The facility had not existed three weeks ago; at least not in its current form.
Originally it had been a forgotten Administratum archive positioned several levels above the underhive. Like countless structures across the hive-city, it had spent decades drifting between usefulness and abandonment. Records were stored there; forgotten, rediscovered, then forgotten again.
Then an Inquisitor arrived.
The building's purpose changed overnight.
Additional security bulkheads had been installed across every major corridor. Cogitator stations occupied entire chambers that once housed shelves of decaying parchment. Temporary barracks filled offices that had previously belonged to clerks whose names nobody remembered.
The transformation wasn't elegant. It didn't need to be. Function mattered more than appearance.
The result resembled a military command center assembled inside the corpse of a bureaucratic institution. Armored personnel occupied every major intersection. Most wore local uniforms— some did not. That distinction alone kept people nervous.
Enforcers stood beside soldiers whose insignias had been deliberately removed. Tech-priest moved through the facility accompanied by armed escorts. Servitors wandered between rooms carrying ammunition crates, data-slates, medical supplies, and occasionally objects nobody recognized.
None asked questions; questions were dangerous whenever the Inquisition became involved. The atmosphere was a study in control. Conversations were whispers. Footsteps were purposeful. Any deviation, any lingering where one was not assigned, invited a scrutiny that was its own death sentence. The people stationed there understood an uncomfortable truth.
The facility itself wasn't important—
— the woman currently occupying it was.
Everything else existed because of her presence.
Entire sections had been cordoned off solely because she might require them later. Additional personnel had arrived from neighboring districts within hours of her request.
An Inquisitor's request resembled an order, and everyone preferred not to discover the difference.
Paranoia was common among the Inquisition. Experience suggested paranoia frequently wasn't enough.
Outside the secured sector, a pair of armed guards stood motionless beside reinforced doors marked only with identification numbers. Not a single sign explained what existed beyond— for none existed to tell. No records available to ordinary personnel listed who occupied the rooms inside.
All intentional.
The fewer people who knew something, the fewer people could betray it.
One guard shifted slightly, the movement was enough to produce a faint metallic clink from his armor.
His partner ignored it, both had spent hours stationed there.
Hours of standing— of silence— hours of guarding a prisoner neither had seen. Not one of the pair complained. Professional soldier learned quickly that boredom was preferable to excitement.
Excitement usually meant somebody had failed.
Far beyond the reinforced walls, the hive-city continued its endless existence.
Millions toiled, worked, slept, committed crimes— died.
Industry thundered through colossal manufactorums. Smokestacks vomited pollution into already poisoned skies.
Cargo lifters moved between levels carrying materials extracted from somewhere deeper and delivered somewhere higher.
The city never rested, it imply changed pace.
The temporary headquarters existed above that chaos but remained connected to it. Every vibration traveling through the structure served as a reminder.
The hive was alive and ancient— immense and undoubtedly hungry.
The building occasionally groaned beneath the strain of age and impossible weight. Nobody paid attention anymore; every structure in the hive made noises, ignoring them was a survival skill.
Inside one operations room, dozens of data-slates displayed reports gathered from nearby districts.
Gang activity.
Missing persons.
Unexplained deaths.
Resource movements.
Rumors.
The room never emptied. Personnel rotated continuously through shifts. A constant flow of information— most of it useless, though some had value.
The challenge lay in determining which was which before people died.
Elsewhere, medicae personnel occupied an improvised treatment center assembled from three adjoining offices. Nearby, a tech-priest argued with a malfunctioning cogitator in a language that sounded suspiciously like profanity despite being entirely composed of binharic screeches.
No one intervened. The machine spirit deserved whatever lecture it was receiving.
Above it all sat a simple truth: the facility was temporary.
Everyone knew it.
Sooner or later the Inquisitor would leave and the additional security would disappear. The personnel would be reassigned and the building would return back to obscurity— like another forgotten structure among billions.
Until then, however—
— it remained one of the most heavily guarded locations in the district.
Because somewhere beyond reinforced walls and armed checkpoints, a prisoner sat across from an Inquisitor; and whenever an Inquisitor devoted that much attention to a single individual—
— people tended to die.
