Atticus’ hand moved across the parchment with dexterous strokes. His pen was a dance partner to his hand as the pair left marks to show their path. He was an Ordinate of the Logis Strategos, specifically the sub-division of the Secundae Rationes, that dealt with second-hand accounts and gossip rather than direct witness testimony. He shared a small workspace with an older Ordinate named Jasper, who outranked him by seniority, though he did not know Jasper’s precise age. 

His pen made its way to finish the curving path of a letter, yet while the pen moved, the letter did not appear. The pen had run dry. Atticus raised his hand and adjusted his robes, always avoiding marring the edges with ink. He took pride in the robes that marked him as a member of the Adeptus Administratum Logis Straegos, specifically the Secundae Rationes sub-division, and he intended to display that pride whenever possible. As his pen tip entered the ink well, he didn’t feel the viscous resistance that he expected, only glass. The ink well had run dry. His eyes moved to an empty wall recess expecting to see a servitor, called Tertius.

‘Where’s Tertius?’ Atticus asked.

‘I sent him to fetch more candles,’ replied Jasper, not looking up from his own work.

Atticus looked about their cramped, shared space. Each shelf that was not occupied by parchment held candles, some tightly packed together, others lone sentries burning brightly. The result, coupled with the overhead lumens, was something more akin to a cathedral than an office, or perhaps a conflagration waiting to happen.

‘I see,’ he muttered and rose from his seat.

‘I will be back momentarily.’

He left the small, shared office and meandered through the hall before he reached the lift. The lift had a servitor built into the wall, beside which was a display of floors with a connected directory of what each held. His eyes scanned the floors, descending ever downward. He grimaced as he saw that he had to take the lift from his current position on the fifth floor, all the way down to sub-basement seven. 

‘Sub-basement seven, please,’ he said to the servitor.

‘Confirmation,’ the servitor replied in a tinny tone as the lift shuddered, descending. 

When the lift finally halted, the servitor emitted a soft bell chime. The doors opened and Atticus stepped out into a room of shelves that neared the ceiling. He craned his neck upward to see the top, seeing boxes limned in light as they were so high they blocked the lumens from above. 

‘Excuse me,’ a voice jarred him from his inspection.

At a squat desk to his right, seemingly a microcosm of the shelves; scrolls, tomes, and data slates obscured almost the entirety of its surface area and blocked from view the pinched features of the woman behind it.

‘Who are you and why are you here?’ she asked. 

‘Ah…yes, I am Atticus, Ordinate of the Logis Strategos, specifically the sub-division of the Secundae Rationes,’ he replied.

‘Quite a mouthful, but what do you want?’ she pressed.

‘Ink,’ he stated.

‘It was moved six years ago to secondary storage, sub-level 9. There is a lift at the end of the fourth stack.’ She swiveled in her seat, pointing. 

Atticus sighed inwardly and pressed on. He eventually found the lift. It was a mirror of the other, though it was marked for additional sub-levels. He spoke to the servitor, and the lift took him down. 

When the doors opened, it was to another room of shelves, though it was poorly lit. He noted promethium lamps ensconced at the end of stacks rather than lumens.

‘What ya want?’ barked an old man at another cluttered desk.

‘I am Atticus, Ordinate of the Logis Strategos, specifically the sub-division of the Secundae Rationes-’ he started.

‘Quite a mouthful,’ the old man interrupted.

‘-and I’d just like ink,’ he finished. 

‘Last row, but you’ll need this,’ the old man held out a dented luminator.

Atticus gave a nod of thanks and shuffled off. The luminator barely pierced the gloom as he made his way to his quarry. Shadows danced around promethium lamp light, and he swore he saw something move at the edge of his vision, though he ignored it. His journey seemed to take hours, but he finally reached a stack along a wall. His beam swept along the shelf, halting when it fell upon his prize. He nearly wept at the ink in its small box. Atticus snatched it and tucked it under his left arm. To his right, he heard a scrabbling sound, turning to see a twisted figure; more monster than man. It stood a little taller than him, even while hunched, with fingers that terminated in wicked claws and a mouth full of fangs. The creature let out a terrible hissing sound as it lunged towards him. Atticus was certain his death had come and just when he had finally found the ink. 

A staccato of weapons fire rang out, and the beast collapsed atop him. He whined and grunted as he pushed the horror off. 

‘We’ve got someone,’ a voice said as an Arbites member strode forward, autopistol in one hand, an odd device in the other. 

‘Scan ‘em,’ Atticus heard another voice call from further in the gloom.

The odd device was waved over him, then emitted a soft ding. 

‘Clean,’ said the one who scanned. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Atticus, Ordinate of the Logis Strategos, specifically the sub-division of the Secundae Rationes,’ he replied.

‘That’s a mouthful,’ the Arbites member said.

‘So, I’m told,’ he replied and rose, not looking at the dead body of the creature.

Atticus returned to the shared office, sitting opposite Jasper once more. He contentedly set down the box he had carried back between them. 

‘Oh, you needed ink? Why didn’t you ask?’ Jasper said, before producing a similar box from somewhere at his feet. 

Atticus sighed and set his head down on his desk.