Days had passed since the beginning of the Shipyard Project.
Within one of New Kato's vast industrial megastructures, an endless hive of alloy struts, echoing lifts, and humming conduits, Grot sat motionless on the factory floor, his gaze locked on a battered logistics drone undergoing repairs beneath flickering, amber-tinted lumen strips.
The machine had been crushed during a recent raw material extraction run, its outer shell mangled like discarded scrap, internal servos ruined and leaking iridescent synthetic lubricant onto the grated ferrocrete floor.
Now, another drones, this one in perfect condition, worked with silent precision, manipulating a complex array of microtools mounted on its segmented arms, restoring its damaged counterpart.
Grot merely observed, his hands resting idly on his coveralls.
He was a maintenance technician now, at least on paper. In truth, the assignment was little more than ceremonial.
It was a placeholder. A distraction. A polite fiction.
It was just something to do.
A charity job, keeping people superficially occupied in a city where human labor was no longer essential, where drones had rendered the flesh-and-blood workforce obsolete relics.
Ensuring they had food, shelter, and something vaguely resembling purpose.
Most of the workers stood around just as he did, idle, eyes vacant, watching the drones do the real labor.
No one spoke. No one needed to.
Eventually, the damaged drone was repaired. It hovered away, its repulsors humming softly as it returned to its duties.
And in that moment, Grot realized the truth.
This work did not matter.
He did not matter.
....
A black, spherical drone floated toward a nearby worker, its matte surface pulsing faintly with data-runes.
The unit's vox-emitter crackled to life, its voice flat and mechanical:
["Personnel #488181. Occupation: Worker. You have completed one continuous month of service. You are now permitted to access the chapel for psychological decompression."]
The worker immediately stood and left, wordlessly obeying the directive.
Then, the drone turned to Grot.
["Personnel #4. Designation: Thunderborn. You have not undergone stress relief since the last recorded active conflict. Your psychological profile indicates unresolved trauma. You are granted leave to visit the chapel for decompression."]
Grot smirked and gave the drone's smooth plating a light slap.
"I'm not a Thunderborn anymore. You really ought to update your database, buddy."
Then, he stood up and walked out of the factory.
Although it was still work hours, stress relief leave overrode standard schedules. Anyone granted permission could leave immediately.
As Grot and others left their facilities, they merged with other groups, forming a silent procession toward the cathedral-like heart of the city, lit from within by cascading pillars of soft white and neon violet, like an inverted sunrise captured in glass.
The crowd was diverse: engineers, technicians, logistics personnel, and laborers.
New Kato was not just a city. It was a prototype for something beyond the Imperium's rusted norms.
A cybernetic miracle. Skywalks of luminous graphene arched between buildings like veins of light, pneumatic lift-tubes hissed and pulsed like capillaries, and service drones zipped along neon-marked lanes, obedient as bees in a hive that never slept.
And unlike the rest of the hive city Tyrone, there was breathable air, nutrient-rich food, and power that never flickered.
Suddenly, a Sentinel-class security drone hovered into their path.
Its red and blue lights pulsed rhythmically, and the locking clamps on its underslung heavy bolter disengaged with a sharp, deliberate click.
A bright scanning beam swept over them.
["Thank you for complying with the mandatory security scan. Have a productive cycle."]
With its monotone confirmation, the drone's weapons rearmed, and it drifted away to patrol another sector.
New Kato was orderly.
It was efficient.
It was safe. But only because watchful eyes were everywhere.
Grot didn't love it. But he understood it.
This wasn't a paradise, but it was cleaner, quieter, and more merciful than the festering hellscapes of most hive worlds.
And he knew: Qin Mo had no time to build a 'humane' city.
He hadn't designed New Kato for happiness. He'd designed it to survive. To function. To prepare for war.
Yet still, despite its coldness, it was better than what had come before.
The group continued onward, entering the massive chapel.
A steel-and-glass titan of devotion, it extended more than a hundred levels beneath the surface, its above-ground facade a monolith to faith, etched with glowing catechisms and vox-fed chants. Its true function, however, lay far below
....
The Depths of the Chapel
The above-ground structure of the chapel was a monument to faith, its grand halls filled with incense, litanies, and holograms of the Emperor in all His glory.