◃───────────▹
The man carrying the tool case never hurried. He had a pace, centered on blending in. That, more than anything else, helped him remain invisible.
Infiltration wasn't about shadows or silent footsteps; that was amateur fiction. True invisibility came from mastering the mundane. People expected threats to run, hesitate, or show fear. They looked for the unusual. Confidence, however, was a cloak. A calm posture, a steady pace, the simple air of belonging—these things passed through scrutiny like a ghost through a wall.
The maintenance worker walked exactly as every maintenance worker should. His pace remained steady, not too fast nor too slow. Gaze wandered only where it was expected to wander; like towards bulkheads, ventilation grilles, service junctions, and electrical conduits.
Nothing about him demanded attention.
The corridor stretched ahead beneath flickering lumen strips. Old steel panels lined both walls; each carrying decades of repairs layered atop older repairs. New weld marks intersected rust. Temporary cablings snaked across ceilings. Security upgrades had been installed quickly.
Quickly meant imperfectly; and imperfectly meant gaps in defense.
His eyes found them without effort, making sure to seem like a local. Additional cameras, motion sensors, recently installed auspex arrays, emergency lock down systems.
The Inquisition had arrived recently, and the building still smelled wrong. Its old archive scent—dust, parchment, decay—clashed with the new reality. Militarized structures had their own aroma: machine oil, cleaning solvents, weapon maintenance compounds, and the sharp tang of human anxiety.
He preferred the latter; fear created patterns, and patterns created opportunities.
A pair of enforcers emerged from an adjoining corridor carrying a crate between them. Neither acknowledge him. One complained about shift rotations whilst the other complained about food. Both mundane; and mundane meant un-scrutinized by the Inquisition.
The conversation continued long after they passed. Neither looked back, the simple maintenance worker continued walking.
A door slid open ahead and two servitors exited. Their flesh had been replaced by metal decades earlier. Their eyes tracked nothing. Their existence revolved entirely around assigned functions.
One of them carried ammunitions, the other medical supplies. Both moved past without incident.
The worker's attention lingered on them briefly. Not because they posed a threat— because they represented efficiency.
Humans overlooked details based on perception; machines overlooked everything outside their programming. The difference was critical: one could be manipulated with confidence, the other only with careful preparation.
A security checkpoint appeared around the next corner. Not one of the primary checkpoints. This was secondary; temporary— recently established.
A folding table blocked part of the corridor. Portable auspex equipment occupied the remainder. Three armed personnel supervised passage through the area.
The worker approached without changing pace.
One guard raised a hand, "halt!"
The maintenance worker halted; another guard accepted the data-slate offered by the first.
The inspection lasted four seconds. Authorization markers, work assignment, sector permissions, maintenance route— everything matched— because it had matched three hours ago when it had been copied.
The slate returned and the guard waved him through. Not a peep: no questions, delays, suspicions.
The worker resumed walking; behind him, the checkpoint disappeared around a corner. Ahead, the facility grew quieter.
The deeper sections of the building carried a different atmosphere. Less movement, more unseen security, and fewer conversations. Personnel here understood the consequences of mistakes. The guards had waved him through because their own survival depended on not questioning the system; the Inquisitor's authority was the only authorization that truly mattered.
He passed another corridor; this one led toward operations. Voices emerged from within; those of analysts, administratum personnel, data processing— the endless bureaucracy surrounding investigations.
All unimportant relative to the objective.
His route continued elsewhere; toward the center; toward the reinforced sectors. To the portions of the facility hidden even from most of the people working inside it.
The objective was somewhere in there, beyond checkpoints and layers of security, protected by armed personnel who were utterly convinced their vigilance was enough.
The worker's fingers adjusted slightly around the handle of the tool case. Nothing more; a minor movement. Inside, carefully secured beneath maintenance equipment, individual components rested within custom compartments.
Every piece was isolated; the barrel, the receiver, the optic, every piece legal on its own. Together they became something else entirely.
The worker rounded another corner, the corridor which stood empty. For the first time since entering the facility, nobody occupied his immediate surroundings.
No pesty eyes like patrols, servitors, wandering personnel carrying data-slates and reports.
Just silence.
