’t have much of it soon.”
Cassian stood, collecting his lasgun as he left. The weight of it felt natural in his hands now.
He wasn’t a scribe anymore. That life was already behind him.
Cassian left Verrus’s office without a word, the heavy door shutting behind him with a dull thud. The tension from the debrief still clung to him, but he pushed it aside. His body had other demands—he was hungry.
The Arbites precinct had its own cafeteria, a stark, utilitarian space built for efficiency rather than comfort. The scent of nutrient paste and recycled protein hung in the air, but compared to the barely edible rations from the Scriptorum, it was a step up.
Cassian moved through the line, grabbing a tray of processed meat substitute, rationed greens, and a dense carb brick that passed for bread. It wasn’t much, but it was food. He took a seat at an empty table in the far corner, away from the clusters of enforcers speaking in low voices.
As he ate, he let his mind wander back to the mission. Verrus was right—it had been a test. The cultists were just one of many threats infesting the hive, and Cassian had no doubt that next time, it would be worse. He had survived, but that wasn’t enough. He needed to be better.
He bit into the dense carb brick, chewing slowly. The room around him was filled with men and women who had lived and fought in this world far longer than he had. They were hardened, disciplined, dangerous. If he wanted to rise above them, he would have to learn from them—and surpass them.
—-
Word count: 1823
