Kratos5627
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The First Week
🕑 Added 2025-03-07 15:17:30 +0000 UTC
06:17 Terran Standard Time
The monotony of the Scriptorum was beginning to wear on him. Every day followed the same structure: twelve hours of transcription, six hours of back-breaking labor, and six hours of sleep—when exhaustion didn’t make him collapse the moment he lay down. He had only been at it for a few days, but his body was already screaming in protest. His hands were raw from handling crude tools, his back ached from lifting, and his legs felt like lead.
But that was the price of survival.
The chits from the Scriptorum alone wouldn’t have sustained him, not with the extra food he needed. The labor-intensive work provided just enough for him to keep going, both in terms of nourishment and slow, incremental physical growth. Every shift, he forced himself through the pain, knowing that there was no alternative. This world wouldn’t wait for him to adjust.
The hive’s lower levels were full of people like him—workers too poor to afford leisure, too insignificant to be noticed by the greater machine of Imperial bureaucracy. The difference was that most had known this life since birth. He was still adjusting.
He rubbed his aching wrist, looking over the meager meal he had managed to afford. It was an upgrade from what the Scriptorum provided, but only barely—corpse starch, a handful of protein gruel, and a half-rotten fruit he had bartered for. The taste was vile, but he ate mechanically. Hunger wasn’t something he could afford to be picky about.
His thoughts wandered as he chewed, eyes scanning the dingy mess hall where he sat among other laborers. Conversations murmured around him, the ever-present background noise of the hive. This was where information flowed—not through whispers of intrigue, but through the complaints and daily grievances of men who had nothing left but their work.
“…another group of workers gone missing near the sump tunnels. Bet it’s the gangers. Bastards get bolder every week.”
“…saw a whole squad of Arbites passing through the district. Something’s got them spooked.”
“…prices went up again. Can’t even afford to get drunk anymore. What’s the point?”
He listened, absorbing what little he could. The hive functioned like a living organism, its various castes and factions struggling against one another in a constant, unseen war for survival. And he was just another piece of flesh caught in the middle.
A shift horn blared, signaling the next cycle of labor. He sighed, stretching his stiff muscles, and stood up.
Time to work.
---
13:42 Terran Standard Time
The weight of the crates burned in his arms, the strain running through his shoulders as he stacked them onto the conveyor. His entire body was drenched in sweat, the recycled air thick with the stench of metal and unwashed bodies. The labor yards were relentless, a place where men were worn down like dull tools until they broke.
[Physique: 3.4 → 3.5]
He wasn’t the only one struggling. Around him, dozens of other workers hauled materials, cleared debris, and maintained the ancient machinery that powered the hive. Some were young like him, barely more than boys. Others were veterans of this endless toil, their bodies riddled with scars and cybernetic augmentations replacing what had been lost to accidents.
One of the older workers, a broad-shouldered man with a crude augmetic arm, grunted as he dropped his load. He glanced over, smirking at him.
“You new?”
He nodded, exhaling slowly as he adjusted his grip on another crate. “Yeah.”
The man chuckled. “You’ve got that look. Won’t last if you keep pushing yourself like that.”
He wiped sweat from his brow. “No choice.”
“None of us have a choice, kid.” The worker sat on a nearby stack of crates, rolling his shoulder. “But there’s a way to work smart. You ain’t a hiver, are you?”
His stomach tensed at the question. He was careful about how he responded to things like this. “Not from this district.”
The man raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Well, listen up. You wanna survive in the yards, you gotta pace yourself. Work with the rhythm, not against it. If you’re struggling, find someone to share the load. We all get paid the same miserable wage either way.”
He considered that. The idea of cooperation wasn’t foreign to him, but trust was hard to come by. Still, if he was going to be here for weeks, it made sense to not break himself too quickly.
The man extended a hand. “Name’s Joren.”
After a brief hesitation, he shook it. “Cassian.”
Joren grinned. “Welcome to the hive, Cassian.”
---
19:08 Terran Standard Time
By the time his shift ended, he could barely feel his arms. His mind was fogged with exhaustion, his stomach growling in protest.
But there was one more thing he needed to do before resting.
His body was reaching its limit, but that was exactly why he needed to push further. It wasn’t just about survival—it was about growth. He wouldn’t allow himself to stagnate.
Returning to his unit, he cleared a small space on the cold metal floor. His limbs trembled as he lowered himself into push-ups, muscles screaming in protest. Sweat dripped down his face as he forced himself to continue. One more. Then another.