Here, the sounds of bureaucracy grew distant, muted by reinforced steel. The corridors narrowed, and security shifted from visible guards to something unseen, therefore more dangerous. He passed bulkhead doors marked only by numbers, each a testament to the Inquisition's paranoia: what no one knows, no one can betray.
His route ended three corridors later; not because a map instructed him to stop, because experience did. The worker's gaze traveled across the intersection ahead. One corridor continued toward the secured detention sector, whilst another led toward administrative offices. A third disappeared into maintenance accessways.
No cameras overlooked the junction. No personnel occupied it. There would be no witnesses.
For seconds he remined motionless, listening, the facility vibrated around him. Old machinery groaned through structural supports. Ventilation systems pushed recycled air through miles of ductwork. Somewhere far above, cargo lifters moved between levels.
Mundane sounds. Expected sounds.
Satisfied, he knelt beside the wall. The tool case settled onto the floor without a sound. Latches disengaged, the lid opened. Inside rested standard maintenance equipment, the first layer of misdirection. A wrench, diagnostic probes, and replacement components—all perfectly normal, all perfectly disposable.
Appearances rarely survived scrutiny.
On compartment slid aside amongst another. A false bottom unlocked beneath the first. The worker reached inside. First a barrel emerged, a receiver, an optic wrapped within protective cloth.
Each component had entered the facility separately, possessed documentations, had passed inspection independently. Entire histories fabricated for their existence.
Piece by piece, they disappeared from hidden compartments and reappeared in his hands. Metal locked into metal, precision mating with precision. The process resembled ritual more than assembly. It was practiced, efficient... familiar.
The last component clicked into place. He was no longer a maintenance worker; he was an assassin with a rifle. No alarms sounded. No warnings came. The facility remained unaware.
It would be, until it bled.
◃───────────▹
Inquisitor Voss had learned long ago that danger rarely announced itself. Most people imagined violence as something dramatic. Blaring alarms. Gunfire that would saturate an entire field. Screaming mixed into the fray.
Reality preferred subtlety. Something... simple; like missing reports, absent patrols, maybe a door left unlocked. Small inconsistencies like that accumulated long before they erupted into open conflict. That understanding had kept her alive far longer than statistics suggested it should have. Reality is often more than just numbers; chances are never zero.
Which was why a sixth sense reached her before the sound did.
The sensation lasted less than a second. Not fear, neither was it instinct; Experience. Inquisitor Voss had survived long enough to recognized when reality shifted slightly out of alignment. The interrogation chamber remained unchanged— steel walls, reinforced door, prisoner, table; nothing moved, nothing appeared different. Yet something felt wrong. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling as the facility's distant vibrations rolled through the structure. Hive cities never truly slept: they groaned, rattled, breathed. Every machinery worked just as every personnel moved. Somewhere, someone was always shouting. The endless noise became background after enough years. Which was precisely why she noticed its absence.
The rhythm she'd known through out her years, a rhythm the same on all worlds of the Imperium, had vanished. Albeit not completely, but just enough for her to notice.
A patrol failed to pass a corridor. Footsteps failed to echo through reinforced bulkheads. A routine report failed to arrive exactly when expected. Tiny inconsistencies, something humanity is subconscious about but certainly built upon their DNA. The sort most people ignored because they seemed insignificant— that which gets people killed. Voss stood upright, no longer leaning over the table without a word. One hand already drifting toward her plasma pistol resting at her hip. Across the room, the young man in his restraints. The prisoner studied her for a moment before leaning back against the chair.
"That's either a breakthrough in the interrogation or we're about to have a problem."
Voss ignored him, already noticed that he's back to his old self. Using jokes as reflective shields. Which makes one wonder whatever he saw that would break said shield... even for a moment.
Numen's grin widened, "Problem it is."
The first gunshot arrived a heartbeat later.
The sound slammed through multiple layers of reinforced bulk head before reaching the interrogation chamber, muted by distance but unmistakable. Not the pop of a lasgun, nor the conventional sound of a service rifle— it's something heavier and deliberate. The report rolled through the sector like distant thunder before dying into silence. For perhaps two seconds nothing followed. Then came the screams. Distant as they were; their brief waves were cut abruptly short.
