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14:24 Terran Standard Time
The market was alive with movement, a tangled mess of bodies, flickering lumen-strips, and the stink of unwashed masses. Cassian pulled his hood lower, adjusting the grimy scarf that concealed most of his face. His coat—cheap, oversized, and layered with enough filth to pass unnoticed—hung loosely around his thin frame.
He exhaled slowly. Blend in. Observe. Plan.
His target sat nestled between scrap vendors and a stall selling corpse-starch patties—a black-market arms dealer, the kind who thrived in the lower hive's filth. He was an old man with augmetic fingers, tapping lazily against the rusted counter as he chatted with a ganger.
Cassian kept his distance, feigning interest in a nearby stall selling rusted tools. He didn't have the money to buy a laspistol. So he was going to steal one.
It was a reckless plan, but not a stupid one. Not anymore.
A week ago, his body had been sluggish, his movements imprecise. But now? He curled his fingers experimentally, feeling the control he hadn't had before. His grip was stronger. His hands no longer cramped from hours at the cogitator.
[Dexterity: 3.0 → 3.7]
The endless repetition of typing reports had done more than just make him faster—it had honed his fingers, his reflexes. He could feel the difference in how he moved, the way his hands obeyed his commands with an ease they hadn't before.
It would be enough.
He shifted, stepping away from the tool stall without drawing attention. His movements were different now. He wasn't just forcing his body to obey—he was using it, moving with intent instead of blind effort.
A week of hauling crates had done that.
[Physique: 3.6 → 4.2]
The first few days had been hell. His muscles had screamed, his back had burned, and every step had been a struggle. But then, something had changed. He wasn't just enduring anymore—his body was adapting.
He remembered the moment he had lifted a crate and realized it didn't feel as heavy as before. The strain was still there, but it no longer crushed him.
Then came the skill.
[New Skill Acquired: Physical Conditioning – Level 4]
(Your body adapts to exertion more efficiently. Physique stat gains increased by 4%.)
It hadn't been some magical transformation. He still ached, still felt exhaustion creeping in—but it faded faster. He could push through it. And now, as he prepared to steal from a black-market gunrunner, he knew his body wouldn't betray him.
Cassian took slow, deliberate steps toward the stall. His heartbeat remained steady. No panic. No hesitation.
He was stronger. Faster. Sharper.
And he wasn't alone.
The machine spirit of his cogitator had whispered to him all week. At first, it was just a subtle presence, a faint hum at the back of his mind. But then, the errors in the data-sheets had become clearer to him. The flow of numbers, the logic of the inputs—it all made sense.
[Affinity: 3.0 → 3.8]
It was nothing supernatural. Just the reality of working with a machine long enough that it started working with you. The Mechanicus called it appeasement of the spirit. Cassian called it learning.
And that learning had given him an edge.
His eyes flicked across the stall, memorizing the placement of weapons. The gangers loitering nearby were armed, but distracted. The vendor was bartering, his attention divided. The laspistols were stacked carelessly to the side.
Cassian didn't hesitate.
His fingers closed around the grip of a laspistol, and he moved—fluid, controlled, precise. His feet carried him away from the stall before the vendor even glanced his way.
No sudden movements. No rush. He didn't bolt—he simply walked.
Seconds stretched. He could feel the weight of the weapon pressing against his ribs beneath his coat. The market noise swallowed everything—vendors shouting, machinery whirring, the low hum of a distant servitor.
No one stopped him.
Hope flickered in his chest.
For the first time since waking up in this hell, Cassian felt the future open before him.
He tightened his grip on the laspistol.
This was only the beginning.
---
Cassian forced himself to stay calm. To keep his breathing even. To walk like nothing was wrong.
But his heart was hammering. Loud. Too loud.
The weight of the laspistol was pressed against his ribs, hidden beneath his clothes. It felt heavier than it should, dragging at him, a tangible reminder of his crime.
The mid-hive market was packed, thick with bodies and noise. The smell of grease and rust clung to the air, sweat and machinery mixing in the stifling heat. It was the perfect place to disappear—if he could keep his nerves in check.
