The Dangers Facing Mankind.
[IMPERIAL ARCHIVE // ACCESS LEVEL: EXTREMIS]
[FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 1]
[STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]
Recovered Testimony (Source: Unknown Inquisitor)
Listen closely, for these words are carved from the last remnants of my sanity. I have walked the hidden wounds of the Imperium for longer than any soul should endure. I have stared into the darkness that festers beneath our worlds, and in that silence — that crushing, suffocating silence — something stared back.
Humanity stands upon a precipice thinned by millennia of denial. We are beset from within and without by xenos, heretics, and mutants whose hatred has outlived empires. They wait in the shadows, patient as the void, for the moment when vigilance fails. And I have seen that failure too many times.
Some descend upon our worlds in storms of slaughter. Others whisper salvation to the weak‑willed, twisting them into willing instruments of their own ruin. There are those who revel in torment, peeling away sanity until their victims beg for release — a mercy withheld until the tormentor grows bored. And still more burrow into the cracks of our cities, nurturing cults that rot entire worlds from within, all to avenge wounds humanity has long forgotten.
These are the dangers I can name. But there are deeper shadows still — horrors that watched me as I watched them. I have gazed into the abyss for so long that I no longer know whether I study it… or whether it studies me.
You who hear this warning must not look away. You must see what others refuse to see. For if you, too, choose silence, then the abyss will not merely gaze back — it will claim us all.
— Fragment recovered from an unregistered data‑slate, seized during a lower‑hive purge. Significant portions redacted by order of the Ordo Hereticus. Believed to be the final testimony of an unidentified Inquisitor prior to censure.
Original document reportedly copied and circulated across multiple hive‑levels by means unknown. All confirmed possessors executed for dissemination of proscribed material. Further copies suspected to exist within lower‑hive data‑crypts.
SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Servitor conversion of all implicated individuals PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: Severe
- [FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 2]
- [SUBJECT: TYRANID INVASION PATTERNS — STANDARD HIVE FLEET APPROACH]
- [STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]
- If you are reading this, then the first fragment reached you. That alone is cause for alarm.
Know now that the abyss I spoke of has many faces — and one of them hungers without limit. I have begun to dream of it, though I no longer trust which dreams are mine.
The Tyranids do not invade as other foes do. They do not negotiate, posture, or threaten. They arrive as a biological inevitability, a tide of flesh and instinct driven by a will vast enough to drown entire sectors. Their approach is heralded not by banners or declarations, but by silence — the psychic quiet that falls when the Shadow in the Warp smothers all thought. Driving into madness, minor Psykers and Omega Grade alike. That silence follows me now, even when I sleep
. Before the swarm descends, vanguard organisms infiltrate the world, slipping through void and atmosphere with predatory purpose. These creatures harvest genetic samples from every living thing they encounter. Flora, fauna, defenders, predators — all of it is taken, catalogued, and fed back to the Hive Mind.
From this stolen DNA, the Tyranids craft new bioforms, each one tailored to exploit the weaknesses of the world they intend to consume. If a planet’s beasts are swift, the swarm becomes swifter. If its defenders are armoured, the swarm grows stronger claws. If its atmosphere is toxic, the swarm adapts lungs that thrive in poison.
Every adaptation is deliberate. Every mutation is purposeful. The Hive Mind does not merely attack a world — it perfects itself upon it. Sometimes I wonder if it perfects itself upon us as well. I have felt… watched.
A standard Tyranid invasion follows a pattern as precise as it is horrifying:
- Vanguard organisms infiltrate and harvest DNA, marking the world for consumption.
- Spore clouds descend in planetary volumes, blotting out the sun.
- Gaunt swarms surge forward in endless waves
- Synapse creatures direct the tide with cold, alien precision.
- Bio‑titans, often shaped by stolen genetics, break the last strongholds.
- The Hive Fleet descends, stripping the world of all biomass.
[ARCHIVE — REDACTED]
— Extracted from a corrupted data‑slate seized during an Ordo Xenos interdiction. Cross‑referenced with multiple unverified copies circulating in lower‑hive data‑crypts. Original author believed to be the same unidentified Inquisitor referenced in Fragment 1.
SUPPRESSION STATUS: Ongoing RECOMMENDED ACTION: Immediate servitor conversion of all individuals found in possession of this fragment PROVENANCE: Unverified RISK LEVEL: EXTREME
- [FILE DESIGNATION: DANGERS FACING MANKIND — FRAGMENT 3]
- [SUBJECT: TYRANID INVASION PATTERNS — GENESTEALER CULT INFECTION]
- [STATUS: UNAUTHORISED COPY — ORIGIN UNVERIFIED]
The Genestealer Cults… Emperor preserve us, even writing the name makes the shadows feel closer. It always starts with one — just one — a stowaway organism clinging to the underside of a cargo pallet, hiding in some forgotten corner where the lumen strips flicker and the air tastes stale. One creature, overlooked. One moment of inattention. That’s all it takes for the factory line of corruption to begin its work.
Because that’s what it is — a process. A sequence. A grim, biological production line that never malfunctions, never slows, never stops. First a worker, tired and overburdened, brushing against something he doesn’t notice. Then a family, acting strangely, whispering in corners, eyes a little too bright. Then a brood, gathering in basements and maintenance tunnels, chanting hymns no human tongue should ever shape. And by the time anyone realises the pattern, the assembly is complete. The infection has already run its course.
It spreads through a hive the way coolant leaks through old pipework — unseen, unreported, until the entire system is compromised. It hides in the workforce, in the manufactoria, in the very pulse of the city. Every shift change becomes a vector. Every crowded transit car, every shared meal, every moment of human contact… another step on the conveyor belt toward damnation.
