Kratos5627
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The Last Stand
🕑 Added 2025-03-14 03:30:01 +0000 UTC
Cassian adjusted the high collar of his borrowed Mechanicus robe as he strode through the hive’s battered precinct fortress. The crimson cogwheel emblem of the Magos Biologis gleamed faintly against his chest, a mark of his new affiliation, but he doubted it would buy him much goodwill among the hardened enforcers of the Adeptus Arbites. The fortress had seen better days—cracks marred its walls, and the once-imposing steel doors bore the scars of battle. The scent of promethium and blood lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the war raging outside.
Despite everything, he moved with purpose. His mind was sharper than ever, his body thrumming with energy. The memetic virus had done its work, and he had survived where most would have perished or been reduced to mindless husks. No insanity, no corruption—just pure, sharpened cognition.
He reached the heavy doors of the precinct office and pushed them open, stepping inside.
Vain Derrus was waiting.
The Arbitrator sat behind a steel desk, his gauntlets resting on its surface as he studied a flickering hololith displaying real-time battlefield reports. His sharp eyes flicked up the moment Cassian entered, and for a brief second, there was something there—surprise.
“You’re alive.”
Cassian gave a wry smirk. “Not what you were expecting?”
Vain leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “No. Not without… symptoms.” His eyes lingered on Cassian, searching for any signs of instability, any flicker of madness. “The Magos Biologis do not hand out such procedures lightly. I expected at least some residual side effects. Yet you stand before me—whole.”
Cassian met his gaze steadily. He had anticipated this reaction. “It’s my biology,” he said simply. A half-truth, but one that served its purpose.
Vain’s expression didn’t change, but Cassian could see the suspicion in his eyes. He was an Arbites—a man trained to root out lies, deception, and corruption. But there were more pressing matters at hand, and after a beat, he gave a short nod.
“Very well,” Vain said. “If you were compromised, we would know by now.” He gestured toward the door. “We’ve been summoned. Gideon is calling all senior personnel for a briefing.”
Cassian followed him without a word, his thoughts already working through the implications.
A final briefing.
That could only mean one thing.
The world was about to fall.
---
The meeting room was packed. The air was thick with tension, the scent of sweat, gun oil, and exhaustion permeating the chamber. The men and women gathered here weren’t just Arbites—they were officers, enforcers, PDF commanders, and even a few grim-faced Mechanicus personnel. All of them veterans of the brutal conflict that had consumed the planet.
At the head of the room stood Arbitrator Gideon, his presence commanding even without the weight of his ornate carapace armor. His face was lined with age and battle, his eyes hard as ceramite. When he spoke, his voice cut through the murmurs like a blade.
“This is it,” Gideon said. “The final battle.”
A grim silence fell over the room.
He pressed a control rune on the hololith, and a planetary display flickered to life above the table. The map was a sea of red. Hive clusters, outposts, entire sectors—each marked with the sigil of Chaos. The enemy had overrun everything.
“The enemy has pushed through every line of defense,” Gideon continued. “The void is lost. No reinforcements are coming. No evacuation. No salvation.” His gaze swept across the room, unyielding. “We are alone.”
A murmur ran through the gathered warriors, but no one spoke out. They had known this. They had felt it in their bones, in the growing desperation of each engagement.
Gideon pressed another rune, and the image shifted—to a single figure. A towering, monstrous warrior clad in baroque crimson armor, his helm adorned with a crown of jagged iron.
A Chaos Champion.
Cassian’s breath stilled.
“This,” Gideon said, his voice like steel, “is the warlord leading this incursion. He is no mere heretic—he is one of the Chosen, a champion of Chaos. His name is not one I will utter in this chamber, but know this: he is beyond us.”
A heavy silence fell. The unspoken truth hung over them like a blade.
They would all die here.
Vain Derrus clenched his fist. “Then we make our stand.”
A murmur of agreement. Then, louder: “For the Emperor.”
It started as a whisper, a low, desperate chant—but it grew.
“For the Emperor.”
“For the Emperor!”
A battle cry, rising, roaring, defiant against the abyss. A final act of resistance in the face of annihilation.
Cassian raised his voice with them, his own shout joining the chorus. He had to blend in. To be seen as one of them. To not draw suspicion.
But deep inside, beneath the surface, his thoughts burned cold and clear.
I need to get off this planet.
The battle was lost. This world was lost. And while these men and women would fight to the bitter end, Cassian knew he could not afford to share their fate.
He clenched his jaw, watching the fire in their eyes, the unwavering conviction in their faces. For them, there was no choice. No escape. They would fight, and they would die, because that was the only path left for them.
But Cassian was different. He had fought to survive, to gain power, to rise beyond the fate of a nameless corpse in a war he never asked to be part of.
He would not die here.
He refused to die here.
Gideon stepped forward, his gaze fierce. “We fight, not for victory, but for defiance. We fight to buy time, to make the enemy bleed. To ensure that even if this world falls, they will know that we did not go quietly.”
The room erupted in cheers. Cassian clenched his fist and nodded, keeping his expression firm.
Inside, his mind was already calculating.
The planet was doomed. The question was no longer if it would fall, but how soon. He needed a way out. A ship. A means to escape the slaughter that awaited them all.
But first—he had to survive the final battle.
As the meeting adjourned and the warriors moved to prepare for the last war, Cassian walked with them. Not as a true believer. Not as a martyr.
But as a survivor.
And he would do whatever it took to live.