His legs burned with the urge to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of the theft. But that was how people got caught. Running drew eyes. Running made hunters out of men who might otherwise ignore you.
So he walked. Not too fast, not too slow. Just another scribe heading home after a shift.
Then the shout cut through the market like a gunshot.
"Oi! That little frakker stole from me!"
Cassian's stomach dropped.
He didn't turn. Didn't react. But his entire body went cold.
Muttering spread through the market like a ripple in water. A few people stopped, glancing around. Searching.
Cassian kept walking, his pace steady. But his pulse was spiking.
Then the worst possible thing happened.
The vendor wasn't just yelling at random people—he was talking to the Arbites patrol.
Cassian's throat tightened.
The Adeptus Arbites weren't enforcers. Enforcers might rough you up, maybe throw you in a cell for a few days. But the Arbites? They executed criminals in the street. No trial. No second chances. Just a bolt-round through the skull.
And they were already moving.
Cassian forced himself to think. Move.
He couldn't run. Not yet. That would confirm everything. He needed cover.
He stepped sideways, slipping between two hunched-over laborers. Their bulky, grease-stained uniforms helped obscure his form. He kept walking, weaving through the shifting crowd, listening as the vendor ranted about a skinny, dark-haired boy.
That description fit a hundred people here. Maybe more.
But the Arbites were trained hunters. They wouldn't stop until they had their target.
Heavy boots. Metal plates clanking. Getting closer.
Cassian risked a glance.
Two Arbites. Black visors. No mercy in their gait. They were scanning the crowd, their movements cold and methodical.
His hands clenched. He had seconds.
A week ago, this moment would have broken him. He would have panicked, frozen, or worse—bolted like a cornered rat. But now? Now he had a body that could keep up with his mind.
His legs didn't shake. His breath didn't hitch. He could move fast without stumbling, without drawing attention.
He turned a corner, slipping into an alley.
Cold metal walls. A rusted walkway overhead. Leaking pipes.
He kept moving. Swift. Silent. His boots barely made a sound.
But the Arbites weren't giving up. He heard them behind him, closer than before.
He yanked off his scarf and coat, stuffing them behind a pile of scrap. Not enough. They'd still recognize his clothes.
Disguise. Now.
He flipped his outer shirt inside out, the fabric now a dirty gray instead of faded blue. It wasn't much, but it was different. Enough to throw off a distracted searcher.
A hiss of steam erupted from a nearby vent, masking the sounds of his hurried movements.
He pressed himself into the shadows, listening.
The boots were still there. Still searching.
Cassian's heart slammed against his ribs.
If they came into the alley, if they even glanced this way—
No.
Stay calm. Think ahead.
The Arbites wouldn't waste time combing alleys for a thief. Not when they had a general description and a market full of potential suspects.
But the vendor? He wouldn't forget.
Cassian clenched his jaw. He had planned for everything leading up to the theft, but he hadn't thought far enough ahead. He had the laspistol now—but what came next?
Hiding forever wasn't an option. He still needed to eat. He still needed to work.
And now? He had to be even more careful.
A week ago, he wouldn't have even considered this kind of risk. But things had changed.
He had changed.
Scribing for hours on end had strengthened his hands, honed his precision. Typing was muscle memory now. That control extended to the rest of his body. His movements were quicker, sharper, more efficient.
He had felt the shift when working at the Scriptorum—his fingers no longer cramped as quickly, his posture no longer sagged.
And the biggest change?
His interaction with the cogitator.
He had started to notice things. The way the machine responded to him. The way it whirred smoother when he touched the keys.
The Machine Spirit knew him now.
It was small. Subtle. But it mattered.
Just like his body—his connection to the world was evolving.
His grip tightened around the hidden shape of the pistol beneath his clothes.
He had to think about the next step. Laying low. Avoiding scrutiny.
The Arbites wouldn't search forever. But they wouldn't forget, either. Thieves always paid for their crimes in the end.
He had bought himself time. Now he had to use it wisely.
Cassian exhaled, his heartbeat slowing. The voices in the market were fading. The Arbites had moved on. For now.
