The Path Forward

 13:05 Standard Terran Time

Cassian sat hunched over on the edge of his cot, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the cracked floor. The hum of the lumen-strip above him was barely noticeable, blending into the background noise of the hive—the distant grind of machinery, the muffled chatter from the corridors, the ever-present thrum of millions of lives stacked on top of each other.

His hands moved with slow, deliberate efficiency, unfolding the rough bundle of cloth he had scrounged together over the past few days. A dull, dust-coated overcoat. A hood that would help shadow his face. A pair of gloves, worn but intact. It wasn't a perfect disguise, but perfection wasn't the goal—blending in was. People noticed those who tried too hard to look inconspicuous. But a scribe wearing a heavy coat to ward off the hive's perpetual damp chill? Nothing unusual about that.

He slid the coat over his thin frame, adjusting the fit. Next came the laspistol.

Cassian picked it up from the floor beside him, rolling it in his hands, feeling its weight. It wasn't much—just a standard-issue sidearm, the kind that billions across the Imperium carried.

He popped out the charge pack, checked the energy levels. Full. He had to make every shot count. He only had one pack, and no way to recharge it yet. Waste a shot, and that was one less chance to defend himself.

Carefully, he tucked the laspistol into the folds of his coat, securing it in a place where he could draw it quickly if needed. He had spent the past few days getting used to its feel, learning the weight of it in his grip, the motion of pulling it free. He wasn't a soldier, wasn't a fighter. Not yet. But he was learning.

And learning was the key to survival.

Death is not an option.

That thought had been with him since the moment he arrived in this universe, and it wasn't going away. Death wasn't just the end here—it was worse than that. The people of the Imperium feared it, but they didn't understand the full horror of what awaited them. They thought their souls would go to the Emperor's side, to some great reward in death. But Cassian knew better.

The Warp did not give peace. It only consumed.

If he died, his soul wouldn't fade into oblivion. It would be ripped apart, devoured by the things lurking beyond the veil of reality. The same things that whispered in the minds of psykers, that turned men into gibbering lunatics, that laughed at the suffering of mortals.

If he let himself die, he wasn't just ending his life—he was handing himself over to torment beyond anything the material world could offer.

That left him with one choice. Survive. No matter what.

At first, he had considered escape. He wasn't from this world. Maybe there was a way out. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized how foolish that was.

The galaxy was a prison, and there were no exits.

Even if he somehow found a ship, where would he go? Every corner of the Imperium was the same—oppressive, brutal, indifferent to the suffering of its people. The alternatives were worse. Xenos wouldn't take him in. Chaos was a guaranteed death sentence, or worse. The Inquisition would execute him if they even suspected he didn't belong here.

And leaving the galaxy? That was laughable. The void beyond held only the Tyranids, or some other horror waiting to be discovered. Even if there was nothing out there, the sheer scale of intergalactic travel was beyond him.

No. There was only one path forward. Power.

He didn't have to become a warlord, didn't have to overthrow the Imperium. That was beyond his reach. But he had to carve out a place for himself, a space where he wasn't just another nameless drone waiting to be crushed by the gears of the machine.

For now, that meant survival. And survival meant playing the game carefully.

The Imperium was the only faction that wouldn't kill him on sight. It was the safest bet. The people here were cogs in a vast machine, blind to the universe's true horrors. That made them predictable. And predictability meant control.

He checked his disguise one last time in the cracked mirror above his sink.

A few weeks ago, he had been weak. Just another scribe, struggling to get by. Now? Now, he had skills. He had strength. He had a weapon. Not much, but it was a start.

He pulled the hood over his head, tucked his hands into his coat, and stepped out into the corridors of the hive.

The job awaited.

—

Cassian moved through the hive's corridors with a steady, measured pace. He kept his head slightly down, posture relaxed—casual, forgettable. Just another worker in the endless tide of humanity.

The air was thick with the usual stench of metal, oil, and sweat, but he barely noticed it anymore. This place had become his reality. The towering walls of steel, the dimly lit tunnels, the flickering lumen-strips that cast everything in a sickly yellow glow—it was all familiar now.

His destination was a small, out-of-the-way alcove nestled between two towering hab-blocks. A place that didn't officially exist on any records, the kind of place where people did business they didn't want others knowing about.

Joran was already there, leaning against a rusted bulkhead, arms crossed, his usual cocky grin in place. He looked relaxed.

Next to him stood another figure.

The handler.

Cassian knew the type immediately. Well-fed, despite living in a hive where most scraped by on ration packs. His coat was lined with synth-fur, his boots polished—not a noble, but someone who had money and power. His posture screamed arrogance, the kind of self-importance that came from being in control.

The moment Cassian approached, the handler's gaze swept over him with obvious skepticism.

"This is the guy?" The handler's tone was sharp, dismissive. "You brought me a scribe?"

Cassian didn't react. He simply stood there, hands in his pockets, waiting.

Joran chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't let the robes fool you. Kid's sharper than he looks."

The handler scoffed. "I need someone reliable, not some half-starved clerk who'll get himself killed the moment things get rough."

Joran pushed off the wall and clapped Cassian on the shoulder. "You're underestimating him. He's got a good head, and he knows how to handle himself. I vouch for him."

Cassian finally spoke, his voice even. "You want the job done or not?"

The handler narrowed his eyes. There was a brief pause, a silent battle of wills. Then, with a snort, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, tightly wrapped package.

"Fine," he muttered, shoving it toward Cassian. "You get this to the drop point. No questions. No delays. And if you get caught…" He smirked. "Well, I don't know you."

