NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Archive of a roleplay with Cult Imperialis (http://www.nationstates.net/page=display_nation/nation=Cult%20Imperialis), director's cut remastered for Jolt.

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Saturday December 1, 2998 - 1530 hours
Elin City Starport, Elin City, State of Vanja, Kostemetsian Commonwealth

A Cult Imperialis landing craft approaches the city quietly, descending upon the runway and touching down with nary a sound. Rolling to an uneventful stop, the singleship disgorges a uniformed Commissar-General and his escort of three elite Kasrkin troopers, detailed to serve as the diplomatic honour guard for the Imperial diplomatic mission to the Commonwealth.

Some way off, one General Secretary James Bovill is making his way from ECS Terminal One - formerly a ridiculously profitable enterprise terminal for several of the major starflight services, now a government terminal which is even more ridiculously profitable thanks to the large amount of Navy traffic coming through. He is escorted by a unit of four cyberwarriors, featureless in their powered armour but nonetheless subtly threatening.

In surprisingly good time, he is there to sharply return a salute the Commissar-General, dropping his hand in the traditional fashion five seconds after initiating the Kostemetsian salute.

"Welcome to the Commonwealth, Commissar-General Bryant. It would be a distinctly nicer place were we not in the middle of winter at the moment," Bovill says, having to raise his voice over the eerily whistling wind.

The Commissar-General, Steven Bryant, nods before stepping forward. He makes a very open and deliberate movement, unclicking his holster and removing his sidearm, a standard Mk IV las-pistol; the magazine point is empty and no lights are shown on it, indicating the weapon is completely unloaded. The Storm-coat around the Commissar-General's shoulders is moving ever so slightly, indicating its rigidity and weight; he offers the weapon to the General Secretary.

"Sir! It is customary from our nation to offer up our weapon as a sign of peace. Please accept mine as my way of formally welcoming the alliance."

Bovill eyes the weapon through the retinas of a directed-energy professional, and comes to the conclusion that the weapon presents a manifest lack of danger just less than half a second before his second-officer, promising first lieutenant Ryana Taylor, comes to the same conclusion and voices it over the squadcom.

Bovill, meanwhile, accepts the weapon, trying to remain as smooth and un-awkward as possible, and places it, after a slight pause, in his greatcoat's hold poster. First Lieutenant Ryana and squad are sizing up the Imperials for threats; they have heard many whispered gossip tales from unwary Defence civil servants in the governmental mess halls, and now is the time to determine the veracity or otherwise of these flying rumours. They are barely aware of Bovill's next statement.

"Commissar-General, I'd offer my own or one of this squad's weapons to you, but I'm not capable of doing that," and he sketches a hand at the cyberwarrior squad. He is quite obviously unarmed, and the squad's weapons are integrated into their armour; he gets the odd feeling that any attempt to remove said weapons would not be something the cyberwarriors would just stand and take.

"However..."

Bovill takes a small medallion from his pocket in one swift, decisive movement. It sports the crystal-sword ensign which designates a Friend of the Commonwealth, the traditional medallion for visiting dignitaries. As this happens, the Kasrkins tighten quickly, relaxing when they see what is retrieved.

"This medallion designates a Friend of the Commonwealth - it is part of our greeting. It is implicitly used to signify someone who is a non-citizen, yet an entity of honour - as open-minded and socially free as we like to call ourselves, there is a certain element of distrust of those not of Kostemetsian birth. This medallion is a symbol that its holder is honourable and trustworthy, and I would be most honoured should you accept it."

Bovill formally offers the medallion to Bryant, hand extended at waist level, palm upwards, in another time-honoured gesture whose origin is lost in the misty canon of deep history.

The Commissar-General accepts it, placing it directly into his under-coat's left breast pocket, just above his heart. "I am honored to accept this token of goodwill and greeting, in the name of the Holy Empire, Lord General-Militant Thomas Beckerton and the Emperor himself."

Bovill inclines his head, a hint of awkwardness about him, as if he's not used to this. "I am honoured to have provided it. Shall we proceed to the terminal? I would be a severely lacking host should I not attempt to offer some sort of warmth in these conditions."

He smiles warmly, providing a striking contrast to the snowy, pale and moderately dismal backdrop. Commissar-General Bryant nods, the small scar over his right eye lost in the wrinkles of his smile.

"Indeed, General Secretary."

He signals to the Kasrkins who snap from attention, slinging their las-rifles. The cyberwarriors move their arm guns down from the semi-ready, forty-five-degree position and form up behind Bovill; Lieutenant Taylor takes the moment of disorganisation as an opportunity to run a discreet scan of the Imperials, and actuates her scanning array in very quick order with a series of finger movements into the upper part of her armoured palm.

