Kratos5627
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The Ties That Bind
🕑 Added 2025-03-10 07:48:56 +0000 UTC
The precinct was breaking.
Not in the way that buildings collapse or machines fail—it was breaking in spirit. The air reeked of exhaustion, of men and women running on fumes, of desperation held together by duty and blind faith. The chaos outside the walls had begun seeping in, filling the spaces between patrols, between shifts, between the moments when an Arbites officer stopped to think.
Cassian didn’t stop to think.
He moved through the corridors with purpose, weaving past enforcers too busy to care, past clerks hammering at dataslates, past the stink of recaf and blood and unwashed bodies. No one spoke unless necessary. Words were a luxury in times like these.
When he reached Legate-Commander Varus’ office, he didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped in, shut the door behind him, and stood at attention.
Varus barely glanced up from his terminal. The man looked worse than before—new bruises, fresh lines of exhaustion, a grim set to his jaw.
He shoved a dataslate across the desk. “Read it.”
Cassian picked it up. His eyes moved quickly, scanning the content. This wasn’t just a minor cult investigation.
A planetary governor’s aide had vanished two days ago. Officially, he was merely missing—unofficially, the Arbites had reason to believe he was taken. The last records placed him in a trade guild-controlled sector, a known hub for smuggling, bribes, and backdoor dealings.
But that wasn’t what caught Cassian’s attention.
Buried in the report, attached to the aide’s last communication logs, was a single word.
“Ascension.”
His grip on the slate tightened. That wasn’t a business term. That wasn’t some code for mundane corruption. That was cult language.
Varus rubbed his temples. “You see why we don’t have time for protocol.”
Cassian set the slate down. “Who else knows?”
“No one.” Varus exhaled sharply. “We don’t have the manpower to pull bodies off the frontlines for an investigation, and if we make a move with Arbites forces, it’ll tip them off. We need to handle this quietly.”
Cassian understood immediately. “Off the books.”
Varus gave a short nod. “You find out what happened. If he’s still alive, recover him. If it’s a cult, get proof.” His expression darkened. “If they’re preparing for Ascension, we burn them.”
The implication was clear. This wasn’t an investigation. It was a prelude to extermination.
Cassian didn’t hesitate. “I’ll need outside information.”
Varus waved him off. “Do what you need to do.”
---
Joren was exactly where Cassian expected him to be—a dingy backroom in the depths of the underhive, a smoke-filled hideout where laborers, criminals, and survivors gathered for a few moments of respite before returning to the hell outside.
Cassian pushed through the door, ignoring the stink of old amasec and burnt lho-sticks. Joren was at his usual table, nursing a drink that smelled like engine degreaser with a kick.
When he saw Cassian, he sighed. “You look like shit.”
Cassian sat across from him. “Busy day.”
Joren smirked. “You, my friend, are the only man in this hive who keeps getting promoted without realizing it.”
Cassian didn’t smile. He placed the dataslate between them and tapped it once. “Need your eyes on this.”
Joren glanced down, his casual demeanor slipping the moment he saw the contents. He muttered something under his breath. Something bitter. Something tired.
“Shit.” He ran a hand over his face. “You always bring me the fun jobs.”
Cassian leaned forward slightly. “Talk to me.”
Joren exhaled, taking a slow sip of his drink before speaking. “I’ve heard the name. Ascension. It’s been floating around the lower levels for weeks. People talk about it like it’s a miracle. A way out.” He shook his head. “Problem is, no one ever says what it actually is. Just that it’s ‘coming soon.’”
Cassian processed that. A lure.
“Where do they operate?”
Joren sighed. “There’s an old aqua-pumping station near the underhive tunnels. Officially, it’s abandoned. Unofficially?” He tapped his fingers against the table. “People go in, and they don’t come back. I’ve had workers vanish after looking for ‘better pay.’ A couple gangers, too.”
Cassian’s gaze was steady. “How dangerous?”
Joren huffed. “Do you ever ask me for safe jobs?”
Cassian didn’t answer.
Joren set his glass down and met his eyes. “Listen to me, Cass. You’re walking into something big. This ain’t just some backroom cult. They’ve got money, power, reach. If they’re bold enough to snatch a governor’s aide, then either they’re stupid—”
“—or they’re protected,” Cassian finished.
Joren nodded grimly.
Cassian took a breath. “I’m going in.”
Joren stared at him for a long moment, then muttered something under his breath. “You’re a mad bastard.”
Cassian didn't say anything to that.
Joren shook his head, exhaling. “Try not to die.”
---
The underhive swallowed sound.
Cassian moved like a shadow, weaving through the filth-choked corridors of the abandoned aqua-pumping station. Pipes groaned above him, gushing lukewarm, recycled water through unseen veins. The air stank of rust and mold, but beneath that—copper. The thick, unmistakable scent of blood.
His lead was thin. Joren had only given him a name and a location. That was it. No warnings, no details—just enough to tell him where to start dying.
Cassian wasn’t planning on dying.
He pressed his back against a corroded bulkhead, inhaling slow, controlled breaths. His mind drifted—not outward, not yet. He focused inward.
Breathe in. Hold. Release.
The words of his mantra burned into his thoughts.
My mind is my own. My mind is my own.
The Warp stirred like a predator in the dark, eager to sink its claws into his soul. He didn’t let it. Instead, he grasped only the edges of its power—not enough to drown, just enough to listen.
The world shifted.
Minds flickered in the dark. Close. Too close.
He caught glimpses—twisted thoughts, hunger, rage. The men who prowled these tunnels weren’t just thugs. They craved bloodshed. Not for money. Not for power.