But its true purpose lay beneath.
Grot stepped into an elevator and began his descent.
When the doors opened, he entered a long, metallic corridor lined with dozens of identical doors, each marked with a bio-ID scanner and subtle red warning glyphs.
Each led to a private chamber, where workers could "relieve stress" through fully immersive simulations, a sanctioned escape from the ceaseless rhythm of drone-run labor.
Grot chose an unoccupied room and entered.
The moment the door sealed shut, the dark, sterile chamber shifted.
The walls dissolved into mist.
The air changed, carrying a faint salt tang and humid ocean breeze.
Suddenly, Grot stood on a serene beach, white sands stretching beneath a searing sun, the ocean's waves rolling gently beneath a vibrant azure sky.
Two bottles of alcohol emerged from the floor.
A holographic prompt appeared before him:
["Would you like to continue: Loyalists vs. Traitor Xenos?"]
Grot nodded. "Continue."
A lasrifle materialized in his hands.
Once again, he relived the Great Counteroffensive, fighting side by side with fallen brothers, experiencing war from the perspective of a common soldier.
But this time, there was no death. No permanent loss. Only the comfort of a lie wrapped in fire and glory.
....
When the simulation ended, Grot exited the chamber and took the elevator back up.
As the doors slid open, he froze.
Waiting outside was a man clad in gold-trimmed Thunderborn armor.
Grey, New Kato's Commander of the Thunderborn, stood with his arms crossed, casually leaning against the wall.
Passing workers stole quick glances at him, some in awe, others warily averting their eyes.
Grot grinned.
"What, even Captain Grey comes here to play Loyalists vs. Traitor Xenos?"
He stepped forward, embracing his old friend.
Grey chuckled, shaking his head.
"I don't like that game. I prefer watching a movie called Super Grey Kills a Million Heretic Scumbags."
Then, his expression turned serious.
"Maya has been found."
For a moment, Grot stood still.
Then his hands trembled.
His eyes widened.
His breath hitched.
And tears and snot streamed down his face like a broken dam.
Grey patted his shoulder.
"Her new quarters are next to yours. Go home after duty. You'll see her then. You'll also need to teach her the rules of living in New Kato."
Grot wiped his face.
"Rules? Like what?"
Grey smirked.
"For starters? No unauthorized entertainment. No resisting Sentinel scans. And most importantly..." He paused, tapping his temple. "The Lord Commander designed a gene-tracing device just to find her. Imagine if we'd found some meathead and had to say, 'Here's your sister.'"
Grot laughed through tears.
Then Grey's expression shifted again.
"Also... your brother."
Grot's face darkened.
He took a deep breath.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
Grey nodded.
"Yes, but—"
Grot cut him off.
"You don't have to explain."
Grey fell silent.
"My brother never yelled at me. He used violence, yes, but he never relied on it. He was a model of self-discipline. But back then, something was wrong... I-it was like… he wasn't in control. When I looked into his eyes, it was like staring into a hollow shell, like he was trapped inside, pounding on the walls, begging me to help him."
Grey lowered his head.
"Call me if you ever need anything."
Grey clasped Grot's shoulder.
"I've got recruitment duties to handle, but tomorrow night, we drink."
Grot smirked weakly.
"Sounds good."
....
Elsewhere…
"He's got sharp instincts," Qin Mo remarked, watching Grot's image fade from the projection screen.
"Yeah... So, uh... does this mean we give him his armor and title back?" Grey asked cautiously.
A sudden knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
"We'll discuss it later," Qin Mo said, his voice calm but unreadable.
"Enter."
The door opened.
Duncan, the 87th Regiment Commander, stepped inside and saluted.
"You summoned me, my Lord?"
Qin Mo nodded.
"I heard you still keep a relic. A piece of your friend's remains."
Duncan's hands clenched.
Albert's ashes.
His old friend had one final wish: To see the sky, even in death.
"You know," Qin Mo mused, "most fallen soldiers had only two dying wishes. One: Entrust their families to their comrades. Two: See the sky one last time."
Duncan nodded nervously, jaw tightening.
"Now, they won't just see the sky..." Qin Mo smiled faintly. "They'll watch over us from beyond it."