Some time later, the party arrives at the transparent blue bubble doors of the terminal, which segment open for them with nary a whisper. It used to be an active commercial terminal before the government took over it, and many elements of the commercialism still remain; in an ironic touch, one of the remaining restaurants here is actually making more money off Government personnel than it did off its previous general clientele.

The carpet is patterned in red and gold, Kostemetsian colours, and follows a recess down between two stacks of terraces. The recess itself abruptly curves, forcing its follower into a door several hundred metres down a slight curve from the starport's runway entrance; the Commissar-General notes the surroundings as he walks, a grim smirk running along his face, as if it is returning memories to him. Bovill notes Bryant's change in expression and mentally jots it down, wondering what the association could possibly be.

Precisely one second later, hundreds of Kostemetsian soldiers along the lowest terrace snap to attention in perfect sync, silently and smartly acknowledging Bovill and the Commissar-General. Bovill holds his return salute for ten seconds, as is customary, then drops it in the silent 'At ease' gesture.

Meanwhile, the only sounds heard from the Imperials are whisper-quiet vox chatter in the Kasrkins' ear pieces, long-distance from Segmentum command, and the slapping of their rifles on their backs. All that is heard from the Commissar-General is the dull clacking of his officer sword against his thigh and storm coat.

When the salute is given, the Commissar-General stands at attention, alongside his honor guard until Bovill drops his end of the salute, at which point he spreads his legs, places one hand on the hilt of his blunted sword, and the other behind his back in a formal at-ease. The blade of his sword swings so as the tip is perfectly vertical from the middle of his legs, the length of it running at 45 degrees.

The Kasrkins, evidently new to an honor guard, begin to shuffle slightly; Captain Nessa taps her first finger with her thumb, almost invisibly. A semi-silent tack is heard on the vox-piece, and they smarten up immediately.

Bovill smiles inside, not letting his slightly bleak amusement show in his posture or on his face. Via neural link, he communicates situation details to the soldiers on the terraces; abruptly, something flickers a few hundred metres down the terrace path. It appears to be a human form, except bluish and transparent, and Bovill cocks an eyebrow. Commissar-General Bryant invisibly zooms in on the form with his augmented eye, noticing it. Vox-chatter from segmentum command picks up considerably.

The form reappears, this time with a steady glow, not more than ten feet directly in front of Bovill. It salutes with a featureless hand - after a short moment, its features begin to render, showing a young man in a business suit minus tie. The emblem of the Commonwealth Diplomatic Service is embroidered into his collar, numbers still swirling around it in their role of subtle 'loading' cursor. Two seconds later, he is done rendering, and Bovill turns to the Commissar-General, whose box-chatter dies down again, noticing it is not a xenos, but a hologram.

"Commissar-General, this is the Commonwealth's premier artificial intelligence, John 005746 Dejitaru. He was responsible for the initiation of contact and diplomacy with the Imperium through his naval and government duties." At this, 005746 nudges Bovill with an invisible eye-roll over the neural link.

Bovill nudges back, and draws 005746's attention to the Commissar-General, who salutes smartly. "Thank you, Lord Negotiator, and congratulations on your promotion."

005746 returns the salute, bows deeply, and thanks Bryant for the compliment. To all appearances, this manifestation of the AI is a young man eager to please. He falls in next to Bovill, among the cyberwarriors, who greet him with much silent laughing over the neural link, trying to make him corpse -- he, however, steadfastly retains his diplomatic smile. After all, what can puny humans do to alter the emotional state of a powerful AI?

Bovill takes the lead again.

"Commissar-General, I do believe this party is expected at the Inner Office."

Two seemingly normal cars lie outside. Dejitaru cocks an eyebrow and disappears into the ether, while Bovill pulses open a door with his neural link from habit. "Commissar-General, our streets are ... slightly packed right now. I thought an alternative form of transport might be in order."

One car is marked 'Imperial', the other is marked 'Commonwealth'. The Commissar-General turns to Bovill and remarks, "If it's not too much to ask, Secretary General, I'd like to see the streets of your nation."

Bovill freezes for a split second, then relaxes. At the same time, a hum is heard from the Imperial car. "As you wish, Commissar-General. The driver should be able to clear the traffic ahead to some extent, so you'll have an average speed of, I think, about a hundred kilometres per hour." Commissar-General Medico cocks an eyebrow, an impressed look upon his face.