He waited another five minutes, just to be sure. Then he adjusted his shirt, pulling the loose fabric tighter over his frame. His coat and scarf were gone. If anyone saw him now, he was just another faceless worker.
Slowly, he stepped back into the main streets. The air was thick with sweat and oil, the hum of machinery blending with the endless murmur of voices.
The market had already returned to normal. People were bartering, shouting, moving on with their miserable lives.
Cassian did the same.
His legs carried him forward, his posture relaxed but his mind razor-sharp.
Cassian kept his head down as he moved through the streets, his nerves still raw. The market was behind him, but the paranoia lingered. Every passing enforcer, every distant shout, every set of eyes that lingered just a second too long—it all sent a jolt of unease through him.
He forced himself to breathe, to look normal. Act like he belonged. Like he wasn't hiding a stolen laspistol under his clothes.
The worst was over. He had escaped. The Arbites had moved on. But it still felt like the walls of the hive were closing in.
Then he turned a corner and nearly walked straight into Joren.
Cassian's entire body went rigid.
Joren's scarred face twisted into surprise. "Cassian?"
Cassian forced himself to relax. To act natural. But his muscles were locked tight.
Joren wasn't someone he could just brush off. The man had too much experience, too many years in the hive's underbelly. He noticed things.
Cassian swallowed. "Joren. Uh… hey."
Joren narrowed his eyes. His posture was casual, but his gaze was sharp, scanning Cassian up and down. "You look like hell."
Cassian shrugged. "Long shift."
"Really?" Joren frowned. "Because I was looking for you earlier. You weren't at the Scriptorum."
Shit.
Cassian's mind raced. He had planned for a lot of things today, but not this.
"Yeah," he said quickly. "I—uh, I wasn't feeling great. Figured I'd take a few hours to rest. Didn't think anyone would notice."
Joren's expression didn't change. His eyes lingered on Cassian's slightly disheveled clothes, the way his shoulders were a little too tense.
Cassian knew what this looked like. Joren had been a fighter, a survivor. He'd seen this kind of behavior before. The kind of nerves that only came from getting into trouble.
Joren sighed. "Kid, tell me you weren't up to anything stupid."
Cassian forced a dry chuckle. "What, you think I went out and joined a gang or something?"
Joren didn't laugh. "I think you've been pushing yourself too hard. And when people get desperate, they make bad choices."
Cassian didn't move. Didn't blink. His mind calculated every possible response.
Joren wasn't an enemy. But he was dangerous in his own way. He could read people too well.
So Cassian exhaled, letting his shoulders sag just slightly, like he was just exhausted. "I just needed a break, Joren. That's all."
Joren studied him for another few seconds, then sighed. "You should've told me. The Scriptorum doesn't give a damn about us, but if you start skipping work, they'll notice. And in this hive, kid? Attention gets people killed."
Cassian nodded, saying nothing.
Joren rubbed his jaw, still watching him. Then, unexpectedly, his tone softened. "Listen. If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me. You're not the first kid trying to scrape by down here."
Cassian forced a small smirk. "You make it sound like I'm falling apart."
Joren gave him a long look. "You wouldn't be the first."
Cassian didn't have an answer for that.
A heavy silence stretched between them, but then Joren exhaled and shook his head. "Get some rest, kid. And be careful who you piss off in this hive."
Cassian gave a short nod and walked away, forcing himself not to move too fast.
Joren didn't follow. Didn't press the issue. But Cassian could still feel his eyes on his back as he disappeared into the crowd.
---
By the time Cassian reached his hab-block, his legs ached and his lungs burned—but it wasn't from exertion. It was the stress.
He stepped inside his tiny metal-walled hab and shut the door. Locked it. Twice.
Only then did he allow himself to exhale.
His hands were shaking.
Joren had noticed something was off.
Maybe not enough to accuse him of anything, but it was a warning.
Cassian pulled the laspistol from beneath his clothes, staring at the weapon in his hands.
He had it now. A real weapon. A step toward power.
But that single theft had already made his world dangerously small.
He wasn't just some faceless scribe anymore. He was a target.
And that meant he needed to be more careful than ever.
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Word count: 2359