A furious Machine-Spirit offers me a data packet. It is dissected by my Advanced E-War Suite then passed onto me unharmed. With my mind immersed within the noosphere and Torchbearer’s systems, it is trivial for me to project multiple virtual screens in front of myself. The data unfolds across multiple displays showing a water treatment plant from multiple angles as well as extensive records of what goes in, and out, of this vital facility.

  Pipes, tanks, pumps, and filters are spread across multiple rooms. Even in this industrial facility, the flare of Imperial architecture is present with skulls, cogs, shrines, and statues tucked among the thrumming machinery. Candles and dim, electric lights illuminate the space with yellow, flickering light that reflects off the well polished machines.

  Hammocks, dividing cloths, and nets full of goods hang in every available space. A thick haze of hallucinogens wafts through the air, obscuring everything and muffling the constant moans of pain and pleasure. The storage rooms and workshops have been partially converted into drug labs and ritual spots, stuffed with cushions, cloth, and hookahs.

  Hundreds of people move through the water treatment plant and I spot what upset the Machine-Spirit so much. Many people tend to the machines, muttering prayers, and none follow Mechanicus doctrine. Strange additions have been made to the pipe works: extra filters, small taps, cases hiding non-standard mechanisms and so on.

  The cleanliness is striking and the expertise of these narco-tribesmen is clear. I assume that Tanthos Moross lets these people inhabit the treatment plant because they look after it and he can’t get hold of a Tech-Priest to do a proper job of it. The priests of Altar-Templum-Calixis-Ext-17 are well known for their isolationist nature and no passing ship is going to hand out their enginseers without a significant bribe.

  I have heard that Hive Cities often follow similar arrangements, letting gangs syphon resources from vital systems in exchange for not having to guard or maintain them.

  Sure enough, these narco-tribesmen are similar. Reading through the list of inputs and outputs I can’t help but shudder. They are both ingenious and disgusting in equal measure. The narco-tribesmen are extracting the chemicals pissed away by tens of thousands of druggies, recycling them into new drugs, then repeating the process. They literally have a closed loop of constant highs, constantly injecting and smoking their own shit in more ways than I wish to contemplate.

  How they get anything done, and to such a high standard, is an utter mystery. What really draws my attention however, is an armoury. Neat wracks of weapons and armour line the walls and four large tables fill the centre, stacked high with corpses. Damaged armour, viscera coated clothes, and bloody weapons are piled at random as two dozen men and women strip the dead.

  On the floor, a thin, sweaty man has his hands wrapped around the neck of a dead, teenage girl. Her arm is missing and her torso is full of holes, yet the man above her is locked in near rapture as he violates her corpse, his hips rutting against her battered remains in a wild frenzy.

  A torrent of disgust flows through me, and were I capable of such, I would have thrown up. My mind blanks for a brief moment as I try to rationalise between what I can see and what should have never been.

  I was already irritated by their modifications to the water treatment plant, but this? This is too much. I am so angry that I miss the start of the conversation and have to replay it.

  “Oi, Gideon, knock that shit off. These suckers aren’t going to loot themselves.”

  Gideon ignores the speaker and continues to dedicate his body to his...passions with little care for his surroundings.

  “Ignore him, Vins,” says the woman standing next to Vins. “He’s on a journey of assisted self-discovery. Probably thinks he’s railing his mother.”

  Vins snickers, “Damn that’s nasty. Where are all these bodies coming from anyway, Orva?”

  “Bunch of rich folk are shooting up the station. Everyone’s gone mad with greed. You see these undersuits? Self repairing, run off power packs, and come with nice helmets. No more breathing bad air. The sabres and laspistols they all carry are pretty nice as well.”

  I can’t believe the narco-tribes are hunting the Penitents for my cast off gear!

  “Right, right, so why are they bringing them all back here?”

  “Not all of them. Obviously everyone is nicking what they can. Most don’t know how to get these suits off though.” Orva plugs a cable from a dataslate into the collar around the neck of the body and taps her dataslate a few times. The collar splits in two, revealing the top of a zip. She pulls on the tag and the front of the undersuit splits down the middle. “They’re all genelocked. Real fancy stuff. Much easier to take off if you’re wearing them, but it’s not like these dead buggers can hand over their gear. Thankfully we have a few of these Hospitaller dataslates that can get past the security.”

  “You mean my dataslates,” Vins scoffs.

  “Whatever, Vinny boy. Where did you get these things anyway?”

  “Stole ‘em.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Eh, once upon a time I was an apprentice to the medicae folks. Got kicked out for overdosing a self-important jerk.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Wot. It’s true! I have an educayshun and everyfink!”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Such a bright twit you are! Now help me roll this body over. They’re mostly skin and bone but they’re still heavy.”

  “You reckon we’ll get a bolter bitch in here?”

  Orva tuts, “Dream on, Vins. Not with their armour. Word has it they’re tearing up the place. Burning all our stashes, singing along with that annoying vox recording. It’s not just greed. How do you think the bosses united so many people to have a go at these wealthy zealots? Everyone’s spitting mad because the bolter bitches keep purging our ‘Dens of Sin’ and the mob that follows them is pillaging everything they can get their hands on.

  “Urgh, that Magos must be a total idiot to let them onto the station. He’s gonna get a massive fine for all that damage.”

  “Ha! He has ships and soldiers. He won’t have to pay a thing. We should hand out Gideon’s secret stash and lock our maddest tweakers in with the rest of the corpses. No better revenge than that.”