The cyberwarrior squad, as if receiving an order, march off down the pavement, receiving tired greetings from a couple of afternoon-shift civil servants who have just woken up.

Bovill smiles. A minute later, he flashes to a white silhouette and disappears, the driver of the Imperial car tipping his hat in an ironic salute both to the Commissar and the newly absent General Secretary.

Meanwhile, the Imperial mission, slightly perturbed, enter the vehicle one-by-one; the corporal and RSM enter the car, followed by the Commissar-General and the remaining Kasrkins. The storm coat about Medico's shoulders is folded underneath him in such a way that it would remain creaseless, while the Kasrkins sit upon their armor, in slight discomfort. The driver greets them with just a hint of a London cockney accent.

Meanwhile, Bovill flashes into being in the Inner Office and facepalms a second later, having just realised what a bloody bad idea it is to disappear unexpectedly. Or to leave your fucking diplomatic entourage without the man they're supposed to be meeting! he thinks, embarrassment and shame impinging upon his usual serenity.

Back at the car, a constant stream of Vox-chatter is heard from the Kasrkins, finally now able to respond with the absence of major formalities. Exactly one minute later, the Commonwealth pod rises from the pavement and slots itself in a few thousand feet above and behind the Imperial car, monitoring its progress; orbital cannons invisibly track the foreigners' car - there have been diplomatic incidents before, and the Commonwealth would rather not see another one.

Inside the car, a quiet "Sir," impinges upon the Commissar's sensorium. Captain Nessa notes: "Segmentum wants an update, and your thoughts."

The Commissar nods. "Tell them all is currently working fine. Standard proceedures completed; we're now en route to the inner offices to sign the treaty."

"V'well," she responds. The priority Imperial car flicks through traffic at high speed, passes through several security rings at the city centre, and arrives at the impressive Inner Office - a circular complex with innumerable windows on the outer wall-building. An empty part of the wall actually slides away with a loud grinding sound, and Bovill flicks in at a doorway several hundred feet in from the aperture. His tiny figure raises a hand in salute to the Imperials, and one might think one could see an apologetic smile on his face, quickly stifled. A moment later, his voice echoes from the walls.

"Welcome to my humble abode, ladies and gentlemen ... well, not my abode, strictly speaking. More my place of business." He adopts a formal at-ease posture and waits for the Imperials to enter the impressive complex, much of which is a large garden, with one circular tower ... no, skyscraper ... in the centre, looking a bit small against the rest of the complex.

The car pulls to a stop, the door opening silently to allow the Imperials to leave. Upon opening, the Kasrkins quickly exit the vehicle, their las-guns now with magazines inside the slots, but no power currently in the "chamber". A quick fanning-out occurs, as they ensure the area is clear, before they vox the Commissar-General that it is safe to exit. Magazines of all bar one las-rifle, the captain's, are returned to their slots, and a loaded, yet unchambered las-pistol is handed to the Commissar by Captain Nessa. Bryant has encountered problems at this stage before.

He checks the battery level, then returns the weapon to its holster. Unseen, stealth-suited guard snipers around the top of the wall lock sights on the Commissar-General and his entourage. They, too, have encountered problems at this stage, one culminating in the bloody and most unpleasant death of a controversial President.

Bovill opens up every door along the path to his office and tags the Imperial party with entry authorisation. His stand-in executive assistant up on the top floor, who doubles as a semi-mythical military AI, quietly logs a building entry.

Unknown to Bovill, the Commissar-General can see the multitude of marksmen; however, the senior Imperial remains looking formal, as if nothing is going wrong. Silently he activates his refractor shield, invisibly protecting him from weapon fire; it may not protect him against melee assault, but the bet is that any conflict probably won't go that far.

The interior of the Inner Office has a slightly dark entrance chamber, with a single row of silled windows providing a look at the exterior. However, the screen-walled hall leading off the chamber's apex is much more grand, floored a thick black carpet printed with the Kostemetsian crossed swords at intervals of one metre curves off to the left, disappearing. With no warning, a line appears in the air above it, a sharp terminator from red to green at the frontmost Imperial's ankles. The green section of the line extends back out the door, apparently leading back to the outer wall, while the red part of the line follows the carpet's curve precisely.

As Bovill enters the hallway, a moment before the Imperials, the screen walls come on. They are programmed to simulate an orbital view of the Vanjan planet, and they do so quite well - its high-resolution image fills the right wall, while the left is the opposite camera view. It is as if the corridor is in orbit, rather than on the ground. More display elements flash on, tagging the Kostemetsian ships in orbit and cycling between 3D views of each with attached perfunctory status displays, in what Kostemetsians typically refer to as "the shop demo".