Cassian took the package without hesitation, weighing it in his hand. Heavy. Compact. He had no idea what was inside, and he didn't ask. That wasn't his job.

"Understood."

Joran gave him a small nod, approval in his eyes. The handler, on the other hand, simply turned away, already dismissing him.

Cassian didn't care.

He turned and walked off without another word.

As he moved through the hive, his mind worked methodically, breaking the situation down.

This wasn't just some simple errand. The pay was too good. The secrecy too heavy. Whatever was in this package, it wasn't something that could be handed off in broad daylight.

That meant risk.

But risk was acceptable, as long as it was controlled.

He had spent his life reading stories about characters thrown into impossible situations, about heroes and villains navigating their paths to power. But this wasn't a story. There was no safety net, no guarantees.

He was alone in this.

And that was fine.

Relying on others was weakness. Trusting in luck was foolishness. The only thing he could rely on was himself.

His grip tightened around the package.

This is just the beginning.

He wasn't a pawn. He wasn't some disposable worker who would spend his life slaving away in a scriptorium until his body gave out.

For now, he would deliver the package. He would do the job.

But in the end, this world would not dictate his fate.

He would.

—-

Cassian kept his head down as he walked through the underhive streets, one hand tucked in his coat, fingers curled around the package. The smell of damp metal and burnt oil clung to the air. He moved fast but not too fast—nothing got you noticed quicker than looking like you had somewhere to be.

His destination was a run-down shop crammed between a scrap vendor and a food stall selling something vaguely meat-shaped. No signs, no name. Just a reinforced door and a metal grate over the counter. The kind of place that only stayed in business because the people who ran it knew how to keep their mouths shut.

Cassian stepped inside.

The dealer was a thick-set man with a cybernetic eye that clicked as it focused on Cassian. He didn't say anything at first, just looked him over with the kind of disinterest that came from seeing a hundred different runners come and go.

"You Joran's new kid?" he asked finally, voice rough from lho smoke.

Cassian didn't bother answering. He just pulled the package from his coat and set it on the counter.

The dealer grinned. "Smart."

A knife flashed, cutting the seal. The man peeked inside—vials of dark liquid packed in foam. Chems, probably. Or stims. Didn't matter. Cassian wasn't here to ask questions.

The dealer nodded, satisfied, and slid a pouch of chits across the counter. "Fifty. Clean."

Cassian picked up the pouch, feeling the weight of it. Enough to last him a while. He turned—

And then the shooting started.

A burst of gunfire cracked through the street, followed by screaming.

Cassian ducked instinctively.

Something heavy slammed against the shop's outer wall. The dealer cursed, pulling a revolver from under the counter. "You best get moving, kid."

Cassian didn't argue. He pressed himself against the doorframe, peering outside.

The street was chaos. Gangers had taken cover, firing at figures moving through the smoke. At first, it looked like a turf war—until one of the gangers was lifted clean off the ground, screaming, before being split open from shoulder to hip.

Cassian's stomach lurched.

The attackers weren't just gangers.

They were something worse.

Their armor was scavenged, their weapons brutal—cleavers, machetes, blunt instruments stained dark with old blood. But it was their eyes that set Cassian's nerves on fire.

Mad. Unhinged. Hungry.

One of them grabbed a wounded ganger, slamming him into the ground before bringing a jagged axe down on his skull.

Cassian forced himself to look away.

Move. Now.

He slipped into a side alley just as the first cultist crashed into the shop.

Shouts echoed behind him—guttural cries, the wet sound of blades meeting flesh.

Cassian moved fast, dodging between rusted-out structures. Then he heard it—footsteps. Too close. Too fast.

He risked a glance back.

One of the cultists had spotted him.

He wasn't huge, but he moved with terrifying speed, a rusted cleaver in one hand. His grin was wide, teeth filed to points.

Cassian bolted.

The cultist gave chase.

Adrenaline shot through Cassian's veins. He turned a corner sharp, nearly losing his footing. Ahead—a pile of debris.

Jump it.

He pushed off the ground, barely clearing it. Behind him, metal scraped against metal. He twisted—

The cultist lunged, blade swinging.

Cassian fired.

The first shot hit the chest. The second took the head.

The cultist crumpled.

Cassian didn't wait to check if he was dead. He turned and ran.

The sirens started a few streets over.

Cassian swore under his breath.

The enforcers were moving in fast.

He ducked into another alley, pressing himself against a wall. His shoulder throbbed, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he didn't have time to stop. If they caught him here, he was done.

Boots pounded against metal.

"This whole sector's a bloodbath."

"Orders?"

"Purge it."

Cassian's stomach twisted.

The enforcers weren't here to clean up. They were here to erase.

He needed to move.

He kept low, slipping through the shadows. Then, as he passed a rusted-out stairwell, he caught something—

Voices.

Not enforcers.

Not gangers.

The cultists.

He crouched, straining to hear.

"…safe house in Foundry Block 13. More will come."

"Our lord watches. Blood has been spilled, but not enough."

Cassian's hands clenched into fists. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe too loud.

Foundry Block 13.

That was deep in the underhive. A place where people disappeared and never came back.

He didn't have time to think about it.

The enforcers were getting closer.

Cassian forced himself up, ignoring the pain in his limbs, and ran.

Cassian barely made it out.

By the time he stopped running, his body was screaming. His shoulder ached, his lungs burned, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

But he was alive.

He pressed his back against a rusted pipe, sucking in air. His coat was torn, his skin scraped, but he still had the chits.

And he had a name.

Foundry Block 13.

Something was happening there.

Something bigger was coming.

And for the first time since he'd arrived in this nightmare, Cassian knew he needs to make a choice.

---

Word count: 2251