Voss crossed the room in three strides and activated the emergency vox station mounted beside the door. Static answered. No operator— no acknowledgement— no voice requesting clarification. Voss was met with only the hiss of an open channel and the uncomfortable realization that whatever had happened had already progressed beyond the point where procedure mattered.
Another gunshot rolled through the facility.
The sound arrived distorted by distance and reinforced bulkheads. Metal and stone consumed most of it before it reached the interrogation chamber, leaving behind only a dull report that reverberated through the walls and died somewhere within the structure's ancient bones.
Voss listened. The chamber remained still; nothing on the walls, the reinforced door, the prisoner, the table— nothing visibly changed.
Yet Voss knew all too well something had for the puzzle pieces she'd known since coming here were ripped off the full picture.
She remained beside the vox station, one hand resting against the cold metal casing as static hissed endlessly through the speaker grille. The sound irritated her; not because of the noise itself, but because it represented absence. Communication systems did not simply fail. Not here— not within an active inquisitorial facility— even if it was made in a rush. Redundancies existed for a reason. Backup systems existed because backup systems occasionally failed. Entire departments existed solely to ensure information continued moving from one location to another.
Still, the fact that nobody answered suggest a few things; all not in a good light. Not in a control, nothing on security— and by extension— patrol units—
— nobody.
The silence continued to grow.
Across the room, Numen watched her carefully. The humor remained on his face, though weaker now; less natural. The same expression she had watched him wear throughout most of the interrogation. One in some respects. People underestimated individuals who joked. They assumed foolishness where caution existed. Assumed ignorance where uncertainty lived.
Unfortunately for him, Voss had spent too many years interrogating people to mistake coping mechanisms for personality.
She ignored him, the persistent static took precedence. Her hand on the console swiftly shifted; another channel, nothing— then another... still nothing. A third, still nothing.
Her thumb released the activation rune and was met with silence.
Not complete silence— Hive cities were incapable of such peace. Somewhere beyond the facility's walls machinery continued its endless labor. Massive engines moved air through forgotten infrastructure. Power relays transferred energy across districts containing population larger than some planetary nations. Entire manufactorums continued operating without interruption.
Life continued, yet the detention sector felt detached from it; isolated. Like a section of reality had been carefully cut away from everything surrounding it.
Voss disliked that sensation. The galaxy contained many dangers— most announced themselves. Cultist preached, mutants rioted, xenos attacked—
— even traitors possessed a tendency toward dramatic declaration.
Professionals rarely did.
A faint crackle burst from the vox speaker.
Voss reacted immediately.
The channel came alive for less than a second.
Breathing— fast— uneven. A voice emerged through layers of distortion, "my lady—"
Gunfire swallowed the remainder. Not the pop of lasfire. More in lines projectiles. Where las weapons cracked, these sounded heavier. Violent in a different way—
— to some... maybe even conventional.
The transmission continued for another second. Long enough for shouting to follow. Long enough for someone to scream.
Then nothing; the channel remained open. The voice did not return.
Voss slowly lowered the receiver. No emotion crossed her features. Not a lick of surprise nor anger. instead— in confirmation.
Across the table, chains rattled softly.
The anomaly shifted, "right."
He paused, "I'm assuming that wasn't good."
"No," the answer came immediately.
"Fair enough."
The prisoner settle back into the chair. The humor returned, though this time it looked forced even to him.
'Interesting; fear existed after all,' Voss filed the observation away for later—
— if there was a later.
Her attention returned to the door. Not because she expected it to open, but because of the distance.
Distance mattered. The first shot come from elsewhere within the facility. The second had been closer. The transmission closer still.
It's all a simple pattern. One she had encountered before. One she herself had inflicted en masse.
Violence moved and advanced.
The realization settled into place slowly. Nothing dramatic, nothing sudden; merely another conclusion assembled from available evidence.
Someone had entered the facility; capable enough to bypass security. Someone disciplined enough to avoid detection until after the killing started. Most concerning of all—
— someone who already seemed to know exactly where they were going.
For the first time since entering the interrogation chamber, Voss found herself looking at Numen. Not as a suspect, witness, or even an anomaly, but as a potential objective. The possibility did not sit comfortably.
A heartbeat later, the facility lockdown sirens finally activated.
Several minutes too late.