He didn’t stop until his body refused to move.
Pain lanced through his arms as he collapsed onto his back, chest heaving. His vision blurred with exhaustion, but a small, grim satisfaction settled in his chest.
[Physique: 3.5 → 3.6]
It was slow. Too slow. But progress was progress.
His breath steadied as he lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Three weeks.
That was all the time he had before his savings ran dry.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would be another battle.
---
Cassian wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, sweat mixing with the dust that clung to his skin. His muscles ached, his fingers felt stiff, and his back throbbed from the relentless strain of moving crates. The labor was brutal, but he forced himself to keep going. It wasn’t just about the money—it was about making himself stronger.
The old man, Joren, sat on an overturned crate nearby, watching Cassian with his usual half-lidded gaze. He had finished his own tasks for the shift, leaving him free to do what he did best—offer unwanted commentary.
"You keep lifting like that, boy, and you'll throw out your spine before the week’s over,” Joren muttered, chewing on something that might have been a dried nutrient bar. “Bend your knees more. You ain't some servitor."
Cassian grunted, shifting his stance slightly before hefting another crate onto the stack. "I’m managing."
Joren snorted. "Sure, sure. Until you ain't."
The two of them had fallen into a rhythm over the last few days—Cassian worked, Joren criticized. Not in a cruel way, though. If anything, the old man seemed mildly amused by Cassian’s persistence.
Cassian set the crate down and rolled his shoulders. “If you’ve got time to complain, you’ve got time to help.”
Joren barked out a dry laugh. “I’ve put in my years, boy. My back ain’t what it used to be.” He gestured toward his leg, tapping the metal brace wrapped around his knee. “Besides, I already carried my weight. You young ones gotta keep the cycle going.”
Cassian wasn’t sure if Joren was talking about the work or something broader, something more cynical. The hive ran on cycles, after all. People were born, they worked, and they died. A relentless, unchanging loop.
Still, he found himself asking, “How long have you been doing this?”
Joren leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Too long. Since before you were born, most likely. Used to be faster, stronger—thought I’d get out of this place one day. Maybe find work topside. Maybe even get a trade permit.” He chuckled, low and bitter. “Turns out, hope’s a hard thing to kill, but not impossible.”
Cassian didn’t respond right away. He understood what Joren meant. He had already accepted that there was no real future here, no path leading upward. He had no illusions about some miracle waiting for him. The hive only took—it never gave back.
Still, he wasn’t planning to rot away like the rest.
“You ever try?” Cassian asked, sitting down on the crate next to him, wiping his hands against his robe.
Joren gave him a sidelong glance. “Try what?”
“To get out.”
Joren was silent for a long moment. Then, with a slow sigh, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal chit, flicking it between his fingers. It was old, worn down, the edges smoothed from years of handling.
“Tried once. Saved up enough to bribe my way into a transport,” he said, turning the chit over in his palm. “But then my foreman—back when I was younger—got wind of it. Reported me to the overseers.” He let out a dry chuckle. “Turns out, loyalty’s worth more than a handful of chits. Got docked wages for a year. Had to start from nothing again.”
Cassian frowned. He had heard similar stories before—stories of people who tried to escape, only to be dragged back down. The hive had a way of keeping people in place, like a vast, living organism that rejected anything trying to break free.
"Would you try again?" Cassian asked.
Joren exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Too late for me, boy. My time’s passed. Even if I made it out, what would I do? Ain’t fit for anything else."
Cassian didn't say anything. He wasn't sure if he believed that. Maybe Joren had resigned himself to this life, but Cassian hadn't. Not yet.
Joren watched him for a moment before clicking his tongue. "You’re different, though. Got that look in your eye. Like you think you got a way out."
Cassian met his gaze, saying nothing.
Joren smirked. “Hah. You’ll learn.”
The shift ended not long after. Cassian stretched out his sore limbs, already dreading the next day. He could feel his body adapting, growing stronger, but the exhaustion was real. He still had his Scriptorum shift ahead, another twelve hours of mind-numbing transcription.
As they gathered their things, Joren spoke up again. "You want real advice? Get yourself a weapon."
Cassian raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Joren snorted. "Because sooner or later, you’ll need it. That’s just the way the hive is."
Cassian didn’t argue. He knew Joren was right.
As he made his way back toward his hab-unit, his mind was already working. He had food, a place to sleep, and a routine. But three weeks wasn’t long. And if he wanted to survive past that, he needed more than just wages.
He needed a plan
—
Word count:1802
