Time Since Transmigration: 10 Days, 7 Hours
Cassian knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the Scriptorum.
It was subtle at first—the way conversations died down as he entered, the way scribes hunched over their desks just a little more than usual.
The scratch of quills against parchment seemed sharper, more deliberate, as if everyone was trying too hard to focus on their work.
Then he heard his name.
"Vail."
Not shouted. Not barked. But the weight behind it made his stomach tighten.
The voice came from the far end of the chamber. Overseer Kord stood there, arms crossed, his face set in that cold, expressionless mask that never meant anything good.
Cassian felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He forced himself to move, weaving between rows of scribes who kept their heads down, pretending not to notice.
He wasn't fooled. They were watching—listening.By the time he reached Kord, the silence in the room had shifted. It wasn't total, but it was there, lurking beneath the surface.
The tension clung to the air like dust.
"You were absent yesterday."
Cassian fought to keep his face neutral. His mind raced through possible answers, none of them good. He knew the rules.
The Administratum did not tolerate inefficiency. It didn't care about excuses. You were either present, or you weren't. And he hadn't been.
He forced himself to meet Kord's eyes. "I was unwell, Overseer."
Kord didn't blink. "You did not report it."
Cassian felt his jaw tighten. There was no point in arguing. Reporting an absence required going through proper channels—filing a notice, getting approval from a superior. But that process took time, and Cassian hadn't exactly been in a position to follow protocol. He had been too busy trying to steal a laspistol.
"It won't happen again," he said, keeping his voice steady.
Kord let the silence stretch. He didn't need to yell to make a point. His presence alone did the work. The way he stood, the way his gaze pinned Cassian in place—he had authority, and everyone in the room knew it.
"No," Kord said finally. "It won't."
Cassian's hands curled into fists at his sides. He knew what was coming before Kord even spoke again.
The overseer turned his head slightly, his voice carrying across the chamber. "This is a reminder to all of you."
The room, already quiet, seemed to grow even stiller. No one moved.
"You are here to serve the Imperium. Your work ensures that the Administratum functions without failure. There are no unexcused absences. No delays. No weakness."
Cassian could feel eyes flicking toward him now. A lesson was being made of him. Not a harsh one—not yet—but enough that everyone would remember. Enough that no one would make the same mistake.
"Failure to meet expectations will not be tolerated," Kord finished.
The words lingered in the air. Then, as if on cue, the sound of quills scratching against parchment resumed. A few scribes shifted in their seats. Some shot Cassian quick, unreadable glances before returning to their work. Others didn't look at all.
Kord turned back to him. "Get to your station, Vail. I expect your output to compensate for yesterday's absence."
Cassian gave a sharp nod and walked away. His steps felt too loud in the heavy silence. The weight of the room pressed against him, even as he lowered himself onto the hard wooden bench of his assigned desk.
He exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers before picking up his quill. His hands were shaking. He hated that. He clenched them once, then forced himself to start writing.
This was nothing. A warning. A performance. A reminder of his place in the machine.
He would endure.
---
7:05 Terran standard time
Cassian's quill scratched against the parchment, his fingers moving on autopilot as he transcribed yet another set of supply requisitions. His hands were steady now, his breathing even, but his mind wasn't on the task.
It was on the laspistol.
The weapon sat hidden in his hab-unit, wrapped in a cloth beneath his bedding. It had taken everything he had to steal it, to avoid getting caught, to survive. But what good was a weapon he didn't know how to use?
Cassian had read about lasguns, laspistols, plasma weapons—hell, he had memorized entire rulebooks back in his old life. But reading was one thing. Reality was another.
He didn't know how to properly grip a gun. How to aim, how to compensate for recoil, how to reload under pressure.
And that was a problem.
A gun wasn't just a weapon. It was a tool, a means of survival. If he had it, he had to know how to use it. Otherwise, it was just dead weight—a risk, a liability.
But the problem wasn't just learning. The problem was time.
His schedule was already brutal:
12 hours in the Scriptorum—mandatory, unavoidable.
6 hours of manual labor—his only means of earning extra money for food.
6 hours of sleep—which was already pushing the limits of exhaustion.
There was no space left. No moment to slip away and practice.
He needed to make a choice.
A single misfire, and he could blow off his own hand. Or worse, someone would hear the shot, and he'd be caught.
That meant he needed space, privacy. A place to practice where no one would hear, where no one would ask questions.
And that meant giving something up.
Cassian exhaled, staring at the parchment in front of him without really seeing it.
If I keep working manual labor, I have money. Food. Stability. If I drop it, I have time. A chance to train. But at the cost of comfort.
The numbers ran through his head like a cogitator's calculations. He had already built up savings from his previous labor. If he kept working, he'd have enough food for two weeks beyond his current stockpile. If he stopped, that cushion would be cut in half.
