After a sustained period of targeted "feeding," Raynor finally achieved a qualitative breakthrough in his cold relationship with the xenos.
The favorability rating displayed by the system had finally cracked the zero-point barrier, flickering into a tiny, positive number.
Raynor could sense a subtle shift in the mental connection; Sarah no longer viewed him as "obtainable biomass" or a "threat to be neutralized." Instead, the system categorized him as a "Special Symbiotic Unit"—an asset with sustainable cooperation value and predictable logic.
The murderous edge in Sarah's gaze had softened. She didn't view him with affection yet, but she looked at him as one might look at a peer—or at least a very sophisticated tool.
"I really am a master of the backwaters!" Raynor muttered to himself, a rare moment of genuine relief washing over him.
With the favorability breakthrough, the system interface transformed. A pink-bordered "Evolution Development System" unlocked. Raynor studied the three distinct skill trees now available to Sarah:
[Developmental Line]: Focuses on biomass conversion efficiency, energy metabolism, and unit incubation speed.
[Individual Line]: Enhances individual combat power, generating and optimizing specialized biological weaponry.
[Tactical Line]: Expands command range and the cognitive accuracy of the swarm.
Raynor didn't hesitate. In the early game of survival, economy was king. He placed his first gifted skill point into the first node of the Development tree: [Devour Enhancement].
The effect was instantaneous. Sarah's efficiency in absorbing biomass and energy increased by 50%. The next time Raynor fed her, the results were visible; her carapace took on a deeper luster, and her physical frame seemed to expand with newfound vitality. She was a war machine that had just received a more powerful core.
More importantly, her synchronization with the Hive Mind's collective will continued to plummet, dropping to a mere 3.1%. Sarah was no longer a puppet on a string; she was a node that had broken free from the web, acting with her own dark agency.
However, the independence came with a price. Sarah had intercepted fragmented psychic warnings from local Genestealer cults. The Hive Fleet was coming.
Based on current models, the probability window for the Hive Fleet's arrival in this star system was approximately 400 local days. Worse, Sarah had been marked as an "Abnormality" by the Hive Will—a priority target for "purification" (re-absorption).
The joy of his breakthrough was instantly shadowed by the looming crisis. Raynor leaned against the cold metal wall of his office, processing the timeline. A year. They had roughly a year before the shadow of the Tyranids obscured the sun, and the Hive Fleet began its planet-wide erasure.
The Imperium was unreliable, the Hive Fleet was a mortal enemy, and the Inquisition was a knife at his back. He and Sarah were two insects caught in a closing pair of steel pincers. He had to find a way to turn this hellish prison into a fortress.
The turning point arrived without warning.
It started as a footnote in an internal Tax Office briefing, but within days, the usually arrogant officials of the Ministry of Justice were vibrating with a visible, reverent awe. Then came the sound.
It wasn't the roar of the Hive's industrial furnaces or the scream of the upper engines. It was a deep, rhythmic low-frequency pulse that shook the very marrow of Raynor's bones. A colossal, ruthless steel construct was descending upon the planet.
Raynor stood in his spacious new office, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the cold windowsill. "They're here," he whispered.
The Hive was a vertical hierarchy. Raynor's District 7 was at the bottom of the "ordered" world. Below lay Districts 8 and 9—lawless forbidden zones crawling with mutants and heretics. While Raynor had made "achievements" purging Genestealer nests on the fringes of the lower levels, the infiltration in the upper spires was far more entrenched than his small-scale actions could fix.
The Planetary Governor and the High Lords had finally realized they could no longer ignore the rot. They had sent a distress signal into the void.
And the void had answered.
Descending through the toxic clouds of Necromunda were the iron-clad saviors of the Imperium. The Space Marines had arrived.
Specifically, the sons of the Tenth.
The Sons of Medusa.