The experiments were still ongoing.
The dim lights of the Alru Group's underground holding facility illuminated the figures dragged out of their cells or left slumped beside the interrogation tables.
Along with the eternal smells of mildew and machine oil, the air had taken on some unsettling new odors:
The sting of disinfectant, the sour reek of chemical reagents, and a faint, rusty scent of blood.
Two White Butchers in gas masks, their faces hidden, dragged another player back and tossed him into the overcrowded cell where twenty people had already been held, as if he were a bag of rubbish.
His ID was [Dont Want to Get Out of Bed Today]. His status bar now sported a dizzying string of icons: [Mild Organ Failure], [Neurotoxin Tolerance Test in Progress], [Allergic Reaction to Psychic Suppressant]...
He lay twitching on the floor, bloody foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth. His last words came in fits and starts over the regional channel:
"Bro... bros... I feel like I'm about to kick the bucket again... They gave me a shot... green... and bubbly... tasted like a thousand-year-old stew Grandfather Nurgle cooked... Ugh..."
"Hang in there, bro! It costs five coins to revive!"
Soul of Cadia shouted from the cell next door, gripping the bars.
"I... can't... My vision's turning yellow... now green... The Emperor above, I think I see Grandfather beckoning to me..."
Dont Want to Go to Work Today didn't make it. A few minutes later, his body stopped twitching.
A cold system notification flashed by: [Player Dont Want to Go to Work Today has died. Cause of death: Combined Toxicity Failure. Revival cost: 5 Imperial Coins. Logged out by force.]
"How many is that now?"
Wang Zhong leaned against the cold iron bars, his voice hoarse.
He had just witnessed three experiments with his own eyes. They ranged from crude bone marrow extractions and spinal taps, to injections of suspiciously colored drugs, and finally to putting on a helmet that supposedly tested psychic potential but turned your brain into mashed potatoes.
Mechanicus Oil-Lover on the Run kept a maddeningly calm record in the channel: "Counting this latest one, since we were locked up, we've observed thirty-seven non-combat casualties."
"The experiments cover basic physiological tolerance, neurotoxicity, psychic potential stimulation, and rough genetic screening, among other things."
"The conclusion matches our earlier hypothesis: they're putting us through systematic quality control."
"Quality control?"
Schrodinger's Loyalist rubbed the arm they'd just drawn blood from. It still ached faintly. "Like livestock?"
"Worse than that."
Tax Brother scowled. "Livestock can at least hope to be fattened up and sold for meat. What about us? Anything with little experimental value gets scrapped."
As if to prove his point, the heavy blast door at the entrance to the underground chamber slid open again.
This time, it wasn't a group of lab-coated staff who came in, but a squad of fully armed soldiers, much better equipped than the force that had captured them.
They surrounded a middle-aged man in a crisp dark blue uniform, wearing a practiced business smile.
The man held a Dataslate and scanned the cells one by one, like a farm owner checking his stock.
He stopped in the central clearing, cleared his throat, and spoke through a loudspeaker, his voice carrying to every corner. His tone was trained, polite, and cold:
"Ladies and gentlemen... well, for now, let's call you temporary detainees."
"Following the preliminary assessment conducted by the Alru Group Life Science Department, I'm sorry to say that the vast majority of you have failed to meet expectations in terms of your potential value to advanced biological research and genetic development."
The regional channel instantly flooded with "???" and "Fuck!"
"What's that supposed to mean? That we're useless?" Want Silent King's Crown but cannot afford demanded angrily.
"To be precise," Mechanicus Oil-Lover on the Run corrected, "he's saying our bodies aren't worth much as experimental materials."
"The game bodies generated by the system may be too clean or uniform at the genetic level. They lack natural mutations, and we can't detect any traces of Warp contamination. That means there's little to surprise researchers seeking breakthroughs and mutations in Chaos... Ahem, I mean, researchers seeking technological breakthroughs."
The purple-uniformed man continued his speech, his smile unchanged. "The prosperity of the Imperium and Aurelian is built on the hard work of countless people."
"Since you can't currently contribute to the temple of science, then contributing to more practical construction is also an honorable end."
He waved, and the soldiers immediately sprang into action. They slammed their lasgun stocks against the iron cages, making them clang, and shouted:
"Everyone up! Form a line! Move out! Quickly!"
"Where are we going?" a player shouted.
The man in the purple uniform glanced at the speaker and smiled. "Somewhere you can put your remaining value to full use."
"The Alru No. 3 Refinery, owned by the Simans Chamber of Commerce, urgently needs a batch of... manpower."
A refinery.
Forced labor.
One of the classic destinations for the working stiffs at the bottom of a Hive City.
The players were driven through the deep, freezing passageways once more and loaded into a transport pod shaped like an iron coffin.
This time, it didn't fly. The pod rumbled down along tracks through the Hive City's tangled steel guts. The temperature rose gradually, and the air filled with the strange stench of sulfur, smelted metal, and some nauseatingly sweet chemical compound.
After an unknown amount of time, the pod doors opened, and a wave of heat hit them.
What appeared before them was a cavernous space so vast it made them dizzy—or, rather, hell given physical form in the industrial age.
The towering ceiling vanished into churning smoke. Several winding streams of molten metal crawled slowly through channels like veins in the earth, glowing dark red.
Massive gears, pistons, pipes, and conveyor belts formed the skeleton and nerves of the space. The roar was deafening.
Mountains of ore, barrels of foul-smelling chemicals, and genuine Hive City workers could be seen everywhere. Dressed in rags, they shuffled around with numb expressions.
Even more eye-catching were the overseers patrolling the area.
They wore makeshift protective suits and carried either electrified whips or thick metal clubs. Their faces showed undisguised cruelty and indifference.
"Welcome to Factory No. 3, scum!"
A one-eyed overseer with a buzzing Power Whip strode up to the new arrivals. His voice rasped like rusty gears grinding together. "Around here, your life is worth exactly two things: hours worked and output! Don't understand? Doesn't matter!"
He casually lashed a local worker beside him who'd been moving a little too slowly from exhaustion. Sparks flashed, and the worker cried out and fell forward, his back charred black.
"That's the language spoken here! Everyone get it?"
The overseer grinned viciously. "Now, you're being assigned to work zones! Slag cleanup, ore sorting, pipe unclogging, catalyst hauling... Just look at those soft, delicate hands of yours. Hmph. You'll start in the sorting zone!"
"Pick the waste rock out of the raw Promethium by hand! Minimum quota is fifty baskets a day per person! Anyone who doesn't make quota..."
He hefted the Power Whip in his hand. He didn't need to spell out the rest.
The players were herded into an open area littered with gravel and black ore.
Some local workers were already toiling away mechanically. They paid the newcomers no attention, their eyes vacant.
"So," Tax Brother said, picking up a heavy black rock with sharp edges. He looked at his empty inventory, which had only five slots, and wore an absurd expression.
"We, the Fourth Calamity, more than five thousand players, came to the Warhammer 40K universe, started out owing the system a breathing tax, and got snatched up by a crooked company on day two. We skipped the experimental phase and got sent straight to work as... assembly-line miners?"
"And no mechanical arms, no automated sieves. All manual labor."
Slaanesh Chosen Reserve glanced at the one-eyed overseer behind them, whip in hand, and said in the regional channel, amused, "Okay, fam, we've successfully landed a job at a sweatshop. Too bad we can't just grab our buckets and walk out!"
Before you continue