Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

Read 15 Chapters ahead on Patreon https://Patreon.com/rez540

------------

Hawk listened to the complaints of those around him and sighed.

"The Holy Emperor—our sins are inborn, and we must be forged through suffering."

The voices of missionaries echoed through the loudspeakers of public vehicles.

They were always so loud, as if sheer volume could make their words more convincing.

The Emperor had no time to deal with these fanatics.

A heretical thought crept into Hawk's mind.

He knew such ideas were blasphemous, but he couldn't help himself.

The priests claimed the Emperor loved all equally—so why was the world so unequal?

Some had everything. Others had nothing.

Clearly, the Emperor didn't see it.

These preachers were just deceivers, exploiting faith for their own gain.

Hawk turned to the window. Neon lights flickered against the chaotic layers of the hive city. His expression grew vacant.

What was the meaning of his existence?

Endless labor. Cramped, lifeless living quarters. Twelve-hour shifts, day after day.

That was all he had.

Yet the priests called it happiness.

Where was this happiness?

The public vehicle jolted to a stop at a worn-down metal platform.

[District 36, Station No. 2. Passengers for Residential District No. 2, please disembark.]

The mechanical announcement pulled Hawk from his thoughts.

He stood and stepped toward the exit.

As he stepped out, he heard a soft beep—his fare had been deducted automatically.

In the hive city, every citizen received a data chip upon adulthood. It stored all personal information, identification, and financial accounts.

But the chip wasn't theirs. It belonged to the Mechanics Association.

They controlled the hive's technology—every machine, every piece of infrastructure.

When a citizen died, the chip was extracted, wiped clean, and assigned to someone else.

Hawk suspected his chip had been used for at least two centuries—maybe longer.

Most things in the Empire were like that.

The technology outlived the people.

Maintained by the Mechanics Association, machines functioned for hundreds—sometimes thousands—of years.

Just as he left the vehicle, someone shoved past him, rushing aboard.

They didn't bother to apologize.

Hawk barely noticed.

In this cold, suffocating world, numbness was a survival instinct.

As he walked through the metallic corridor—its air thick with the scent of rust—he heard a deep hum overhead.

Looking up, he saw it.

A private hover vehicle, its sleek body engraved with the Imperial double-headed eagle and the emblem of a noble house, gliding effortlessly through the hive's towering skyline.

Hawk's eyes darkened with envy.

He watched the vehicle disappear into the distance.

He could never afford something like that—not in this lifetime.

Only those born into powerful noble families could.

Leaving the platform, he approached the residential district.

A vast crowd moved through the streets—voices blending into an endless murmur.

Vendors shouted, selling everything from medicine to cheap liquor—even contraband smuggled in from off-world.

Holographic advertisements flickered in the air, displaying promotions from corporate syndicates and merchant guilds.

In the shadows, gang members loitered—tattooed with symbols of their affiliations.

They dealt in stolen goods, illicit tech, weapons, cybernetic implants, and narcotics.

Law enforcement officers patrolled the district—not to uphold justice, but to collect bribes from vendors.

To do business here, you had to pay:

Hive capital taxes.

Protection money to gangs.

Bribes to law enforcement.

Whatever remained was your profit.

The settlement was home to millions.

Once a person earned income, they were assigned housing and charged rent.

There was no escaping it.

Sharing an apartment with friends to save money? Illegal.

The Grouse family, the ruling noble house, owned the real estate.

Law enforcement officers raided unauthorized cohabitations. If caught, you were prosecuted.

Married couples were required to upgrade their living space—failure to do so was child abuse.

Refusing to have children? Punishable offense.

What if you had no job, no income?

Then you became like the man in front of Hawk.

Wrapped in a filthy blanket, clutching the last of his possessions, reduced to a homeless outcast.

The authorities despised people like him.

"Hey, Hawk."

The man grinned weakly.

"Hey, Madara," Hawk responded.

He dug into his pocket, pulled out an energy bar, and tossed it over.

"Thanks. May the Holy Emperor bless you."

Madara tore open the wrapper, biting off half.

"How's your leg?" Hawk asked.

Madara patted his mechanical prosthetic.

"Not working well anymore. The Mechanics Association says repairs cost 20,000 credits."

He chuckled bitterly.

"If I sell it back to them, though, I'll get a decent payout."

Hawk's stomach twisted.

"You're really gonna sell it?"

Madara smiled, eyes distant.

"Yeah. I'll get a cane instead. Then, I'll treat you to a good meal, Hawk."

Madara wasn't from this planet.

He had once been a soldier, stationed in another star system—fighting in the Emperor's name.

When the war ended, he was transferred here.

For a time, he survived on his veteran's pension.

Then, the Grouse family took control of the Natal system and declared the government was in financial crisis.

To "maintain imperial efficiency," they canceled veteran pensions.

Madara was left with nothing.

"So, what now?" Hawk asked.

Madara leaned back.

"I've had enough, Hawk. I was seventeen when I enlisted. Spent my whole life fighting for the Emperor. Twenty wars."

He scoffed.

"I've faced greenskins, Tyranids, and things worse than both. Got enough medals to cover my damn body."

"But medals don't buy food."

Hawk's breath hitched.

"You're going to kill yourself."

Madara nodded.

"Yeah. I won't beg like a dog anymore. I was a soldier. Now I'm just a vagrant."

"When I sell this leg, we'll have one last good meal. Then, I need you to collect my body."

He smiled.

"Wrap me up with my medals. That's all I have left."

Hawk opened his mouth but found no words.

Suicide was nothing new.

It happened every day.

The desperate. The hunted. The ones who had nothing left.

In a world like this, death was a mercy.

Hawk turned away.

"I should go."

His voice was hollow.

He didn't want to hear any more.

Dragging his exhausted body, he returned to his cramped thirty-square-meter apartment.

The walls were stained, the wooden floor warped.

A rusted ventilator groaned overhead, pushing stale air in and out.

He switched on his ancient holo-projector.

Before the program began, an advertisement blared.

[Brave citizens of the Empire! Renew your passion! Trust in the Grouse family's wisdom!]

[A worker should die at their station, not in a hospital bed!]

[Introducing: Vitality No. 1 Potion! Boost energy! Enhance performance! Stay strong for the Emperor!]

[Tired? Drink Vitality No. 1! Weak? Drink Vitality No. 1! Dissatisfied spouse? Drink Vitality No. 1!]

Hawk stared.

Then, he laughed.

A hollow, bitter sound.