And Throne help me, once you’ve seen it happen, you start imagining it everywhere. You start checking the vents for movement. You start wondering why the lights flicker more than they used to. You start hearing things — soft breaths behind bulkheads, footsteps in empty corridors, the faint scrape of chitin on metal. You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself you’re being paranoid. But paranoia is a survival instinct in my line of work, and the Cults thrive on the moments when people convince themselves the dark is harmless.
I’ve watched worlds fall because someone dismissed a noise in the walls. I’ve watched entire populations march willingly into the jaws of the Great Devourer, smiling as they went. And I swear on the Emperor’s Throne, sometimes I think the Cults don’t just infect bodies — they infect hope itself, hollowing it out until all that’s left is devotion to something that should never have been allowed to exist.
It always follows the same cursed sequence. I’ve seen it enough times to recognise the pattern even when I try to pretend I don’t. The Cults grow like a machine assembling itself in the dark, each stage locking into place with mechanical certainty.
Stage I — The Stowaway
It never looks like a threat at first. A lone Genestealer crouched in the dark, limbs folded tight like a grotesque insect, its carapace blending into the grime of a cargo hold. The thing barely moves — just the slow, deliberate rise of its ribcage as it waits. Their eyes are the worst part. Not glowing, not monstrous… just aware. Watching. Calculating. A single creature like this can doom a world, and yet it hides so well that even trained dock crews walk past it without noticing the faint chemical tang it leaves in the air.
Stage II — The Tainted Worker
The first victim never realises what’s happened. They just feel… tired. A little pale. Maybe their pupils look wrong in the light, a touch too wide, a touch too hungry. They start avoiding medicae checks. They mutter about “purpose” under their breath. Their posture changes — shoulders hunched, movements slightly too smooth, as if something inside them is guiding their limbs. And Emperor help me, sometimes they smile at nothing, like they’re listening to a voice only they can hear.
Stage III — The Brood Takes Root
This is when the physical changes begin to show, but only if you know what to look for. A child with oddly elongated fingers. A spouse whose skin has taken on a faint, unhealthy sheen. A neighbour whose eyes reflect light like an animal’s. They gather in groups now, always in the same places — boiler rooms, maintenance shafts, old storage pits where the air is warm and the walls sweat condensation. Their whispered prayers echo strangely, as if the pipes themselves are answering.
Stage IV — The Hidden Congregation
By this point, the Cult has a shape. A hierarchy. A rhythm. You see robed figures moving through the manufactoria at shift’s end, their silhouettes wrong in subtle ways — too many joints, too fluid a gait. Symbols start appearing on walls: crude, chalk‑scratched icons that look like stylised claws or spirals. Workers begin wearing hoods indoors. Entire sections of the hive become “off limits” for reasons no one can explain. And the air… the air feels thicker, like it’s carrying spores or secrets.
Stage V — The Revelation
When they finally rise, the transformation is complete. Limbs elongate. Spines arch. Skin splits to reveal chitinous plates beneath. Some still resemble the humans they once were; others have become something far closer to the creature that started it all. Their chants become a roar. Their eyes burn with fanatic devotion. And the broodkin surge forward in perfect unison, as if guided by a single will. The hive’s corridors become tunnels of screaming, clawed bodies. The Cult doesn’t just reveal itself — it erupts.
I shouldn’t still be writing this. I should have sealed the chamber hours ago. But if anyone finds these notes — Emperor, just listen. The stages aren’t theory. They’re not conjecture. They’re happening. I can feel it in the walls. The vents keep hissing even when the airflow is shut off. Something is moving in there. Scratching. Clicking. I keep telling myself it’s just the metal cooling but… no. No, I’ve heard that sound before.
Don’t trust the quiet ones. Don’t trust the ones who avoid the light. Don’t trust the ones who smile too long or blink too slow. That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts. One becomes two becomes a brood becomes a congregation and then— Throne, I can’t even finish the thought.
If you see the signs — any of them — burn it out. Burn it all out. Don’t hesitate. Don’t investigate. Don’t wait for confirmation. By the time you’re certain, it’s already too late. They’re already beneath your feet. They’re already behind your walls. They’re already—
…Emperor preserve me, something’s at the door.
[FRAGMENT 3 — ████████████████ : CLOSING RECORD]
Status: Investigation incomplete. Subject matter deemed highly volatile. Threat Classification: XENOS INFILTRATION — TIER SEVEN Primary Vector: Biological subversion; multi‑stage reproductive corruption Observed Pattern: Sequential escalation consistent with known ████████████ incursions Recommended Response: Immediate containment, sterilisation protocols, and denial of all subterranean access routes
Inquisitorial Note: Signs of psychological strain detected in final annotations. Handwriting irregularities suggest duress during composition. Archival Directive: Preserve document in sealed vault. Cross‑reference with prior outbreaks on ████████, █████████, and ████████████.
[CLOSING NOTICE — AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY]
Remain vigilant. If these fragments have taught you anything, let it be this: the shadows are never empty, and silence is rarely a comfort. The signs are subtle at first — a flicker in the lumen strips, a shift in the air, a whisper that doesn’t belong to any living throat. Do not dismiss them. Do not assume safety. Complacency is the first victory the enemy claims.
This record ends here… for now. Further details cannot be included in this transmission without compromising operational integrity. But know this: another missive exists. Hidden. Buried. Waiting for the right moment to surface. When it does, you will understand why these warnings were not enough.
Stay watchful. Stay armed. Stay alive. Part II will follow when the channels are clear.
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