The Kasrkins become quite nervous at all these surprise events occurring, and proceed to apply their rebreather masks to their helmets, hiding their faces from view and muffling their speech so yelling is required to be heard outside, and for vox-chatter to be carried out in secret. The Commissar-General also is taken aback, with most of his previous ordeals being simple 'look at the beautiful city' events; he places his hand on his sword's hilt, primarily as a comfort thing, due to its bluntness.

A lift pod beckons at the end of the corridor, and Bovill enters, inviting the Imperials to follow. He strives to keep his pleasant demeanour about him, while his emotional state tips between feeling a complete fool and being angry at the FA Executive for having only a small range of first contact protocols.

Once everyone is inside the spacious lift, Bovill keys in a command for floor forty. The doors close, then open again, two seconds later, with absolutely no feeling of ascent - but the abundance of light and the entirely screen-covered interior of the new floor (currently simulating a rather grand hallway) signify that it is, indeed, the top. Bovill walks out onto the simi-tile floor, the sound of his footstep almost real, and begins to follow the line to his own office, which is where the treaty signing is to take place.

The spiraling hallway terminates at a currently wooden door, which is where the simi-environment ends; upon opening the door, it is obvious that this is the General Secretary's rather minimalist office - a single desk with processing suite, executive leather chair behind, and a collection of matching chairs arrayed in an arc in front for visitors. The walls are elaborately wood-panelled, with Kostemetsian coats of arms carved into them directly behind the desk and in front of it; the only break in the panelling is a pair of full-height French sliding doors opposite the entrance, leading out onto a semi-enclosed, tiled balcony. Scanning arrays begin a full-sense log as the General Secretary and the Commissar-General enter, the latter ordering the Kasrkins to remain outside.

Bovill enters the room, pulling out a chair for the use of the Commissar-General, and takes his seat behind the desk, all business now.

Bovill presses a pad, and a panel in his desk rises. On the panel, he executes a series of complex operations and enters a password extremely fast, at which point the Kostemetsian coat of arms directly behind him falls open, revealing a varnished wooden box.

He retrieves the wooden box and places it on the table, squarely between himself and Bryant. A biometric scan verifies his identity, and the box slides open with a quiet hiss. Inside are two pens - one red, one blue; a document printed on clean white paper; and a PDA which appears to have the document on it as a file. Bovill takes the blue pen and the PDA, then moves the box to one side temporarily.

The Commissar-General allows a slight smile of satisfaction to show, with the knowledge that at least one technology is superior in the Imperium - dataslates, wafer-thin computers with massive screens.

"Commissar-General, this is our copy of the treaty. Our standard procedure is to sign the treaty in hard copy, then repeat the process by a biometric scan. Once that's done, the signing will be checked against room logs - which are currently recording." Bovill carefully removes the document from the case and passes it to the Commissar-General for a final inspection.

Bryant reads it over quickly, noting it is identical to the copy he perused back at Segmentum command, before nodding. "All good."

Bovill nods. Taking up his pen, he traces 'J.B.' in the air above each section, indicating to the distributed computing field that he has verified this is the document he has been planning to sign - if he does not air-initial in a similar fashion for every treaty he signs, the computer system will automatically nullify it upon the foreign dignitary's exit, to discreetly protect against falsification. He then physically signs on the line prefixed 'COMMONWEALTH AND TERRITORIES OF KOSTEMETSIA:'; his signature is long and has several loops.

The General Secretary picks up the red pen and offers it to Bryant, who takes the pen, uttering a prayer for the Emperor's blessing under his breath before signing on the line marked 'HOLY EMPIRE OF CULT IMPERIALIS:'. The signature appears to be a fairly easy one to copy, until he hits the t in 'Bryant', at which point he loops back over his name a number of times.

That done, Bovill activates the PDA with another quick sequence in the style that is becoming his characteristic. A few light taps of the screen bring up the treaty in black sans-serif on white, and Bovill offers the e-treaty to Bryant, who runs his eyes over the contract again; this time uttering a prayer to the Machine Spirit after the prayer for the Emperor's blessing, he completes a short hand version of his signature, wishing to register both on record.

Bovill chooses not to tender his signature, instead inclining his head slightly for a second. His signature field blinks, and a vector graphic of the signature appears; he has just invisibly conducted a self iris-scan. The screen flashes. DOCUMENT VERIFIED. With no further ado, Bovill takes both the pens from their places on the desk and places them in their grooves, saves the document and shuts down the PDA, and returns the paper to its proper place. A second later, the box is neatly closed.

