Faithful citizens, stay calm, stay tuned, stay
indistinguishable. Good evening, citizens of
Hive Gloriana. This is your sanctioned voice
speaking once more across the blessed static.
We bring tidings of radiance, revelation. and
mild structural instability. And there are lights
beneath the high. They appeared three nights
ago, soft at first like dawn through coolant
vapour. Now they grow bright enough to see through
the cracks in the ferrocrete. The authorities
assure us that there is no danger and have stopped
blinking entirely, which is statistically reassuring.
They call it an energy anomaly. The faithful...
Call it the hand of Saint Odrana the Dissolved.
Before her canonization by accident, Odrana was
a modest glass worker in Manufactorum Theta Prime,
known mostly for her ability to keep her eyebrows
despite working beside plasma torches. During
the third power shortage, an event still officially
described as unexpectedly enthusiastic, Odrana
slipped, tripped, or was gently nudged. reports
vary, witnesses don't, into a vat of molten lumen
fuel. She was, by all measurable standards, instantly
and unequivocally vaporised. This should have
been the end of her story. But her ashes refused
to cooperate. For three full days her drifting
particles glowed in the vents, humming with a
warmth no engineer could explain and no priest
dared to question. Pilgrims gathered inhaling
what amounted to highly inspirational occupational
residue, swearing that her swirling dust spelled
out blessings, although most of those blessings
look suspiciously like thermal distortion. The
Ecclesiarchy, never one to waste a perfectly
good tragedy, declared her a saint on the grounds
that anything that shines for three days straight
must be holy. The Manufactorum immediately reclassified
the incident from catastrophic safety failure
to miraculous ignition event, thus avoiding all
fines, reparations, and awkward conversations
about handrails. Now Odrana the Dissolved stands
as patroness of illumination, ignition, radiant
inspiration, and any workplace accident that
upper management would prefer to call divine
intervention rather than negligence. Pilgrims
still visit the vents where her ashes once drifted,
though maintenance crews insist that most of
what they're venerating now is just dust, soot
and decades of unwashed ductwork. It teaches
us that faith is flexible when it needs to be,
especially when the truth is inconvenient. Civic
Announcements Attendance at community gatherings
has reached record highs. Entire families now
travel together into the lower levels to see
the glow. Though officially discouraged, many
citizens report feeling renewed faith afterwards.
Faith not of fear, but of belonging. The Administratum
reminds us that mass gatherings are not heretical
if properly documented. Please record the names
of all participants before joining the hymn of
light. Documentation ensures salvation. and salvation
is data integrity. Meanwhile, the Upper Hab districts
remain without power. Technicians have been dispatched,
but the VOX channels from that area have gone
quiet. Silence can be holy, so do not mistake
absence for abandonment. Industrial report. Manufactoria
output has tripled. There is talk of divine coordination.
machines working before they're touched, servitors
completing tasks ahead of command, showing initiative
rarely seen outside of insubordination. The Mechanicus
refuses to explain this new efficiency, stating
only that the Animus machine has accepted new
parameters. One Mechanicus Grimright described
the phenomenon as symphonic. He then removed
his vox implant, began twitching and attempted
to plug himself into a prayer terminal. He achieved
enlightenment and partial liquefaction. Community
Faith Bulletin The Chapel of Beneath Light is
nearing completion. Constructed entirely from
reclaimed metal, discarded armour plating and
at least seven pilgrims, it now houses nearly
2 ,000 worshippers at any hour. The sermons are
brief, the hymns wordless and all are welcome.
Pilgrims describe the preacher as radiant. although
no record exists of his name or whether he has
a height. He speaks rarely, but when he does,
listeners report the sensation of being seen
through. They describe it as mercy, and the sound
has been designated benign. Benign is defined,
as ever, by how far away you are standing. Public
Confessions Forgive me, Father. I've stopped
being afraid of the dark. It sings to me now.
It knows my name. And it says it right. Forgive
me. I saw the lights move. Not flicker. Move.
They reached for me. And I reached back. I think
I found family. Forgive me, Father. People under
the floors say I'm special. They said I have
just enough blood to share. How beautiful. How
communal. You will all be absolved. Thoroughly.
Efficiently. And probably from the inside out.