A mechanical howl rolled through the facility, rising and falling in a rhythm designed to seize attention. Red lumen strips embedded throughout the chamber intensified, bathing the room in intermittent crimson light. Every few seconds shadows shifted across the walls before retreating again.
Voss remained where she stood. She did not look toward the ceiling, didn't even acknowledge the alarm. The warning came too late to possess value.
If an intruder had reached this depth before the facility recognized the threat, then whatever had gone wrong had begun long before the first shot was fired.
The distinction mattered. Most people imagined security failures as singular events. Something like a door breach, then a guard kill, with a compromised perimeter being the conclusion that awaited a reaction. Reality rarely functioned so conveniently.
Failures accumulated. Small oversights stacked atop one another until eventually they became catastrophic. The gunfire was not the beginning; merely the point at which everyone else finally noticed.
Voss slowly returned the vox receiver to its cradle. The click sounded unusually loud. Across the room, Numen watched her. Not nervously but curiously, like a man attempting to determine whether he should be concerned. A remarkable level of confidence given his circumstances— or perhaps ignorance. The two often resembled one another.
The prisoner shifted within his restraints. Chains produced a faint metallic rattle, "question..."
Voss ignored him.
Unfortunately, experience suggested he would continue regardless, "On a scale from one to catastrophic, where exactly are we?"
The question hung in the air.
After a moment, Voss answered, "Catastrophic."
Numen nodded slowly, "good." A pause, "would've been worried if you said eight."
The joke landed exactly as intended. Again; a shield.
Voss found herself studying him. Not his words— him. The timing bothered her.
No—
— Everything bothered her.
The creature, the absence of records, the contradictions, the impossible survival statistics; the inexplicable familiarity she felt whenever she attempted fitting him into an existing category.
Each detail individually possessed explanations. Together they became problematic. Most mysteries became simpler as evidence accumulated; this one appeared determined to become more complicated.
Another gunshot echoed through the facility.
Closer; much closer. The walls carried the vibrations.
A second followed— then a third. After that came silence. No return fire nor shouting; nothing. The brevity concerned her. combat between trained personnel usually lasted longer. People took cover— they repositioned and/or hesitated. Whatever occurred beyond those walls appeared increasingly one-sided.
Voss found herself recalling old investigations. A mining colony near the Halo Stars. Three dead before anyone realized there was a killer. A shrine world where communication stations had gone silent one by one over the course of six hours. An assassin cult operating beneath the administrative districts of a hive city larger than some nations.
Different enemies and circumstance. Yet the pattern remained familiar; where professionals created confusion, amateurs created chaos. Whoever currently moved through the detention sector belonged firmly within the former category.
Her gaze shifted briefly toward the door.
Distance... again her thoughts returned to distance. The reports had moved closer, the gunfire had moved closer, and the screams had moved closer. Simple observations led to simple conclusions.
Someone was advancing. Methodically and purposefully. Patterns led nothing towards a search nor were they wandering.
Advancing; the realization settled into place. The facility itself was merely terrain; not the objective. A route— a pathway leading somewhere...
— or someone
Voss looked at the unknown subject.
The prisoner noticed immediately, "...see, when you look at me like that, I become deeply uncomfortable."
She ignored him. The concern had already taken shape. A... possibility. The creature beneath the vault had ignored everyone present. It had watched only him. The interrogation had begun; shortly afterward the intrusion occurred.
Coincidence existed... Voss believed in coincidence— she simply did not trust it.
The prisoner noticed her continued silence. His expression gradually lost some of its humor.
Not much; enough, "you're thinking something."
"Yes."
"Can I hear it?"
"No."
"That feels rude."
For a moment neither spoke; then another realization emerged. Small and subtle, yet somehow worse than the others.
The intruder had not contacted them. No demands, no manifesto, not even a simple negotiation request. No attempt at communication whatsoever. That narrowed the possibilities considerably. People seeking information asked question. Those seeking leverage made threats. Some that are seeking prisoners made demands.
Yet those seeking corpses remained silent.
The sirens continued their endless mechanical wail.