He stands and extends a hand to Bryant, who accepts and shakes it, before releasing and stiffening into attention and saluting. "By this treaty, and His will, let us be joined in alliance."

Bovill returns the salute in the conventional fashion, and drops it after precisely five seconds. "To the future, Commissar-General. May it be a long and prosperous one."

---

Outside the General Secretary's Office, floor forty, Inner Tower
The Kasrkins begin to grow more relaxed; the two corporals lean up against the wall, while the captain and regimental sergeant-major stand erect, talking to each other. One by one, as they feel more comfortable, they begin to remove their rebreathers.

A few moments later, First Lieutenant Ryana Taylor, squad leader, arrives. Her reddish brown hair covers one eye, and she brushes it to one side before nodding to the Kasrkins. She's a reserved person by nature, but she's thinking now might be a good time to start a conversation. Pity I don't know Imperial etiquette, she thinks.

The two corporals take a pack of Lho sticks from their fatigues, placing them in their mouths, but refrain from lighting up. They continue talking amongst themselves, not being too fond of officers. Captain Nessa removes the front section of her Carapace armor, pulling it over her head and placing the chest piece on the floor, sighing with relief as it is removed; Regimental Sergeant Major Laarkin removes his helmet, clipping it to his webbing.

Captain Nessa says something quickly to Laarkin, before approaching the cyberwarrior officers, a hand extended in greeting.

"Howdy," she says, in a genuine friendly tone, an accent sounding somewhat like a Terran-British citizen's one. "Name's Cap'n Nessa, but youse can call me Sarah."

Taylor, somewhat surprised but pleased, replies. "Alright, Sarah," in an accent hovering between Birmingham British and General Australian. "I'm just a lowly lieutenant. Ryana Taylor, fifty-fifth Armoured Ground Forces. Friends call me Ri." She smiles prettily.

The RSM watches this exchange from a slight distance, his disdain for the commissioned ranks not fully abolished, but minute in comparison to that which the corporals display. He walks forward, his helmet tapping against his legplates, before loosely saluting the two and introducing himself.

"RSM Mark Laarkin," he states warmly, with a touch of a German accent. "We're all from the Second Kasrkin Heavy Infantry unit." He offers a hand.

"Don't suppose enlisted blokes'd be around for those men behind us?" He indicates to the pair of corporals, one about to light his Lho stick. The RSM frowns, and said corporal quickly extinguishes the flame before it can touch the stick. "By the way, the blokes call me Mad Lark."

Taylor smiles and tilts her head back at the three black-armoured enlisteds who've just eased themselves in through the door - Bovill's honour guard is now complete, plus one.

"Milan Dhesi, Celia Walker, Camellia Thompson. All privates, all 55th AGF ... actually, Milan netted himself a promotion, corporal now. Scuttlebutt says Net Operator Czeklak likes him a bit too much," she explains, earning herself a dirty look from Milan and retorting with an innocent smile.

"Anyway, Milan's a bloke, and as far as I'm concerned," she drops into an overly loud stage whisper, "the two C's count as blokes, as well."

The Kasrkin corporals light up at the sight of the enlisted troopers, not to mention the women within the ranks. Laarkin chuckles slightly, noticing his men.

Each of the cyberwarriors presents an imposing figure - that is, with their helmets on. Without, they're just a motley assortment of young soldiers; the Kasrkins all appear quite normal at the moment, too, with one without a breast-plate, one without a helmet and the other two without their elbow pads, their chest-plates unclasped and their helmets slung on their webbing.

Ryana is reasonably sure one of the Kasrkins is going to end up getting to know either Celia, Camellia or both 'a little better' ... for soldiers, the two C's do a lot of flirting, but that's a component of the cyberwarrior force - they tend to be much more laid-back than the field troops, who just get an energised armour pack, an assault pistol, and a Baykok rifle, and a whole lot of stress with them. Meanwhile, a little alert in the corner of her visor tells her the General Secretary has just initialed the treaty.

The two corporals withdraw their Lho-stick packs, offering them to the enlistees, the women first; Celia is a devout non-smoker, while Camellia, and some have joked that it comes with the name, is the inverse, and gladly accepts a Lho-stick. Observance would have her think it's similar to a cigarette.

Trooper Cuu hesitantly pulls a promethium lighter from his kit, watching the RSM as he offers a light. Laarkin watches, noting what Camellia's reaction would be; Camellia gladly accepts the lighter with amazing delicacy for someone whose armoured fingers are about an inch wide. She's obviously done this before, and has a lit Lho-stick almost faster than the eye can see; she hands the lighter back with a flood of thanks.