Now, keep your hands where they can be seen,
keep your hearts where they can be reached, and
remember, confession cleanses the soul, but the
cleanup crew is getting tired. Maintenance Bulletin
The Vox channels between upper and lower sectors
are merging. We are hearing voices that do not
correspond to any known transmitter. At first,
the Departamento Comunicatus called it interference.
Now, They are calling it communion. The lights
flicker as I speak. I can almost hear them humming
beneath the words. Perhaps the Vox remembers
how to sing. Missing Persons report, the following
citizens have been removed from the roles due
to transfiguration of purpose. Cogitarch Enarch
Thule, last recorded utterance, the song no longer
requires translation, only surrender. Overseer
Lira Hev, who developed the ability to conduct
ambient machinery through interpretive dance.
Sister Bursar Althea Vorn, who had declared,
I have found the true light and it smiles. And
the entire fourth shift of Manufactorum Beta
Primus, who collectively requested unpaid metamorphosis
leave and have not been sighted since. Their machinery
remains active, producing something that does
not match any known pattern of requisition. If
you see them, do not fear. If they call your
name, answer. You are not lost. You are becoming
relevant. Faith Report Faith levels are immeasurable.
All hymns converge into a single tone that warms
metal, bends walls and occasionally causes spontaneous
rapture in the inhabitants of the protein banks.
The Ecclesiarchy has declared temporary suspension
of orthodox until the phenomenon subsides. But
it will not subside. It grows. It joins. It loves.
Devotional reading. From the Book of the Many
Hands, verse 1. When the light comes from below,
do not shield your eyes, for it does not burn.
It embraces. It does not judge. It remembers.
The flesh is the hymn, and the hymn is louder
every day. Ah, such comfort. A verse that reminds
us that even when the floor begins to glow and
the walls start whispering your full name, middle
initial and all, there's really no reason to
panic. The light isn't here to hurt you. It's
just redecorating. You see, dear listeners, Every
embrace leaves a mark, sometimes a burn, sometimes
an extra set of fingers. But isn't that what
faith is? Letting the divine leave fingerprints
where your sense of self used to be? So, if the
hymn is getting louder, rejoice. That's not tinnitus,
that's progress. The flesh sings, the bones keep
time, and the faithful provide harmony in whatever
key their remaining throats allow. And remember,
if the light remembers you, it's rude not to
remember it back. After all, eternity is long
and it's best to be on speaking terms with whatever's
waiting under the floor. Weather Report The lower
levels remain beautifully overcast with a fine
drizzle of conductive ash. Visibility is limited
to about three meters or one confession, whichever
comes first. Please refrain from describing the
shapes you see in the mist. The shapes can hear
you now. Mid-habs report a light pleasant fall
of powdered ferrocrete, ideal for exfoliation
or slow suffocation, depending on your devotion
and the fit of your breathing mask. Air quality
is officially listed as edible. although citizens
are advised to chew reverently. In the upper
districts, the sky continues to glow a faint,
impossible colour. The Ministry of Explanation
assures us that this hue does not exist, and
therefore cannot harm you. Should you begin to
perceive it, simply close your eyes and hum the
approved Hymn of Denial until the hallucination
passes, or joins you. Down below, near the Chapel
of Beneathlight, temperatures are... inconsistent.
Some report a blessed warmth rising from the
cracks, others a bone-deep chill that whispers,
"stay". Either way, it's good weather for faith,
pliable, moist, and quietly hungry. Wind speeds
remain variable, mostly due to all of the breathing.
The faithful will gather, the song will rise,
and the hive will awaken. And so concludes tonight's
transmission, faithful citizens of Hive Gloriana.
You have listened. You have endured. You have
been remarkably still. The vox thanks you for
your obedience. The walls thank you for your
warmth. Whatever that sound is behind you, ignore
it. It's only the city thinking. I am your humble
host servitor 241. And this is Vox Sanctum, signing
off. We leave you now in the gentle care of the
static. It will watch over you. It always has.
And if the light beneath your floor begins to
glow, don't be alarmed. It's just the hive saying
goodnight. We are all one voice now. We are all
sanctified. We are all heard. Ave pater inferus.
Host Servitor 241 was played by Richard Roberts.
Today's penitents were Kate Madison, Eva Marie
Becker, and Cornelia Sunding. Vox Sanctum Gloriana
is an Evil Lighthouse production.