Voss barely heard them. Her attention remained fixed on the reinforced door. On the corridor beyond it; on the unseen figure steadily reducing the distance between them.
for the first time since entering the interrogation chamber, she reached a conclusion she genuinely disliked: the facility had not been infiltrated— but had been hunted—
— and increasingly, she suspected the prey was sitting in chains across the table.
The conclusion settled heavily within her thoughts. Not because it was unlikely; because it was plausible. Plausibility had always been more dangerous than certainty.
Certainty could be challenged; it could be tested and verified.
Plausibility lingered; in waiting— growing stronger with every additional piece of evidence.
Voss looked toward the vox station once more. Static continued to hiss through the speaker.
Voices, updates, any request for assistance was absent— that which had become information itself.
Every second that passed without communication reduced the number of personnel still capable of providing it. The arithmetic was unpleasant.
Across the room, the man in the chair shifted again. The chains scraped softly against metal. A small, ordinary sound; human. The sort of sound one stopped noticing after enough exposure.
For some reason, Voss found herself focusing on it. Not the chains, the man attached to them. Objectively speaking, the simplest solution remained available. A plasma round to the chest. One trigger pull— one corpse. No objective— no target. No reason for an intruder to continue advancing.
The thought arrived with the same detached practicality she applied to every other tactical consideration. Nothing personal— never had been.
Numen noticed her staring, "...I'm suddenly very aware that you're armed."
Voss ignored him. The possibility remained temporary. An uncomfortable one, but available.
Still, her gaze drifted away. The logic failed; whoever had entered the facility possessed initiative. Had preparation and information. Perhaps even foreknowledge.
Eliminating Numen now would not answer a single question. It would merely destroy evidence— and evidence possessed value. Sometimes more value than lives.
A sharp crack echoed through the corridor beyond the chamber.
Close— very close. Not gunfire. This was metal; the sound of something striking reinforced plating. Once then again; the impacts reverberated faintly through the walls.
Numen stopped smiling. That, more than anything else so far, drew her attention. The humor vanished completely.
Gone... the prisoner listened— really listened as if some instinct buried beneath the sarcasm had finally recognized danger.
'Interesting... very interesting,' even now Voss hadn't stopped scooping for any info on her prisoner.
The third impact never came, instead the facility lights flickered. For less than a second darkness swallowed the chamber. When illumination returned, Voss already had her plasma pistol drawn.
Across the room, Numen looked directly toward the door.
Neither spoke.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the sirens.
◃───────────▹
The detention corridor was empty. A hollow of itself minutes ago. Not quite bustling, but busy with workers and servitors. Instead, bodies occupied the spaces where security personnel once stood. Some remained where they had fallen. Others had collapsed against walls stained black by soot and blood
The assassin stepped over one without slowing. His rifled remained shouldered. The weapon spoke in boisterous symphonies only a handful of times since entering the facility.
It had not needed more.
A dead man blocked part of the corridor ahead. The assassin paused long enough to remove a security pass from the corpse's belt. His eyes never losing sight of what's to come. Nothing forced his lids to shift; not trophies, not confirmation, not satisfaction. The dead no longer mattered. Just the objective he's in here for.
The card slid through a reader beside the next bulkhead.
A light flashed: Access denied.
The assassin studied the display for a moment. The rifle lowered and a single round struck the locking mechanism. The reinforced door shuddered. This was followed by a second shot; metal screamed. The third blew the assembly apart entirely. The bulkhead slid partially open before grinding to a halt.
Satisfied, the assassin moved forward.
Farther ahead, beyond layers of steel and reinforced concrete, sat the objective.
Where the facility believed distance was protection; to him, distance was merely another obstacle—
— and obstacles could be removed.
◃───────────▹
The silence did not last.
It stretched; certainly. It filled the chamber and pressed against everything inside it with a weight the sirens failed to disrupt. But it did not last, because silence inside a structure under attack was never peace. It was preparation— a calm before the storm— a breath taken before the next impact. The moment between a trigger being squeezed and the round finding flesh. The facility continued screaming through its alarm systems, yet within the interrogation room the noise had become background. Unimportant; almost irritating. Warning runes blinked red across the wall-mounted cogitator beside the door, listing failures in mechanical sequence. Vox disruption— security breach— lockdown partial— detention sector compromised; all of it useful only in the way a corpse might be useful after autopsy.