For the joy of it.
Cassian clenched his jaw and let the Warp slip away. The pressure in his skull eased, but it left behind a dull, throbbing ache.
No time to rest. Move.
---
He slipped between rusted support beams, stepping where the metal was dry. Wet patches meant noise. Noise meant death.
Ahead, a pair of sentinels stood guard at a collapsed corridor. Scarred men in scavenged flak, their skin marked with old wounds that hadn’t healed right. They weren’t just standing idly—they were tense, eyes scanning the dark. They knew someone was watching.
Cassian slowed his breathing. He couldn’t sneak past them—not without making noise. And he couldn’t afford to fight.
Another way.
He reached out.
Not too much. Not too deep.
His mind brushed against the nearest man’s thoughts. Not enough to break in, not enough to control—just enough to whisper.
A flicker of sound in the man’s ear.
A footstep. Behind him.
The sentinel stiffened, whirling around, weapon raised. His partner frowned. “What?”
“I heard something.”
Cassian moved. Silent. Precise. He slipped past them, each step perfectly placed as they scanned the wrong direction.
The Warp pulsed in his skull, eager to be used again. He ignored it.
---
The next room was wrong.
The walls were lined with rusted pipes, but some weren’t pipes. Some were bone.
Cassian stepped carefully, keeping to the edges. The floor was slick, not with water.
A corpse lay in the center of the room. Fresh. The body had been ripped apart, not just killed.
Cassian didn’t stop moving. Don’t look. Don’t think.
Another hallway. Narrower. The air warmer.
He wasn’t alone.
He felt the mind before he saw the body—a presence. Heavy, pulsing, filled with bloodlust.
Cassian pressed himself into the shadows.
The figure moved past him—a brute in patchwork armor, a cleaver hanging from his belt. His head twitched slightly, as if sensing something—but not quite.
Cassian’s mind strained. He whispered into the man’s thoughts.
Keep walking. Keep moving. Nothing is here.
The brute’s gaze drifted away.
Cassian exhaled, his lungs burning.
Too much. That was too much.
His nose bled. He wiped it away and pressed on.
---
The chamber at the heart of the pumping station was lit with fire.
Cassian crouched on the walkway above, peering down into the gathering.
A dozen men—no, more.
All armed. All marked with scars, crude carvings, old wounds that had never fully healed.
At the center stood one man.
Not the strongest. Not the biggest. But the most dangerous.
Cassian could feel it. This one was different.
Not a grunt. A leader.
Cassian’s mind burned. He forced himself to focus.
One chance. No mistakes.
He reached out.
This time, he didn’t whisper.
This time, he dug.
Pain seared through his skull. The man’s mind was a battlefield. But Cassian was used to pain.
Memories slammed into him—rituals, hidden tunnels, names whispered in darkness. The cult’s next move. Their target.
And then the man felt him.
Their eyes met.
Cassian wrenched himself free.
The leader snarled, eyes flaring with recognition.
Cassian was already running.
The first gunshot rang out before his foot even hit the walkway. A crude autogun roared, sparks flying as bullets slammed into rusted metal.
Too slow. Too heavy.
He twisted, flinging himself sideways. The impact sent him rolling, shoulder slamming into a support beam. A heartbeat later, the spot where he'd been standing exploded into shrapnel.
The cultists howled. They had him.
He wasn’t going to fight them. He wasn’t stupid.
Cassian ran.
A narrow gangway stretched before him, its edges rusted through. It wouldn’t hold long.
No choice.
He sprinted across, ignoring the groan of metal beneath him. A second later, a cultist barreled after him.
Cassian reached out—not to him, but to his mind.
Just a whisper. Just enough to plant doubt.
“The bridge is breaking.”
The man hesitated, eyes flicking down. Just for a second.
It was enough.
Cassian jumped.
The gangway collapsed. The cultist fell, screaming, as metal and flesh hit the sludge below.
No time to celebrate.
Cassian landed hard, pain ripping through his ankle. He stumbled, caught himself, and kept running.
---
A side tunnel. Narrow. Pitch black. He plunged into it, his breath coming fast and ragged.
Footsteps pounded behind him. More than one.
They were fast.
Cassian’s vision swam. His head pounded. His nose was still bleeding—his mind was too raw to try another push.
Keep going. Just keep moving.
The tunnel twisted, sloping downward. The air grew wetter, heavier.
Somewhere ahead, a new sound.
Water.
A drainage shaft.
Cassian gritted his teeth. He didn’t have time to think.
He threw himself forward—into the dark.
---
Cold.
The world vanished.
Cassian hit water hard. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, his body seizing as the current pulled him under.
Not like this.
He kicked. He clawed his way up, lungs burning, darkness pressing in. His fingers found something—jagged metal, a broken pipe.
Hold. Climb. Breathe.
His head broke the surface. He sucked in air—then bit down a scream as pain flared through his ribs.
Cracked. Maybe broken.
But he was alive.
Above, voices shouted. Flashlights swept the tunnel walls.
But the current had already carried him too far.
They wouldn’t find him.
Not today.
---
Cassian dragged himself onto a crumbling maintenance ledge. His whole body shook. His ribs ached. His limbs felt like lead.
He laid there, staring up at the ceiling. The sounds of the cultists faded.
For now, he was safe.
But it had cost him.
His head still throbbed. His mind felt raw, stripped bare. Using his powers so much, so fast—it wasn’t just painful.
It was dangerous.
He closed his eyes. His mantra came unbidden, a whisper in the dark.
My mind is my own. My mind is my own.
His fingers curled into a fist.
He’d won. He had the information.
—-
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