Heart of Azure

Given the Imperium's astronomical population and sprawling territory, even converting an entire planet into a Mechanicum forge world wouldn't cut it. Factor in the military's insatiable demand for war machinery to fuel their eternal galactic campaigns, and you've got a recipe for industrial overdrive.

And let's not forget: war doesn't just consume lives—it obliterates infrastructure. Entire planets are scorched into oblivion, taking their factories with them. So, the Imperium's administrators, the Mechanicum, and the Ministry of Military Affairs constantly scramble to replenish production. When legal factories can't keep up, the "brilliant" minds of the Imperium's leadership turn to… alternative measures. Cue the rise of the "illegal factories."

You might think these rogue operations would be frowned upon. Instead, they're tolerated—encouraged, even. The gangs running these sweatshops manage and exploit workers with an iron fist, funneling profits back into their pockets. Over time, some gang leaders even climb the social ladder, transforming into imperial elites. It's a neat little racket—just another charming quirk of the Imperium's ineffable system.

As it turns out, even the ancient sages of Terra weren't wrong when they said oppression breeds resistance. In one such factory—the Hammer Foundry—this truth takes on a life of its own.

Down in the lower levels of the factory, long-abandoned foundries lay dormant, their blackened machines gathering dust in the gloom. Workers tread cautiously through the murk, their boots echoing faintly in the vast, empty corridors. Tonight, they weren't here to awaken the machine spirits; they were here for something far more dangerous—a gathering. A religious one.

The workers followed a dimly lit passageway to a grand arch guarded by stern-looking sentinels armed with kinetic rifles and laser guns. Yellow armbands adorned with coiled snake insignias identified them as the faithful.

"Who are you?" one guard demanded.

"One soul," a worker replied solemnly. "A confused soul."

"Why are you here?"

"To hear the truth."

"And why listen?"

"To find salvation."

The guards nodded and stepped aside. "Go in, brother. May the Redeemer's light guide you."

"And you as well, brother," the worker replied before stepping through the arch.

Beyond it lay an immense underground chamber. Thousands of workers milled about, some carrying makeshift weapons—metal rods, knives, and battered firearms. Others exchanged warm greetings and adorned the space with devotional poetry and prayer candles. The dim room glowed in flickering orange hues, casting dancing shadows on soot-streaked walls.

When the tolling of a bell echoed through the cavern, the crowd fell silent. All eyes turned toward a rickety pulpit at the far end, where a figure in gray robes ascended. Around him, a cadre of hooded priests moved like specters.

The preacher threw back his hood, revealing a fiery gaze and a silver chain gleaming around his neck. His voice boomed through the chamber, powerful enough to carry unaided by any amplifier. "Brothers and sisters! You have heard the voice of the gods!" he proclaimed.

The crowd erupted in cheers, their fervor electrifying the air. "You have seen the road to salvation! Tell me, have you glimpsed the great beyond? Have you seen the dawn where suffering ends?"

The response was deafening, a wild, hysterical roar that bordered on madness. "My brothers and I stand here, humbled, to spread the Redeemer's light to this forgotten darkness! But worry not! The Redeemer has come! I have heard his voice from the edge of the universe, and his salvation will bless this very place!"

Red smoke began to billow from unseen vents as silent priests released streams of pink dust into the air. The workers inhaled deeply, their eyes turning bloodshot and faces flushed with fervor. Arms and weapons waved wildly as chants and cheers reached fever pitch.

The preacher's voice rose again. "No more suffering! No more doubt! We rise, and we rise now! Go forth! Take back what is yours! Reclaim it for the Redeemer, for only then will salvation be yours!"

The crowd surged like a flood bursting through a dam. They charged toward the exits, their cries blending with the metallic clang of weapons and the first bursts of gunfire.

Meanwhile, in a dim tunnel below the factory, Montana—the preacher himself—walked with an air of smug triumph. He gestured for two priests to open a large, ancient door. They strained against rusted valves, releasing a burst of pressurized gas as the heavy portal groaned open. Beyond lay a shadowy corridor that Montana fully expected to be teeming with allies. It wasn't. Instead, the passage was eerily empty, its silence oppressive. Montana frowned, suspicion flaring in his eyes. A slow clap echoed from the shadows, and a figure emerged, grinning like a man who'd just played the perfect prank.

"Right on time, Montana," John said, his smirk practically audible.

"Where are your people?" Montana demanded, anger flashing across his face. "The Redeemer's followers are fighting above! They need reinforcements!"

"Oh, they'll get help," John assured him, the picture of nonchalance. "But, uh, slight change of plans. Thought I'd let you know."

"Change of plans?" Montana's voice grew sharp. "What plans?"

John snapped his fingers. "This one." 

From the shadows behind Montana, a figure emerged and fired a shotgun point-blank at the two priests, their heads snapping back in gruesome unison. The figure was none other than Silver Snake, her trademark shotgun still smoking. Montana's face twisted with rage. "Traitor! John, you treacherous bastard!" he roared, his voice warping into something monstrous as his hands transformed into razor-sharp claws.

What followed was chaos: a brutal, fast-paced brawl of claws versus fists, cunning versus raw power. But John was no pushover. In the end, it was Montana who lay crumpled on the floor, twitching from the residual sparks of John's crackling gauntlet. John turned his attention to Silver Snake, who was slumped against a wall, breathing heavily. He retrieved her fallen mask and placed it gently over her face.

"You really know how to pick a date, huh?" she rasped weakly, managing a wry grin.

John chuckled, lifting her carefully. "Let's get out of here. Drinks are on me."

The Silver Snake Bar was deserted tonight, which was a rare occurrence. Nestled deep within the Lower Nest, this bar wasn't just one of the best—it was the best, hands down. Add the luxury of safety to the mix, and there's no competition. Normally, the place buzzed with life, every table occupied, the hum of laughter and conversation filling the air. But tonight, it stood eerily empty. Every chair was flipped onto tables, the shelves lined with sparkling glasses and bottles of fine wine, untouched. The darkness swallowed everything whole—not a single light dared to flicker on.

Then, breaking through the silence, came a faint sound. It grew louder, sharper: footsteps. The steady, deliberate clomp of boots against the wooden floor echoed through the emptiness, each step carrying a metallic resonance that sliced through the still air. The footsteps drew closer, and with a decisive click, the lights flickered on, illuminating the bar.

"This is it?" John asked, his tone a mix of skepticism and amusement. The woman leaning against him gave a small nod. "Yeah, this is it."

John carefully helped her onto a high chair, her movements slow and deliberate. She winced as she settled, her breathing labored, but she waved him off when he glanced her way with concern. He set her hand down gently on the counter, her breathing mask clattering softly onto the polished wood. She coughed, her body shuddering, but after a moment, she steadied herself.

"Let's see," John muttered, flipping over the bar with practiced ease. He grabbed a bottle from the wine rack, inspecting the label. "Heart of Azure? Fancy stuff. What do you think?"