Voss did not need the machine to tell her what had happened.
Her plasma pistol remained in hand, muzzle lowered but ready. The weapon gave off a heat-haze, coils humming with caged violence. In most situations, its presence simplified matters. Things like armor, cover, flesh, bone— all of which became nothing more than academic when exposed to contained stellar fury. Yet the reassurance it provided was limited. A weapon solved only the problems it could be pointed at. The current problem remained beyond the door— no clear line of sight— behind layers of reinforced metal and failing security systems. A professional advancing through an Inquisitorial facility with neither hesitation nor wasted movement.
'Professional...' the thought lingered
Not a cultist, ganger, or a zealot drunk on martyrdom. Those options made noise louder than gunfire. Those also wanted witnesses; their violence recorded upon the victims and bystanders.
This one, on the other hand simply advanced like a Man of Iron of old.
Across the room, the prisoner remained still. That alone was informative. The young man had spent the majority of the interrogation weaponizing irreverence, using humor the way lesser men used armor plating. Every answer bent away from the truth— every joke obscured fear, confusion, and/or memory loss. Yet now he said nothing— his eyes remained fixed upon the reinforced door, expression stripped of most performance. Nothing that spelled calm, not quite afraid either. Listening... waiting— the change was subtle enough most interrogators might have missed it.
She did not
The main in the chair had instincts. Whether they belonged to him or whatever slept beneath him remained uncertain.
That uncertainty affected the available options.
She looked at the restraints...
Steel cuffs secured his wrist to the chair. Additional locked bound his ankles. The chair itself had been bolted into the floor after his arrival, an excessive precaution by normal standards— Voss had approved it regardless. At the time, he had been an unidentified anomaly recovered from beneath restricted infrastructure after an impossible construct had knelt before him. Excessive precaution had seemed reasonable.
Now they looked dangerously similar to a liability.
A bound prisoner could not flee— neither could he assist, defend himself, or be moved quickly without cooperation.
The simplest option remained exactly where it had always been— raise the pistol and fire once. Destroy the objective before the hunter reached it. Deny the enemy whatever purpose had guided him through the facility. It was clean, efficient, and tactically sound in the narrowest possible sense.
She hated narrow logic. Narrow logic killed questions before they could become answers.
Besides... the possibility that that is this problem's objective: to eliminate the man before her.
The prisoner's gaze shifted from the door to her pistol; then to her face. The silence between them changed shape.
"...You know," he said slowly, "I've recently developed a strong dislike for people looking at me while holding guns."
Voss said nothing.
His eyes flickered once toward the muzzle, "Especially when they get that thoughtful expression."
"Remain silent," her voice calm, frustrated with him, yet remained a hint of absolution.
"That sounds less reassuring than you probably intended."
"IT was not intended to reassure you."
"Good. Because it didn't"
The answer came automatically, but weaker than before. Less polished even. A reflex rather than a performance. Fear had moved closer to the surface, not enough to control him, enough to be visible. That made him more human. Unfortunately, humanity did nothing to reduce the danger surrounding him.
Voss moved, not toward the door, but toward him.
The prisoner noticed immediately. His shoulders tightened despite the restraints. Not in panic but in preparation. A body testing what little freedom remained. Measuring distance. Looking for timing. He had done it before during the interrogation whenever a question struck too close to something he did not understand. A reaction learned recently or remembered from somewhere older.
A distinction that may or may not be answered depending on how this upcoming altercation goes. That distinction which remained irritatingly important being left at wonder.
Voss stopped beside the table and activated the restraint controls built into its underside. The mechanism required two confirmations: one physical, one biometric; she provided both. Somewhere beneath the chair, locking pins disengaged with a heavy metallic clunk.
The prisoner looked down then back up, "that is either very good or extremely bad."
"Both," she replied.
"I was afraid you'd say that."
The wrist restraints opened first; though only one. His left hand came free.
Voss kept the plasma pistol aimed low, not directly at him but close enough that the implication required no explanation. The prisoner stared at his freed wrist and flexed his fingers once, then slowly lifted his hand away from the armrest with exaggerated are.
"Partial trust," he observed.
"conditional mobility."
"That's somehow colder."
