Editing The Corrupted Heart (section)

===Chapter One===
Apprehension and fear gripped Astra as the tip of her right tentacle hovered over the door’s controls. It had been a full day since she had been picked up from the slum where she used to reside, and, in the time since, she had only briefly seen her fellow acolytes in the hallways before being whisked away to her new room. “Even here, I’m treated like an outcast. Suppose that was to be expected though,” she muttered, finally summoning up the courage to open the door. As “nice” as her new room was (if you could call the glorified broom closet a room), it was time for her to eat, and there didn’t seem to be any chance of room service. 

Donning her new hooded cloak and robes, Astra shyly wandered the hallways of the Inquisitor’s ship, searching for the cafeteria. The brightness of the stark white corridors nearly blinded her at first, but her oversensitive eyes adjusted by the time she found the mess hall. Inside, three of her fellow acolytes were playing cards on a table in the back: a tech priest, an adept, and an arbitrator. She  could feel the hardened gaze of at least two pairs of eyes trying to burn a hole in her as she shuffled inside, meekly getting a small quantity of raw meat before taking up her own table. Resolutely staring only at her plate, Astra began to eat, only to have her willpower severely tested moments later. “Ughhh… look at it. Does it *have* to eat here of all places? Just looking at it makes me sick,” came the voice of the adept. He was from a noble family, probably never even left his cushiony palace in the upper hive, or so Astra guessed, anyways. “Can’t you do anything about her Max?”

The arbitrator scoffed, “Wish I could. But you know how it is – Inquisitor’s word is law around here. We’re not to harm her in any way.” Astra paused, taking a sip of water before resuming her small feast. So the Inquisitor had stuck up for her somewhat, awfully nice of her. In her experience, though, such “kindness” was only worth as much as the favor that it precluded. Mutants like her weren’t allowed to exist outside of the carefully maintained pens that most called the underhive, for fear of their blight further spreading throughout the populace. “Watch for the Mutant,” “Defile the Mutant,” “Kill the Mutant,” all litanies that had been hammered into every Imperial citizen from birth. 

Neither of those hurt as much as, “The Mutant bears their heresy on the outside,” though. Astra had always been a devout worshipper of the Emperor, her only crime having been born the genetic freak that had somehow lived through all the hatred around her. Lost in this chain of thought, she hardly noticed that the adept and arbitrator had left their table, coming to stand opposite her. “Look at it Max, absolutely repulsive. Do you think it can talk?” The adept leaned in, talking slow, as if to a child or xenos, “Mutant. Can. You. Understand. Me?” Just ignore him, thought Astra, you’ve had worse thrown at you, literally. Frowning as he failed to get a rise out of her, the adept reached down and flipped her tray of food upon her, laughing, “There, now it looks and smells better. Come along, Max.” The pair departed, leaving Astra staring down at the table where her tray used to be.

It wasn’t often that such behavior affected her, but the stress of the last few days had worn down her usual composure. Tears began to stream down her face, muffled sobs coming from her throat as she slowly began cleaning herself up. She had completely forgotten the room’s other occupant, until he spoke up on his own way out some ten minutes later, “Apologies, mutant. Others are quick to judge. Label based on outward appearance. This one knows that often the best machine spirits are hidden beneath decades of rust. Do not let them bother you.” Before she could reply, let alone jump in surprise, he was gone, leaving her alone. She wasn’t sure, not having had the “pleasure” of talking to a mech-head before, but she was almost certain that was a vote of confidence.
 
Later that evening, Astra found herself playing with her new dolls, reenacting the scene from earlier. “Look at me!” began the old shoe that represented the adept, “I’m a big showoff who can’t do anything by himself!” “You’re right!” added the spoon arbitrator, “And it’s my job to make sure you get to keep being an ass.” “Hold on there!” shouted the tech priest, his analogue a bent metal pipe with wires tied about it, “You all should leave Astra alone!” This continued for some time, each “character” bickering back and forth while Astra mimed their movements. By the end of it, she found herself crying once more, wishing that she had chosen to remain in her cardboard box, where it was safe.

A soft knock at her door momentarily broke the downward spiral of depressing thoughts. Wiping her eyes, Astra gingerly rose from her bed, tapping the door open. The hallway outside was devoid of any life, but there was a strange object on the floor. Extending a tentacle to pick it up, Astra carefully took up the stuffed grox before closing the door. Attached was a note, simply reading, “This is Tom. You can use him more than I can right now.” She clutched it tight, the weight on her heart growing as she resumed her lamenting. She didn’t deserve this sort of kindness, and she had no clue who to thank for it.