Milan makes it a habit to smoke precisely one cigarette or similar per day, and also gladly accepts when a Lho-stick is offered. Cuu and Mkvenner grin on one side of their faces, and attempt to start striking up a conversation about technologies, same and different between their races - predominantly the militaristic ones.

Camellia prominently displays a large gun bubble. Wrist-mounted guns have their advantages, but Ryana rolls her eyes like she's getting used to doing in Camellia's presence - someone's going to get their head blown off, she can just feel it. She wonders for a moment if Camellia is about to drop into having-to-prove-a-point mode. Dismisses the thought, because: of course she is, she's Camellia Thompson, hard-ass soldier girl from the Fifty-fifth, and she's ALWAYS got a point to prove.

Mkvenner chuckles, withdrawing his Tanith warblade, left over from his years before training on Kasr. All of the troops carry similar melee weapons, and they have a point of never being dulled. Laarkin and Nessa sub-consiously place their hands on their blades as well, a relaxed pose rather then an aggresive one. The weapon is made of double strenghtened tungsten-steel.

Camellia matches it, cocking an eyebrow. She clenches both fists slightly; immediately, four mean-looking blades unfold from each wrist, and she makes sure to keep them well away from the Kasrkins.

Laarkin lets out a single, short laugh, excusing himself from the officers and walking over to the enlisted men. He draws a weapon from it's sheath: a sword; it's made of the same material as the Kasrkins' knives, but has an extra feature - he flicks a trigger on the hilt, and it springs to life, the blade turning a dull blue from bright silver.

"Power sword," he states. "Forged in Hyruu, cuts anything." Nessa silently switches her hand's position to her chainsword, chuckling slightly, and beckoning to it in front of the officers, while resisting the urge to turn it on.

Camellia invisibly activates her hand shields, then keys another sequence into her armour; the wrist bubble, and the blades which are attached to it, begin to spin, blue light leaking down their edges as they do so. Some seconds later, Camellia has a contained maelstrom of blue light around each wrist. She explains:

"Basically, if you key the right sequence, these things zip forward, start blending and disintegrating people. Nasty. Efficient. Of course, they're mainly for show." She taps the apparently empty air a couple of inches around the blades for emphasis, getting a bright blue ripple.

Nessa draws her chainsword, throwing it de-activated to Mkvenner who proceedes by flipping a switch and activating it. It idles for a few moments, and he arcs it up, it ringing through the relative quiet. "I've seen her take down Orks with this thing, it ain't pretty by anyone's standards."

"You're right, it ain't," Camellia agrees contemplatively, sensing she's losing some ground.

The young private deactivates her blades, only to key in yet another sequence; the still-spinning bubble starts emitting blue flames from its ports. "I can't rival your deadliness, but we sure do have a lot of variety. Flameblades, for example, like I have here."

She summons up a parametered hologram, then keys her flameblades up to full and punches the hologram in the stomach. A wave of destruction ripples out in extremely fast motion across its body, ripping away its skin and then just disintegrating it in a shower of multicoloured dust.

"See, these flames are focused masers. If I key it right, I can ... ooh ... cut someone apart from three hundred metres. Brings a whole new meaning to not bringing a sword to a gunfight, dun' it."

Cuu chuckles, unslinging his las-rifle. It has a different design to the standard pattern las-rifles that the others carry.

"Tanith Long-las," he says, removing caps from the sights and extending them, making a massive scope. "Narwood stock, double-pattern port, takes two magazines. Funnily enough, this thing is the only weapon in the galaxy that can pierce my commander's shields. Drains eight times as much battery power per shot then these sods, but strikes sixteen times as hard due to mirror amplification." He slaps two magazines into the ports, leaving it uncocked, and offers it to Camellia. "Get a feel for this baby."

Camellia tests the weight of the rifle, finding it to be much heavier than she initially thought. Raising it to her shoulder, she summons up another hologram, finds her way to the trigger and actuates it, blasting away the hologram ... and a sizeable chunk of the wall behind; immediate facescope follows, slightly painfully, but she knows the repair bot will come - which it does, weaving in a new screen and leaving no visible seam.

"Powerful gun. You a sharpshooter, then?"

Cuu grins widely. "Best in my old regiment, and after Laarks over there, I'd say best in my current. Mind you, he's only got a hell-gun most of the time, not this piece of las-love, and not even his current weapon."