"If you attempt escape, I remove your leg."
He paused, "which one?"
"The nearest."
"Practical."
"Yes."
For a moment, through the red pulse of alarm light and the distant impacts traveling though the facility, something almost resembling amusement tried to exist between them. It failed quickly. Another sound moved through the corridor beyond the chamber. Not gunfire this time. Nothing metal struck by rounds. Something heavier dragged briefly which was followed by a dull impact.
A body— most probably.
The prisoner heard it too. His expression shifted— his humor did not return.
Voss released the second wrist restraint. Then one ankle. She left the other secured.
He noticed, "still attached"
"Yes."
"Any particular reason?"
"You are more useful mobile than helpless. You are not yet useful free."
"That's fair," he admitted, then glanced toward the door. "Annoying... but fair."
Voss stepped behind him and reached down toward the final restraint without disengaging it. Instead, she keyed in a delayed release sequence. Three seconds; manual trigger. Her thumb remained over the activation rune.
If the door failed, he would be freed. Move too soon and he would remain trapped. If he became a threat... a leg won't be the only thing she's taking.
Three solutions prepared in one motion; though it wasn't ideal.
Ideal conditions rarely survived first contact with reality.
The room itself offered little advantage. Interrogation chambers were designed to contain, not defend. One entrance alongside reinforced walls. No windows to see through. Secondary exit nonexistent. Excellent for holding prisoners like him; poor for surviving an assault by someone who had already demonstrated competence against secured positions— one managed by an Inquisitor no less. The table provided negligible cover. The chair could become an obstacle if overturned. The light overhead could be destroyed to create darkness, though darkness helped trained killers as often as it hindered them.
Her eyes mapped everything from the door, table, chair, vox station, lumen strip, and blind angle beside the entrance.
The wall to the left of the door held thicker reinforcements due to old archive supports behind it. The right side was weaker; if breaching charges were used, fragmentation would likely fan inward along the centerline. Standing directly before the entrance would be stupidity disguised as courage.
Voss disliked both options.
She moved to the left side of the room, all under the gaze of the prisoner. He then looked at the door then at the table. Slowly, his eyes lingered down at his half-freed restraints.
"...Is this the part where I ask whether you have a plan?"
"No."
"Because you don't?"
"Because you would not understand it quickly enough to improve it."
He blinked, "wow."
"Be quiet."
"That was mean."
"It was accurate."
Another impact echoed from beyond the corridor; closer.
The reinforced door did not shake, at least not yet; but the vibration reached the floor. The prisoner felt it through the chair. Voss saw the slight adjustment in his posture as his body responded before his mouth did. His instincts were learning the rhythm now. Not simply danger, but approach. The same conclusion she had reached earlier, arrived at through less formal means.
Again, 'interesting.'
The wall-mounted cogitator sparked once. A warning rune changed from red to black.
Security feed lost.
The words appeared for less than a second before the screen died entirely.
Voss raised the plasma pistol, the prisoner swallowed in response.
Not loudly, not theatrically— but humanly.
"Inquisitor."
He had not called her that before— not like that.
Her attention remained on the door, "what."
"If this is about me..."
"It is," The answer left no room for comfort.
He exhaled once, slow and controlled, as if accepting something he deeply disliked.
"Right," a pause, "any chance we can discuss the whole not-shooting-me option in detail?"
"Survive the next minute."
"After that?"
Voss gave him a glance, "we negotiate."
The lights flickered again. This time they did not fully return.
The chamber fell into a low red gloom. Alarm strips painting the room in pulses of blood-colored light. Shadows moved where nothing should have moved. The reinforced door stood at the far end like a sealed tomb waiting to be opened from the wrong side.
Then the prisoner's eyes shifted. Not toward the door but toward the empty air. She saw it instantly; his pupils tracked something that was not present. His face went still in reading.
Before she could speak, he muttered under his breath.
"Oh... that's new."
Voss tightened her grip on the pistol, "What do you see."
The prisoner's smile returned. It was small... unhappy even. More so in reflex than confidence.
"Good news," he said.
The first lock on the door exploded outward. The metal shrieked under sudden pressure.
Voss did not blink.
The prisoner finished anyway, "the voices agree this is bad."