Fulton Murdini abhorred the Scholastica Psykana.

The Inquisitorial sanctioned psyker thought he had long gotten over that painful era from a lifetime ago. To his dismay, all it took was a single step into the place to dispel that false notion.

The overbearing grim mood, the depressing interiors, the faint air of emotional distress emanated by caged up psykers, the subtle fear exhibited by the ungifted, even the sterile smell of disinfectants reminded him of his lost youth. Fulton could feel his grip on the compact Equinox pattern force staff tightened up ever since entering the facility.

Lost in bitter nostalgia while following his host through corridors riddled with recent combat damage, Fulton’s thoughts were broken by the voice of a cultured middle-aged lady. ‘Mister Fulton, I thank you for your timely arrival in assisting us on the emergency repair of the protective wards.’

The statement had come from his host, the current head of the facility, Lady Prefector Dracinah. Fulton had decided a moment ago that, like the facility she commanded, he didn’t like her much. Everything about her, her attire, her augmetics, her position, and the way she carried herself, screamed of privilege to him.

Over the long years of service, Fulton had heard whispered rumours on rare cases of “privileged siblings”, psykers who were born into rich and powerful families on fringe worlds. In these distant regions, far from the heart of Imperial authority, the rules were often more flexible. Through standard unscrupulous means such as bribery, manipulation, and covert dealings, there were alleged cases of powerful families wielding enough influence to ensure that, should their children survive the sanctioning process, they would be assigned to posts closer to home. To come face to face with what must have been confirmation of such rumours irked Fulton greatly.

Responding to his host, Fulton turned and nodded. ‘Lady Dracinah, please just call me Fulton. Your gratitude is appreciated but unnecessary, I simply serve the Emperor.’

‘As do we all, Fulton, as do we all. But I must express my astonishment at the uncanny timing of the sanctioned security upgrade we received just prior to the attack. Without the timely reinforcement this would have been… an unmitigated disaster. The late Lord Prefector Arkansor did mention that the order originated from the very top, do you know anything about this?’

Fulton raised an eyebrow before replying. 'With all due respect, my lady, I will not comment on this matter and strongly advise against any further discussion of it.’

Dracinah seemed to have anticipated this response and swiftly switched topics. ‘Very well. In that case, may I ask about our graduates? Have they been serving the Inquisition well?’

Fulton was reminded about the new recruits they had recently received from this very facility. Tried as he might, there was no denying that the new batch of helping hands were very welcome in these trying times. As for Dracinah, to her credit she at least seemed competent enough when compared to the many other examples of people in powerful positions due to millennia-old nepotism.

Slowly he nodded. ‘As far as I can tell, so far most of them are doing fine. In my opinion some of them have real potential-’

+Master Fulton, emergency!+

It was a telepathic message from one of the aforementioned new hands, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. Being a psyker herself, Dracinah heard it too and she perked up from the unusual interruption.

+Centz, I hear you. Report.+ Fulton sent back.

+Unidentified psychic presence detected inside the facility! Near my position at the holding cells, estimated threat level, un… unknown.+

Threat level unknown?

Fulton quickly reached out with his psychic senses and located the subordinate’s unique soul resonance. From there he expanded his mind and searched around the area but failed to detect anything unusual.

Suppressing his frustration, Fulton was about to reconfirm that ridiculous claim when he felt something in that vicinity. It was a very subtle presence, unlike anything he had ever encountered. Yet when he probed further it was soon apparent that whatever this entity was, it was powerful enough to make his skin crawl. Alarmed, he looked to the Dracinah, and the lady was looking at him with a shocked expression, clearly sensing it too.

‘How many battle ready psykers do you have now?’ Fulton demanded, protocols and standard etiquette dropped due to the sudden dire situation.

‘Not a lot, and it will take a while to gather them up,’ Dracinah answered, half panicking herself.

‘You do that, and show me the quickest way to the place!’

Following a servo-skull with full access authorization, Fulton rushed through one security checkpoint after another. The psyker was alone, for there was little point in bringing gunmen to a psychic fight. After reaching the destination, he located Centz who was accompanied by two armed guards and a scribe, all of them looking terrified.