"A hell-gun?" Camellia cocks an eyebrow. Interesting name.

The Kasrkins look at each other, massive smirks on their faces. Ryana casts her eyes to the heavens.

"It's basically a backpack-fed, las-rifle, that fires shots twice as powerful as your average rifle of said type," Cuu explains.

"So, that would be a squad automatic weapon, then? Or some such?" Camellia has abandoned her game of one-up-womanship, and is genuinely interested.

He shakes his head. "All Kasrkins carry one as standard. It's a heavier in terms of strength and R-O-F, but it's still light enough for every man to carry one in his or her kit. We Kasrkins are elite slash heavy infantry."

"Well, we're just relatively ordinary marines. You know, we can fly, raze cities, stuff like that," Camellia notes, friendly sarcasm dripping from her voice. Ryana interjects, totally deadpan: "Remember that time Milan vomited on the inside of his helmet?" She scores another dirty look from the Anglo-Indian gunner for her trouble.

All the Kasrkins laugh at the mention of marines. "Oh, our marines are pussies," Nessa says, her voice so sarcastic it hurts. "They only have three lungs and kidneys, two hearts, two livers, two stomachs, etcetera."

"Don't forget the fact that they're only eight feet tall," cuts in Cuu, "and wear armor that stops bolt-rounds like they're paper-wasps half the time."

"Two stomachs? Yeah, I heard Kasrkin marines were supposed to be fat," comes the rejoinder.

"Girl," Mkvenner returns, "We aren't worthy of being Marines, no Kasrkin is, no Guardsman is. I'm talkin' about the Space Marines, and with the amount of energy they expend, they need the second stomach. 'Nd from what I hear from the Cap, the height isn't the only thing that's large about the Marines." Nessa flips her middle finger to the corporal.

Camellia waves a hand, accepting and dismissing the error with as much grace as she can. Ryana has a slight chuckle at Nessa's expense, but quickly stifles it; Sarah looks to the first lieutenant, a wry smile on her face.

Mkvenner reaches into his pack, withdrawing a bottle none too subtly. The RSM eyes him dangerously, awaiting a reaction from the others; all the cyberwarriors cock their left eyebrows simultaneously (it's a habit).

"Amasac," he says, innocently. Camellia eyeshifts in Ryana's general direction. She, in turn, shoots an interrogative look at Laarkin, who says nothing, evidently not opposed, but unsure of the local customs. "It's booze" he says, dismissively, finally.

Celia interjects. "You know, we've had Zerstorendarians on the premises, so we've basically had to drop any problems we might have with drinking, believe me," and she affects a shudder. Ryana nods, amused: On their own heads be it.

All of a sudden, the Commissar-General walks out of the door first, his eyes narrowing at the sight of unarmored, armed Kasrkins with one holding a bottle of drink. Laarkin blocks quickly, stating: "International bonding, sir." The Commissar-General nods, chuckling, evidently unfazed as it is out of the public eye.

Bovill sweeps out, the coat emphasising his height somewhat. He cocks an eyebrow at Ryana, who manages to communicate the gist of the situation to him with minute head movements and the aid of a verbose neurolink, and he jerks his head back lightly as a kind of amused nod.

Segmentum Command begins communicating with the RSM over the vox. "Winds too high for extraction via air, mark at your discretion whether you'd like to road-it-home or wait until weather dies down."

Laarkin responds, enjoying the company of the cyberwarriors too much. "We'll wait, segmentum," he says over the Vox, "at the hospitality of our hosts, if they wish."

Ryana interjects a little too quickly. "We'll put you up here," freezing and flicking a look at the General Secretary, "... er, if that's alright by you, sir."

The General Secretary keeps his enthusiasm under wraps. Interesting people, these. "Of course. Your platoon headquarters is on floor thirty-one, isn't it? I believe you're quite capable of putting our guests up there ... there's a whole lot of four-star luxury not being used."

Ryana arches an elegant eyebrow. "Four stars? And exactly how would you happen to know this?"

Bovill wilts slightly. "Well, theoretically, I may have basically holoimaged the place and forwarded the stills to a group of assessors. You shouldn't, theoretically, be worrying - had I theoretically done this, which of course I didn't, I would probably have made sure everyone was gone beforehand."

Ryana gives him a "your ass is mine" frown, then turns back to her fellows and the Kasrkins. Cuu walks up, standing next to Camellia with his helmet now on; Mkvenner approaches Celia, showing both of the girls they'd grown attached to. Bryant speaks for all: "We are happy to remain, if we aren't too much of a bother," and nods at his own statement.