—-
Cassian found Joren in the precinct’s makeshift barracks—a repurposed storage room filled with rows of dented cots and scattered equipment. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, metal, and the faint bitterness of lho-smoke. Conscripted workers, now makeshift enforcers, moved with quiet resignation, adjusting their weapons and armor.
Joren sat on the edge of his cot, hunched over as he methodically inspected his borrowed shotgun. The weapon was old, its metal dull with wear, but he handled it with the care of a man who had nothing else to rely on.
Cassian approached, his boots scuffing against the floor. “Joren.”
The old worker didn’t look up immediately, finishing his inspection before setting the shotgun aside. His tired eyes finally met Cassian’s, flickering with something—relief, surprise—but dulled by exhaustion.
“Still breathing, I see,” Joren muttered, rubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw. “Thought the cogboys might’ve turned you into one of their own by now.”
Cassian smirked faintly. “Not yet.”
Joren huffed. “Guess there’s still time.”
Cassian took a seat across from him, resting his arms on his knees. They sat in silence for a while, the unspoken weight of the war pressing down on them both.
Finally, Cassian spoke. “I need a way out.”
Joren’s fingers tensed slightly before he let out a slow breath. “Figured you’d say that.”
Cassian studied him. “You know something.”
Joren nodded, but his expression was unreadable. “I do.”
Cassian leaned forward. “Tell me.”
Joren exhaled through his nose. “Arbites are pulling back. Some high-ranking ones got a plan—an evacuation for the ones who matter.”
Cassian frowned. “And the rest?”
Joren shook his head. “You know how it is.”
Cassian’s jaw clenched. “Who has the details?”
Joren tapped his fingers against his knee. “I do. And I can get you in.”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the catch?”
Joren’s lips twitched in something resembling a smirk, but there was no humor in it. “No catch. Just a favor.”
Cassian waited.
“When you get out, you don’t look back,” Joren said quietly. “Don’t come back for me.”
Cassian stared at him. “Come with me.”
Joren chuckled, shaking his head. “Kid… I’ve spent my whole life in this hive. Running ain’t in me.”
Cassian’s fingers curled into fists. “That’s not an answer.”
Joren’s gaze softened, but his voice remained firm. “It’s the only one I got.”
Cassian felt frustration burn in his chest. “Why?”
Joren sighed, running a hand over his face. “Because I’m tired, Cassian. And because this place made me. I don’t get to leave it behind.”
Cassian swallowed down the anger rising in his throat. “That’s not a reason.”
Joren smirked. “It’s reason enough for me.”
Silence stretched between them.
Joren pulled out a small, worn data-slate from his coat, holding it out. “Everything you need is in here. Codes, locations, names. It won’t get you off-world, but it’ll get you where you need to go.”
Cassian took it, turning it over in his hands. “You sure about this?”
Joren nodded. “Just make sure it ain’t wasted.”
Cassian clenched the data-slate. “It won’t be.”
Joren reached into his coat again, pulling out a small tin. He flicked it open, pulling out a lho-stick and offering one to Cassian.
Cassian hesitated before taking it.
Joren lit his own first, then passed Cassian the lighter. Cassian stared at the flame for a moment before lighting his own, inhaling the acrid smoke.
For a while, they just sat there, the quiet hum of the barracks around them.
Joren finally spoke. “You ever think about the first time we met?”
Cassian exhaled smoke, thinking back. “Yeah.”
Joren smirked. “You looked like a scared little rat back then.”
Cassian let out a breath of amusement. “I was.”
Joren nodded. “But you made it.”
Cassian glanced at him. “So could you.”
Joren shook his head. “No, kid. My story ends here.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened. He hated this. Hated the way Joren had already accepted his fate.
Joren pulled something from his pocket—an old, scratched worker’s ID. He handed it to Cassian.
Cassian frowned. “What’s this?”
Joren smirked. “A keepsake.”
Cassian took it, running his fingers over the worn metal.
Joren gave him one last look, something warm, something final. “You take care of yourself, Cassian.”
Cassian nodded, his throat tight. “You too.”
Joren grinned. “Too late for that.”
They sat there a moment longer, neither of them willing to say goodbye.
Then Cassian stood.
He didn’t look back.
Comments
Kratos5628
Well let's start with the first one, Joren was just an informant he just provided a location. He does have extensive network in the hive which mainly consists of laborers and black market bosses. Second, he did not know any of the ascension stuff. He has clues about whereabouts of governor's aide, so he provided the info. Cassian used his telepathy to extract info from that henchman. Joren in the whole story only provided information and locations of the places he got to know from his contacts. Even extraction as it is open news among underworld bosses. I admit joren did felt like a plot device. But he is not exactly "know it all man". Again, this is my first fic. So, I did make mistakes but you live and learn.
Ikasuki
Your Jorden character feels less like a person and more like a author tool… I can buy that he has his ears on the ground and hear some of the thing going around. Cassian could use some of his brainpower to put 2 and 2 together but that is not good story telling the way you wrote him. He knew about the first summoning where who how what was said and everything that was already a bit much and honestly extremly suspicious… he knew about a second one and the ascension stuff which is even more ridiculous. And now in a different place ( without his usual contact, friends etc in an desperate situation and away from his norm) he knows about extraction amongst higher Arbites when cassion has been dealing in those circle and know nothing about it ? Well no this isnt good writing. You could have used his own perk of super memory and learning + better social interraction. You could have used the other perks of pattern recognition and instinct (which is basically another word for unconscious pater recognition) but no instead you ask the « I know everything character and deliver it on platter » it doesn’t feel great man