Noted for her warp sensitivity, Centz was one of the many fledgling psykers recruited locally, her sickly complexion appearing extra pale under the bluish lights. Short in stature, she wore a dark grey Inquisitorial storm coat that hung oversized over her skinny frame that hinted at long periods of malnourishment. Her slender face was highlighted by the compact psykana collar around her neck and a head of short brown hair.

Upon seeing Fulton, Centz’s weariness softened and she bowed.

‘Master Fulton.’

‘Update me, Centz.’

Centz raised her head, pointed to the far end of the dark hallway and whispered. ‘Over there, it seemed to be searching for something at that far end.’

Fulton looked into the gloom and felt all the fine hairs on his hand standing on their end. This was one of the many places where untrained psykers were individually kept in warded cells. He had a few theories as to what a hostile entity might be doing here, all of them leading to catastrophic implications.

‘Do you think it noticed you?’ He asked.

‘No idea, but I was very careful,’ Centz replied softly. She then turned her attention back to the hallway, squinted her eyes for a moment before whispering again. ‘I think it just stopped moving.’

‘That probably means it found whatever it was looking for,’ Fulton remarked grimly while checking on Dracinah’s position with his mind’s eye, looking for the reinforcement she promised. After a while he saw them, they were coming, but were still some distance away.

‘Help is coming, but not fast enough,’ Fulton said.

‘What do we do?’

Fulton pondered for a moment before taking out his communicator, activating the device before passing it to Centz. ‘Take this, stay far away and contact Throne Agent Herlindya immediately. Report to her what is happening. When the fight starts, if it looks bad, get the hell out of here.’

‘Can’t I help?’

‘Not with this.’

‘But…’

‘No arguing. Go!’

Fulton watched as Centz and the others fled before moving into the hallway, his mind flooded with questions.

Is this from the same group of heretics?

Why is this happening now?

Is this something they can only pull off with the captured psykers?

Approaching the unknown, Fulton channelled power into his force staff and felt the weapon come alive with a familiar low vibration. In the gloomy passage, his heart skipped a beat as he distinctly felt being noticed. There was no backing down now.

Staff raised, Fulton hurried his steps and committed into a fight which his own survival was very uncertain. The psyker turned a sharp corner to finally confront the intruder, but froze upon recognizing the petite white robed figure standing in front of a cell room.

She’s here? How? But is it really her?

As he stood in stunned silence and noticed the non-corporeal quality of the visitor, the figure spoke to him telepathically.

+Oh. Fulty, it is you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb.+

Fulton blinked, recognizing the eccentricity distinctive to only one individual. The psyker dismissed his powers, lowered his charged up staff and bowed deeply.

‘Lady Syrine.’

+Please rise, and just talk normally.+

‘Understood.’

While raising his head, Fulton could not help but mentally assess the distance of the fortress monastery and the palpable force projection standing before him. As he started to realise just how vast the actual power gap was between them, the notion that he once attempted to smite her sent freezing chills down his spine. Still, there was his duty, and he must ask the most obvious question.

‘My Lady, why are you here?’

Syrine’s projection paused slightly before gesturing towards a particular cell. +I was curious about his well being.+

Cell 235. Fulton peeked into it and saw a small boy with pale orange hair sleeping soundly without a care in the world. The boy was tied down by chains and all sorts of restraints, a treatment that was not unfamiliar to him.

Fulton knew nothing about the boy and he remarked flatly, ‘nothing seems out of the ordinary.’

+This looks normal to you?+ Syrine asked.

‘Well, yes. I grew up in a place very similar to this.’

+Really? What do you think of places like this?+

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The question caught Fulton completely off guard. For a brief moment he felt his thoughts, his emotions, and his revulsion of the place leaking into the surroundings. Surely she would have picked it up- Mortified, he looked to Syrine and found the latter just looking at him with a neutral expression.

After collecting himself and some contemplation, he answered with a soft sigh. ‘It is what it is, highly unpleasant but necessary.’

+I see. Can I ask you something else?+

This was very strange and jarring to the psyker. From his point of view she had but to command or simply pluck any information out from him, such an act should be as simple as breathing for her, yet she was treating him like a peer. As a veteran servant of the Holy Inquisition, Fulton had witnessed enough fools who paid the ultimate price for misjudging their position, and he was not about to commit such an error.

