In the Lower Hive, a dim corridor stretched endlessly ahead. Dust drifted through the stale air, mixing with engine exhaust and the ever-present stench of decay.
A little over a dozen armored players loosely surrounded a square formation of several hundred Lower Hive residents, escorting them forward at a measured pace.
The civilians wore the marks of a lifetime spent beneath the hive. Their complexions were sallow, their bodies thin from chronic hunger, and their eyes dulled by years of oppression. Their clothing consisted of patched rags and scraps of discarded plastic sheeting, stained with grease and unidentifiable grime, barely enough to preserve a shred of dignity.
"By the way," Caleb, the younger twin, asked as he scanned their surroundings, "can just the dozen of us really protect this many people? We're not Astartes. If cultists or Genestealers attack, we might survive—but these civilians won't."
Andrew, the older brother, raised a finger with a knowing grin.
"That's because you've misunderstood the mission. The moment I saw this quest, I realized we aren't here to escort them."
Caleb blinked.
"...We're not?"
"We're here to deter."
"Deter who? The cultists? The Genestealers?"
Andrew pointed toward the huddled civilians.
"Them."
Caleb paused before realization dawned.
"Oh... so we're here to stop them from panicking before they reach the Mid-Hive."
"Exactly."
Andrew nodded.
"The cultists and Genestealers are already busy hiding from our purge operations. Why would they expose themselves to slaughter a group of civilians? Maintaining order is our real job."
Caleb nodded thoughtfully before another question occurred to him.
"What do these people actually think about being relocated? Historically, forced relocations don't exactly have the best track record."
Andrew shrugged.
"They're right here. Why don't you ask?"
"...Good point."
Caleb pointed at a nearby man.
"You. Yeah, you. Come here."
The civilian froze.
His expression shifted from numbness to sheer terror almost instantly. His whole body trembled uncontrollably as though every bone had turned to jelly. Around him, the other civilians instinctively backed away, leaving a conspicuous empty circle around him.
Caleb stared.
"...Is my face really that scary?"
Andrew sighed.
"My brother called you."
His tone hardened.
"So move."
The civilian lurched forward on shaking legs, each step looking as though it might be his last. Before either brother could speak, he blurted out in a trembling rush,
"Sirs! Everyone in my factory knows I'm honest! I've never joined a gang! I have elderly parents and young children to support! We're loyal Imperial citizens, I swear!"
Caleb blinked.
"...The translator is surprisingly authentic."
"You."
Andrew's voice cut through the man's babbling like a knife.
"Stand up straight. Shut your mouth."
The civilian immediately obeyed, standing as rigidly as a statue.
Andrew glanced sideways.
"Go ahead. Ask."
Caleb scratched his cheek.
"...What do you think about moving from the Lower Hive to the Mid-Hive?"
The man's face lit up as though someone had ignited a candle inside him.
"Thank the Emperor! Thank the Imperium! Thank our benevolent leaders!"
His voice quivered with excitement.
"If... if Lord Andrew hadn't ordered me to stand, I would already be kneeling! I will remember your kindness for the rest of my life! My children will remember it! Their children will remember it!"
Caleb rubbed the back of his head.
"But... once you get there, you'll still work the same hours. Wouldn't you want something more practical? Shorter shifts, maybe? Better living conditions?"
The words had barely left his mouth before the man's expression turned deathly pale.
His knees buckled.
He slammed onto the floor with a loud thud, forehead nearly touching the ground.
"S-Sir! I would never be so greedy! Never! Being allowed into the Mid-Hive is already a blessing beyond anything I deserve! I dare not ask for more! Please believe me!"
"Holy—"
Caleb reached down in alarm.
"Why are you kneeling? Get up!"
He tugged several times, but the man refused to budge. It felt as though his knees had rooted themselves into the metal floor.
Andrew simply sighed, drew his sidearm, and pointed it calmly at the kneeling civilian.
"If you don't stand up and stop talking..."
His expression remained completely flat.
"...you'll never have to stand up—or talk—again."
The civilian shot upright so quickly it looked as though lightning had struck him.
His lips snapped shut.
He stood perfectly straight, though his entire body shook even harder than before.
Andrew holstered his pistol.
"Back in formation."
The civilian fled without another word, disappearing into the crowd as though hoping to erase his own existence.
Andrew looked toward Caleb with a faint smile.
"So?"
"Understand now?"
Caleb rubbed his chin.
"...I think so."
"For us, class is abstract."
He spoke slowly, organizing his thoughts.
"Moving up in society means higher pay, shorter hours, better housing... a better quality of life."
Andrew nodded.
"But that's not how people in the Imperium think."
"Their class is physical."
Caleb gestured upward.
"The Underhive. Lower Hive. Mid-Hive. Upper Hive. The Spire."
"They're literal places."
Andrew continued,
"For generations, people have never moved between them. Climbing even one level is the absolute limit of their imagination."
"So bringing them from the Lower Hive to the Mid-Hive..."
Caleb looked back at the civilians.
"...is already the greatest reward they can imagine."
"Exactly."
Andrew laughed dryly.
"You could increase their workload, extend their shifts, and make them work twice as hard."
"They'd thank you."
"But if you offered shorter working hours, lighter labor, and better treatment..."
He spread his hands.
"...they'd become suspicious."
"'Why would anyone give us something for nothing?'"
"'What are they planning?'"
"Fear of the unknown would make them resist the relocation itself."
Caleb let out a slow breath.
"So even if we wanted to improve their lives..."
"...we can't."
"Not yet."
Andrew's answer came immediately.
"Human nature doesn't change overnight."
"Give it ten... maybe thirty years."
"Once a new generation grows up believing the Mid-Hive is normal, they'll begin demanding better conditions."
"Only then can reforms happen naturally."
Caleb scratched his head.
"...Ten years."
"I'm not even sure I'll still be playing this game by then."
While they talked, the massive frosted-metal elevator carried them into the Mid-Hive.
Compared to the Lower Hive, the difference was immediately obvious.
The air was breathable.
The lights were brighter.
For the first time in hours, the corridor didn't smell like death.
Their escort mission officially ended, and another player squad stepped forward to take over.
Just as the brothers were about to accept another assignment, a familiar figure came sprinting toward them.
It was Mua'dib.
"Andrew! Caleb!"
He waved both arms excitedly.
"You two have been chosen!"
The brothers exchanged a glance.
Neither needed to ask what he meant.
There was only one thing worth getting excited about.
They had been selected to become Astartes.