"Damn it, that cursed metal man!"
After an exhausting day of searching, Roy finally had to admit that he hadn't managed to locate the blasphemous creation rumored to have emerged from the mythical Age of Darkness. He swore to himself that next time, he'd bring more people—no matter the cost—to track down that round, blue machine.
They navigated the hidden tunnels with utmost care. Each of these passageways threading through the hive was an invaluable lifeline, never to be discovered by outsiders.
Emerging from one such tunnel into the interior of a house, Roy paused to adjust his clothing—just enough to cover the telltale traces of the Underhive. Only then did he smile and greet the home's occupant: a little girl, perhaps no older than nine, with a small, twisted extra arm growing beneath her ribs—likely a deformity caused by the factory's chemical radiation.
Apart from the malformed arm, she was an adorably delicate child. Her dress, stitched together from scraps of discarded fabric by a kind neighbor, was far from stylish but had clearly been lovingly washed countless times—one of the few articles of clothing she owned.
"You're finally back, Roy!" the girl chirped, bounding toward him. She nuzzled against his chest like a kitten seeking affection. "I was really worried about you!"
"Haha, sorry, sorry. Something came up and it took longer than I thought." Roy crouched down and ruffled her hair gently. "Anything happen while I was out, Isa?"
"Not really…" Isa shook her head, then hesitated. "Just… the nobles from the Spire closed off the route to the Mid-Hive. I guess they're scared the plague might spread to them."
"Those damn maggots," Roy muttered darkly.
He'd always despised the self-important nobles of the Spire, and the cold-blooded Adeptus Arbites who enforced their will. Isa's father had once been a loyal citizen of the Imperium, a devout follower of the God-Emperor. But for the crime of a minor mutation—a warped finger, harmless and barely noticeable—he had been publicly burned by the Arbites. Isa had watched her father be reduced to ash in the flames, hidden among the crowd, too small to do anything but cry.
To the Imperium, even a minor physical deformity was heresy. But in a world steeped in toxic pollution and chemical rot, who could guarantee their child would be born flawless?
Here in the Underhive, many saw such mutations not as a curse, but as proof of hard labor—gifts from the Emperor himself. The Arbites, however, had no patience for nuance or compassion.
"It's alright. Faith will guide us through this plague," Roy sighed. "As for those vermin up top… the Emperor's armies will descend from the heavens one day, and they will answer for their sins."
The so-called "plague" had first appeared half a Terran year ago, sweeping through the Underhive and Lower Hive. It wasn't instantly lethal, but its victims suffered agonizing growths of bloated pustules—and so far, no known cure existed.
Patting Isa on the head once more, Roy rose and walked out. Naturally, he and the others scattered in separate directions after exiting.
The moment he stepped outside, he was hit by the stench of industrial waste hanging thick in the air.
"The plague," he whispered, eyeing the blister-covered figures loitering near the road, then lowering his gaze. Helplessness clawed at him. It pained him to witness such suffering and be powerless to stop it. And so he prayed—earnestly, hopelessly, sincerely:
"May your souls find rest beneath the God-Emperor's throne."
---
"Plague?"
Doraemon stared nervously at the faces displayed on the monitor before him.
"No, this is bad—if it's gotten to this stage, something needs to be done immediately!"
Without hesitation, Doraemon leapt to his feet and rummaged through his 4D Pocket. Moments later, he pulled out a pink door.
"Anywhere Door!"
With this gadget, he could go anywhere, as long as he knew the exact location.
Opening the door, Doraemon stepped into a narrow alley deep within the Underhive. After tucking the door away, he cautiously peered out from the alley's end. Seeing no one nearby, he hurried forward and began dragging the infected one by one into the alley. Then he pulled out another gadget:
"Doctor Bag!"
Opening the case, he took out a stethoscope and pressed it against the first patient's chest. The monitor on the inside of the bag blinked to life—but instead of a diagnosis, it only displayed:
[???]
This tool, originally meant for children playing doctor in the 22nd century, could actually analyze symptoms and synthesize tailored medication. However, perhaps due to the plague being from another universe, it couldn't identify the disease.
"I don't know what this illness is, but… it should still be okay, right?" Doraemon muttered uncertainly.
Despite the lack of data, he examined each patient in turn. After confirming they all suffered from the same disease, he retrieved the synthesized medicine from the side compartment and helped them take it.
"Anyway… please don't suddenly wake up and try to attack me," he mumbled, his voice both anxious and hopeful.
Stuffing the Doctor Bag back into his pocket, Doraemon pulled out an Air Cannon and took several steps back, just in case these people reacted like the ones he'd encountered before—violent and feral for no apparent reason.
Fortunately, the medicine from the 22nd century proved remarkably effective. Within moments, the festering boils on the patients' bodies began to visibly recede.
"Hnn…"
One of the patients groaned faintly and slowly opened her eyes. Then, as if sensing something, she looked down at her hands.
"What…?"
Startled, she sat up and ran her hands over her arms and torso. Smooth, healthy skin met her touch. The sensation of being whole again, of truly feeling well—it was so surreal that she began to wonder if she was dreaming.
"Did… the God-Emperor perform a miracle?"
"Nope. I cured you with a gadget."
A gentle voice—slightly shy, slightly wary—floated over to her.
She turned, confused, and her pupils shrank in shock.
There, partially hidden in the shadows, stood a creature with no neck, its body composed of two round segments, both smooth and blue.
"Don't be scared! I'm not here to hurt you," Doraemon said quickly, raising his hands. "I just want to help."
"Help… me?" she repeated, hesitant.
A spark of recognition flickered in her mind.
A blue alien… offering help to someone like her.
She'd heard whispers—heretical ones—of beings beyond the stars, far from the Emperor's light. Aliens who weren't hostile, who were… kind.
She swallowed hard, her eyes lighting up with cautious hope.
"…Are you… a T'au?"