That said, he could not help but speculate just what was one such as him to her. A servant? An acquaintance? A lesser psychic sibling? Well, sibling in the sense of how the gifted differentiate themselves from the masses, for he shared not a shred of genetics from one rumoured to be a demi-goddess, that would be ridiculous. Even the notion of a loose associate seemed far-fetched for him, and he would never dare speculate about any hints of a friendship.

As the unsettling considerations went over his head, Fulton hesitated for another a second before bowing again and answering the only way he could.

‘Please ask away.’

+Did you ever …hate your caretakers from that time?+

A trick question? Fulton wondered if this was a ploy to get him saying the wrong things before quickly dismissing the notion out right; with his past transgression she could have easily made him disappear, and yet he was still here. Although instincts told Fulton he was unlikely to be reprimanded, years of ingrained conditioning made him hesitate. He glanced at Syrine again, and she was still watching him, both her expression and aura were free of any trace of judgement.

‘I used to,’ Fulton found himself confessing, ‘with every fibre of my being I used to despise every one of them. For a long time I never understood the treatment we received, but now I forgive them.’

+What changed your mind?+

‘An incident. One day, A girl not much older than me either got possessed or simply snapped. As per the usual, no one ever explained anything. She broke all her restraints and went on a bloody rampage, massacring more than three dozen people before the Black Sentinels took her down.’

Lost in memory, Fulton paused briefly before continuing his story. ‘Many of the casualties, including some of my least favourite people at the time, were literally turned inside out. It was beyond horrible, even they didn’t deserve such a fate,’ he said softly. ‘That was the day I understood our treatment. The Inquisition arrived soon after to clean up the mess, I was lucky enough to be noticed and eventually recruited.’

There was a longer pause before Syrine spoke again. +Tell me, if you have the power to improve a single aspect of such a place, what would it be?+

Fulton raised an eyebrow. For all its absurdity it did feel like they were friends talking casually, he allowed the fleeting illusion to take hold and smiled inwardly. Reflecting on the compelling notion, he thought for a while before responding. ‘Interesting question, my lady. Now that you mentioned it, I think my younger self would greatly appreciate it if…’

‘Mister Fulton!’

It was at that moment reinforcements led by Dracinah arrived. Escorted by a squad of Black Sentinels, the lady prefector stormed in with three other psykers. They came in with force staffs and spears raised, ready to attack. Except for the emotionally repressed Black Sentinels, fear was written quite plainly on everyone’s faces. While Fulton almost admired their desperate courage, he knew the chances of them winning were laughably slim if this fight actually broke out.

Holding up a palm, Fulton mustered as much calmness as he could conjure before dropping his statement, ‘stand down, this is an unannounced visit of a dignitary.’

Dracinah and her psykers had to do a double take upon seeing the figure besides Fulton, whereas the non-gifted Black Sentinels saw only the Inquisitorial psyker alone holding his palm up.

* * *

The sensation of having a body returned, and I opened my eyes and found myself back in my private suite. Slowly I let out a soft sigh and slumped into my chair.

Objective achieved. I had verified that the boy did survive, at least for now. That said, having my secret visit exposed was never part of the plan. After Dracinah showed up with more people, I cut short my stay and quickly hightailed out of the place, leaving Fulton to deal with the mess. That was embarrassing. Sorry Fulty, I owe you one.

In hindsight I was extremely lucky to be discovered by people who recognised me, otherwise that would have caused a hell of a lot more trouble. Being psychically stealthy should be my next focus of private research. While I brooded about the event in silence, Solace notified me of an incoming call from Herlindya. Here it comes.

I prepared myself and answered the call.

‘Hello?’

‘Evening, my lady. Sorry to disturb you at this hour, was that you somehow at the scholastica with Fulton just now?’

‘Psychically… yes.’

‘Very well. I will prepare a report, please sign it tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you, my lady. Herlindya signing off.’

The silence on the other end indicated the call had ended. This confused me for a moment. I had expected some kind of repercussion before remembering a crucial fact: I am the bigshot.

I slumped back down on my chair and almost groaned with the release of tension. Looking around, I felt somewhat asphyxiated. It then dawned on me that I was beginning to experience some mental toll from my surroundings.

Everything around here - absolutely everything - from the smallest everyday items to every inch of the interiors, stretching to every building on the horizon, was inundated in the grand gothic theme that defined the Imperium’s signature grim aesthetics.