One week.
One week before hunger clawed at him again. One week before he had to find a new way to earn.
But the alternative?
Walking around with a weapon he didn't know how to use? Risking his own life because he was too stubborn to adapt?
No. That was stupidity.
Cassian took a slow breath, steadying himself. He had already accepted the truth of this world—power was survival. The laspistol was a step toward that.
Decision made.
His stomach clenched at the thought of losing that one week of security, but he forced himself to push the hesitation down. He could always earn more money later.
What he couldn't afford was being unprepared when the moment came.
—-
11:04 Terran standard time
The Scriptorum's bells rang out, signaling the end of the shift. The dull clang reverberated through the halls, a relief to some, a reminder of endless toil to others. Cassian set down his quill, flexing his stiff fingers before pushing himself up from the bench. His back ached from hours of hunching over parchment, and his eyes burned from the dim lumen-strips that flickered erratically above.
Another grueling day.
The walk back to his hab was a blur of shuffling feet and murmured conversations. He barely registered the other scribes around him, their weary faces identical in their exhaustion. His mind was elsewhere, already mapping out the next few hours.
He had made his choice. Now came the hard part.
He stripped off his work tunic, rolling his sore shoulders before splashing cold water onto his face from the small, rusted sink in the corner. The chill jolted him back to full awareness, washing away some of the fatigue clinging to him like a second skin.
Next came food.
He sat on the cot, unwrapping a ration bar and chewing methodically. The taste was the same as always—bland, chalky, barely enough to satisfy. But it kept him going.
And for what he had planned tonight, he needed the energy.
Cassian stepped out of his hab, treading carefully through the narrow corridors of the hab-block. The dim lumen-globes overhead cast long shadows, giving the place an eerie feel, but he ignored it.
He needed a place to practice. Somewhere private. Somewhere quiet.
And that was easier said than done.
The hive was a living, breathing machine, and privacy was a luxury. There were always people moving—workers, enforcers, gangs, and worse. Finding a secluded place where no one would hear the crack of a laspistol shot? That was going to be a problem.
Still, he had to try.
Cassian moved deeper into the lower levels of the hab-block, away from the main walkways. The air grew heavier with the scent of rust and old sweat, and the walls darkened with layers of grime. He passed a few loiterers—some barely spared him a glance, others eyed him for a moment before losing interest.
Too many people. Too exposed.
He kept walking.
His first idea was an abandoned maintenance alcove, a place he had passed by before but never given much thought to. He pressed against the metal door and gave it a light push.
Locked.
Cassian frowned. He scanned the edges of the door, but the locking mechanism was solid. Forcing it open would be loud, and he didn't have the tools to pick it.
Not worth it.
He moved on.
His second idea was a rarely used stairwell leading to a sublevel. He had seen it before, half-forgotten and covered in dust. If no one went down there, maybe it would work.
He found the entrance and carefully descended, stepping lightly to avoid drawing attention. The stairwell smelled of mildew and old metal, but it was quiet. He exhaled, hopeful.
Then he saw the signs of habitation—discarded rags, empty ration packs, a crude bedding of fabric scraps in the corner. Someone was living down here.
Cassian backed away immediately.
He wasn't about to risk running into a desperate hiver—or worse, a ganger looking for easy prey.
Strike two.
His frustration grew with each failed attempt. He was running out of options. Every promising spot was either too exposed, too inhabited, or too difficult to access.
If he couldn't find something soon, he would have to rethink everything.
Then, after nearly an hour of searching, he found it.
—-
Cassian had wandered into an older section of the hive, a place where the walls were corroded, and the machinery whined with age. He followed a narrow corridor past a series of rusted pipes, and that's when he saw it—a vent shaft, partially collapsed, leading to an opening in the lower levels.
It was small, barely large enough for him to squeeze through, but it led to something bigger.
Carefully, he ducked down and crawled inside, the metal cold against his hands and knees. It was tight, claustrophobic, but after a few meters, it opened into a larger chamber.
Cassian stood, brushing dust off his clothes as he took in his surroundings.
It was an old maintenance bay, long forgotten. The walls were covered in grime, and scattered debris littered the floor. But it was empty. Quiet.
No people.
No enforcers.
Just silence.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. He had found it.
His own little sanctuary.
But it wasn't perfect.
The air was thick, damp, and smelled faintly of something metallic—probably runoff from the
upper levels. The ground was uneven, and the only exit was the vent shaft he had crawled through. If something went wrong, he had nowhere to run.
It was a risk. A calculated one.
But risks were necessary.
Cassian exhaled and set his hands on his hips, looking around one last time.
This would do.
Tomorrow, he would begin.
—-
Word count: 1953