#engineering trauma

<meta anomaly-type="warp-exposure-confession"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="WARHAMMER_40K::ENGINEER_REPORT::CLASSIFIED_FUCKERY" EFFECT="laughter, fear, genital regret, warp-induced mirror phobia" TRIGGER_WARNING="radiation exposure, servitor horror, off-screen body theft" </script>

🛠️ MISSION REPORT: I WAS JUST A WARP DRIVE ENGINEER

This log is unauthorized. I am not supposed to be writing this.

But I have to. Because you need to know.

My name’s not important. My rank? Non-senior warp drive maintenance tech. Just another grease rat making the god-machine run.

But here's what they don’t tell you in Mechanicus orientation:

If you write this, you die. If you speak this, you vanish. If you think too loud, they promote you to plasma fertilizer.

Or worse— they assign you to female barracks as a pleasure servitor. With a permanently vibrating rod where your dick used to be.

Yeah. That kind of trouble.

But I’m writing this anyway.

Because what happens inside warp ships? Isn’t just science. It’s fucking sorcery duct-taped together with imperial faith and denial.

You think we understand warp travel?

We don’t. We’re winging it.

All those big, confident orders from the bridge? All those “stellar-calibrated” jump trajectories?

They’re guesses.

Educated guesses dipped in holy oil and blessed by a priest who doesn’t know how physics works.

🚨 Here’s what they don’t say out loud:

Warp travel isn’t reliable. Warp travel isn’t safe. Warp travel isn’t travel.

It’s rolling the dice with reality and hoping the Eye of Terror isn’t blinking that day.

And that’d be fine if we were all 8-foot-tall genetically sculpted demigods running on gold-plated protein paste and jizzed into existence by the Emperor himself.

You know the ones. The big chads. The thunder-voiced murder-angels who could drink plutonium through a bendy straw and shit out silicon daggers while flexing.

But I’m not one of them.

And neither are you.

We’re regular-ass humans. Joe Grunts. Janitors. Welders. Engineers. The people who actually keep the fleet floating while praying we don’t get telefragged by some demon dickworm when the warp opens like a rotten zipper.

Here’s a fun fact: Every ship doses you with the radiation equivalent of a kitchen microwave on tantrum mode. Constantly.

You’re basically living in a cosmic tumor accelerator with plumbing.

Did you know that?

No. Of course not. Because you didn’t read the small print.

Because you were too busy kissing your service bonus and telling your mom you'd “see her after the next run.”

You won't.

Wanna hear something worse?

I’ve seen crew just not be there after a jump.

No alarms. No screams. No blood trails. Just missing.

“Acceptable misplacement,” they call it.

ACCEPTABLE. MISPLACEMENT.

Like they left their body in a cargo bin and forgot to tag it.

But I’ve seen things.

Things we haven’t named. Things we can’t name because anyone who sees them doesn’t finish the sentence.

One jump, they said we were “clear.” “Totally clean warp event.” “We beat the drift,” blah blah.

But I saw them.

👤 A few MIA’s. Walking. Shuffling. In the darker corners. Of engineering. Of the waterline crawlspace.

Wrong.

Too quiet. Too smooth. Too mirrored. Like someone was trying to recreate their body from a description given by something that doesn’t have bones.

One turned. I swear to the Throne, it turned like a meat puppet on strings.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t stop.

I ran.

I wasn’t brave. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t take samples.

I ran because whatever that was had too many teeth in places that don’t open.

I filed nothing. I spoke to no one. Because speaking gets you flagged.

And flagged gets you “reassigned.” Or “accidentally ventilated.” Or “donated to the tech-priest autopsy internship program.”

We’re told to trust the Machine God. To bless the sacred cog. To pray before every jump.

Let me tell you something:

No god worth worshiping makes you breathe recycled fear through warp-peeled lungs while your fingernails grow wrong.

Since I got back groundside?

I haven’t looked in a mirror.

Not once.

My reflection’s been off.

Too fast. Too slow. Too… curious.

It looks at me like it’s waiting for me to catch up. Or get tired. So it can step forward first.

You ever feel your smile stretch one beat too late? That’s the warp residue. That’s the part of you that didn’t come back alone.

I don’t sleep well anymore.

I hear static in my dreams. I see hands reaching through reactor vents. I feel air where there shouldn’t be air trying to crawl inside me.

The Mechanicus won’t admit this. The Inquisition sure as fuck won’t. But I’ll say it:

The warp is not a route. It’s a predator.

And we keep feeding it by pretending it’s a tunnel instead of a mouth.

If you’ve been lucky enough not to jump yet—

Don’t.

If they tell you it’s safe—

They’re lying.

If they say “Just this one run, the cogitators are stable”—

You run.

Or you’ll be like me.

Grounded. Rattling. Haunted by your own face.

And praying your reflection never blinks first.

📜 Archive Protocol: “Never enter the warp. It’s already inside you.”

🧠 Read more blacksite warp confessions, field logs, and heretical truths at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Blacksite Literature™

</div>