Awe-inspiring at first, over time the weight of it all began to get suffocating. It felt like I was living inside a city sized theme park with an infinite budget for decorations. On top of that the whole place was drenched with historical significance. I was quite sure my living quarters had been the guest house for no less than a few dozen notable historical figures. I highly suspected the very chair I sat on could be judged as a relic of its own right should they run an audit of which famous person had sat on it before through the ages.

In fact it was mentioned one of Roboute Guilliman’s chairs had become a revered heirloom for the Ultramarines before he returned. Many chapter masters had meditated upon that said chair in times of crisis in hope of receiving wisdom from their primarch. Then things got a bit awkward when the primarch returned and treated the piece of heirloom venerated for generations like, well, an ordinary chair.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a head of clear blue sky - wait.

An outrageous idea suddenly came to my mind, prompting me to immediately try it out. Digging into my memory for a particular image, I closed my eyes and fired up [Simulatio].

Reacting to my will, the world blinked and in the next instance I found myself sitting on an ivory lawn chair with a perfect grassland under my feet, a light breeze caressing my face and a very bright blue sky above my head. The view was straight out from the legendary Windows wallpaper where the grass was of the greenest of greens, stretching to the horizon where a very small hill met the sky in the colour of the bluest of blues.

Despite knowing full well all these were constructs of psychic sensory input, I almost teared up at the Earth-like scenery. I settled down on my lawn chair, felt the false sunlight on my skin while enjoying the simulated scent of grass. It was relaxing, at the very least it felt like home.

As I unwound on the idyllic scene, what Fulton told me before we parted surfaced in my mind. ‘Lady Syrine, for your earlier enquiry,’ he had said with a knowing half smile, ‘if I might be so bold to suggest, better food and frequent sweet treats would have helped greatly.’

‘I see, thank you.’ Back then I nodded and acknowledged his statement while keeping my face straight before leaving. Without any prior context to make sense of our exchange, the subtly bewildered expressions on Dracinah were hilariously amusing.

That said, a Space Age empire cheaping out on basic food with their young, impressionable, and rare upcoming psykers? This was beyond black comedy. Throne only knows about the true scope of this galactic scale shit show that had been running for ten thousand years.

As I lounged in my chair lazily gazing at the clear blue sky, memories of horror stories and grim tales about the Imperium’s colossal resource mismanagement, unimaginable waste, and the reckless loss of human lives in the billions slowly resurfaced one after another in my mind, making me flinch and sit upright.

Can I change this world?

By the Throne, based on the lore I knew, everything concerning official resources here would involve parties with established vested interests with contracts and agreements stretching back for hundreds if not thousands of years. I didn’t even know if adding sweet treats for the inmates of the scholastica was within my current reach. I quieted down and slowly pushed the tempting notion of fixing this world out of my mind. Focus on your own survival first, I told myself.

Speaking of sweet treats, I wondered if it was possible to create food in this false world. I put my mind and focus on it, imagining a nice tea table with a full plate of cookies and soon enough, it materialised in front of me. Gingerly I picked up a cookie, took a bite and chewed on it. While it tasted like the real deal the experience was strange, probably because I knew this was just an illusion made of false sensory inputs.

Wait, can I…? Raising a hand, I willed for a weapon and sure enough, a bolter materialised into my grip. I observed the weapon closely, it had the exact minor scratches and dents in places as the one I used on the gun range. It was a replica from my memory.

I willed for another bolter, and just as a new replica fell into my left hand the scenery switched to a gun range with shooting dummies ready. I let loose with both bolters akimbo style and decimated rows of dummies in the blink of an eye. So it seemed like I could just practise shooting anytime with this.

I dropped my bolters and they melted into the air before hitting the ground, it was time to put this simulation ability to the real test. The scenery changed again, this time to a plain training room. I willed for a certain individual to be created in this space, the process this time took more time and effort due to its complexity. After a while a figure appeared, clad in her operative tight suit, brimming with the same predatory lethality as I remembered.

‘Nian, let’s rematch!’ I challenged the simulacrum.

“Niandra” gave me her signature smirk before silently falling into a deceptively casual battle stance. I charged the simulated assassin, fully intending to avenge my previous defeat while venting my frustrations of this world.