  Damn right I won’t! At this point I’m tempted to blow up the void station myself, no matter how many people it would piss off. It’s a shame I don’t have the capacity to build another Macro-Ferry to replace it. Yes, I’m annoyed that the Sororitas are stirring up more trouble than they need to. On the other hand, my empathy for these narco-tribes has hit rock bottom. It isn’t good to tar all the tribes with the same brush, but today, I have no desire to be all proper and reasonable.

  “I like the way you think, Orla,” says Vins.

  The narco-tribesmen continue to loot the constant stream of bodies that flow into their armoury. The operation is massive with people rushing back and forth with boxes of gear and pallets of corpses.

  I play through the data, picking up the names of the different tribes, their leaders, and their feuds. It is useful and I will take some time to consider my response to their actions.

  I reduce their data feeds to an audiofeed and transcript, then place it on a single screen, unwilling to subject myself to further images of their degeneracy. Next I open up the collated records of Ephrine’s actions, chasing down the gossip of the narco-tribesmen to find out what is actually happening at the Spire of Intoxicants and Hab-Fanes.

  The Hab-Fanes are huge structures shaped like temples with crenelated exteriors, decorated with crystal sculptures of Imperial Saints and leering gargoyles. Within their stone interiors are massive open spaces, divided by cloth and metalwork in a shifting three dimensional maze of stinking humanity.

  Ephrine directs the Penitents to the exits, though I doubt she finds all of them, and locks down the fortified temples. Her Sororitas and recruits wander through the space, questioning the populace, asking about the weeks leading up to Karrad Vall’s assault, where the cultists might be hiding, how many armed groups they’ve seen since the assault began, where they went, and many other pertinent questions.

  At first, the Sororitas are met with gruff, and brief replies. The civilians keep clear of them as they cross skyways, bother shopkeepers, and grab people at random. At the end of each interrogation, the Sororitas bless the person they’ve been questioning, then move on. This earns them some good will. Word spreads through the Hab-Fanes and people start coming to the Sororitas for blessings and to talk about mutant sightings, troop movements, and so on.

  One woman rushes forward with a young boy in her arms. He is pale and shivering. It has to be the most classic set up for a distraction I’ve ever seen and the Sororitas are immediately on guard.

  Ephrine’s shoulders slump slightly as she realises that she can’t send this woman away without ruining the good will the Sororitas have built up and there’s always a chance that these people need genuine help.

  “Stay where you are, citizen,” says Ephrine.

  The Sororitas shoulder their weapons, not pointing them at anyone quite yet, as they fan out and people start backing off. Not panicking, but I can see the tension rippling through the crowd as everyone gets ready to run. The woman freezes.

  “Clear a space around her.” There is some half-hearted shuffling, then Eprhine yells, “Move!”

  The crowd scramble back and Ephrine approaches the woman.

  “Keep calm, citizen and no sudden moves. What do you need?”

  “Please help my baby boy! He has been sick for weeks and I do not know what is wrong and they won’t let me through to the Lieges Court to take him to the Hospitallers.”

  “I can offer a blessing and no more. You may petition the Stellar Fleet for further help when they dock. The wait will be long.”

  “Anything. Please. At least with a blessing he might pass in peace.”

  “Very well.” Ephrine approaches the woman, one hand constantly hovering near the chainsword on her waist.

  The woman shakes slightly as Ephrine presses her other hand against the boy’s brow.

  “Father, your daughter begs for your aid. I ask that you bless this scion of humanity: grant them the strength to fight off the unseen and the will to see the next dawn.”

  Gasps fill the crowd and Ephrine’s voice hitches as a golden glow surrounds the child. A healthy blush fills his cheeks and he stops shivering, though he remains asleep.

  The woman clutches Ephrine’s arm and says, “Thank you so much! Bless you, Sister. Bless you.” She bows, then rushes off.

  The crowd stand around, stunned for a brief moment, then mob the Sororitas, demanding their own blessings. Moments later, four squads of heavily armed and armoured cultists charge down the street and fire at the Sororitas. Mutant hounds barrel through the crowds, ripping into flesh and crushing bones.

  It is only the bodies of the crowd that protect the Sororitas from being cut down. Instead, the civilians mobbing the Sororitas shield them for just long enough for them to dive into cover behind plasteel panels, displays of goods, and a sturdy wheelbarrow.

  The Sororitas are quick to return fire, their bolters churning through the hounds and cultists, blowing chunks from heads and torsos in a brief display of ultra-violence. The whole fight lasts twenty-three seconds. A heavy silence descends upon the street. Fyceline smoke drifts through the air.

  Not one Sororitas has been injured, even the lightly armoured recruits, and every cultist is dead. Their autoguns and heavy stubbers lie among their gibbed corpses. I even spot a rocket launcher that they never had the time to fire.

  I stare in disbelief at the Sororitas’ unbelievable luck. Murphy is quick to retaliate though and the Black Brotherhood pop out of the metalwork, tossing molotov cocktails at stores and assaulting the surviving citizens with pipes and stubbers.

  To my surprise, the civilians are also quick to take cover and fire back, pulling homemade subbers and other improvised weapons from their ragged clothes.

  Three Sororitas recruits are hit with stray shots. Their armour absorbs the rounds. They panic and start shooting at the civilians, who, from the distinctive patterns on their clothes, I suspect are a mix of lesser gangs and narco-tribesmen, and Black Brotherhood too.

  At that point, everyone is shooting everyone else. The violence quickly spreads and within minutes the Hab-Fanes descend into utter anarchy.

  HERE. Many thanks to Brian for putting this together in their spare time.

  Warhammer 40k Lexicanum, , and . I've also enjoyed opinion pieces such as: , The via Gamespot, and . While not strictly 40k, they are good for inspiration and IRL explanations.