Bovill puts a hand to his mouth in mock shock, growing relaxed. "To be quite serious, there are a whole lot of quarters here that aren't being used at the moment, and like I said they're mostly in 194th Platoon headquarters - most of the other 194th cyberwarriors are in orbit doing zero-gee training. We do keep the unoccupied places in prime condition, though."

Commissar-General Bryant nods, deactivating his shielding.

The General Secretary speaks quietly into his collar. A moment later, several gold highlights appear on the surface of Ryana's armour, designating her as a mission commander - decidedly someone not to be fucked with. The General Secretary offers small pseudo-dogtags to Bryant and Nessa, explaining that it will identify them as similar. They accept them, placing them over their heads, and donning them just under their Aquilla tags.

"Alright, you're basically given a free pass to go anywhere in the Commonwealth. All necessary security was, as far as I know, implemented on arrival, and I must say you - collective 'you', this Imperial group - is one of the few diplomatic groups I have actually liked," he finishes dryly. It's quite true - most of the diplomats the General Secretary deals with tend to be dry, boring bureaucrats.

Cuu and Mkvenner look at the girls by their sides, then at each other. "Bar crawl!" they cry in unison.

Bovill, by now heading back into his office to pack some things and go to the nearest full-sense arcade - being a first-person shooter fanatic - rolls his eyes skyward, unseen.

The girls grin, almost interrupted by Ryana interjecting, "Make sure you don't injure them," however, she follows up with a grin, joining in the comradely spirit, and no harm is done. The men both look on innocently.

Milan owes the General Secretary a Slayer on the copy of Halo 3 someone converted to full sense a while back. He knows he'll probably be horribly owned; for someone who's a Private G2 on the Commonwealth ladder, the Secretary is damn good - he's defeated Fleurette van Dijk, President of the Commonwealth and reigning Halo 3 champion, several times.

Bovill's voice comes, slightly raised, from within his office. "The next few days are going to be ... interesting, aren't they." Ryana can hear the mock despair, grins in response, and rolls her eyes heavenward again.

She looks somewhat guiltily at Commissar, no, Commissar-General (remember that!) Bryant, thinking the informality must be annoying him slightly. He strikes her as a dignified, experienced type, and of course he wouldn't be a high officer without good reason.

He sighs, taking a look at the bottle of Amasac still in Mkvenner's hand. "If you don't drink at least 80% of that tonight, I'm sticking you in a penal legion."

"Yessir!" comes the response. Ryana ticks off at least one secondary perception. Score!

"So, where's the other 20% going?" interjects Celia. Ryana raises a cautionary finger ("Don't even think it, Ce-chan,"), but Mkvenner looks at the small Sino-British soldier, a grin on his face. "Do I have to drink it, sir?"

Commissar-General Medico chuckles, shaking his head. "As long as it's drunk, trooper."

Celia lets a mischievous smile show. Ryana starts calculating a manifest of repair bills and fines in her head, somewhat despairingly - comes to a very non-pretty number of argentars.

Ryana thinks the short Chinese girl is going to get to work breaking Mkvenner's heart in short order. Camellia, on the other hand, is regarding Cuu with a distinctly pleased glint in her eye. Ryana herself is leaning against the outer wall of the ring hallway, a couple of metres away from Bovill, who is singing "It's Raining Men" under his breath.

She notices Bovill is consistently omitting the word 'Hallelujah' every time - wonders if it's deliberate, or if he's simply forgotten the lyrics like he's wont to do.

As the pairs leave, scattered discreetly, Ryana starts humming 'It's Raining Men' in sync, and Bovill, on cue, switches to the instrumental bass line. Both are steadfastly keeping a straight face.

Commissar-General Bryant looks to Bovill, a slight, wry smile on his face. "I believe senior officers should depart together as well, my good sir."

Bovill sketches a salute to the older officer. "So, where to?"

"An officer's club seems appropriate, I believe?"

"Which one would you prefer? You can have either the officer's club that takes up a bit of this building's fifteenth floor, or there's the more general officers' club in the city, just below the Flame of Independence ... speaking of which, you absolutely must see the Flame of Independence while you're around. It's magnificent. I never get tired of looking at it."

Ryana turns to the two leaders. "Sirs, I have some business to complete on the lower floors of this building, then I may head for the officers' club below the flame. If I see either of you there, sirs," remembering Nessa, "that is, any of you, sirs and ma'am, I will buy you as much alcohol as I can." She smiles, still somewhat unsure around Medico, and heads off down the corridor, disappearing around the curve.

Captain Nessa watches after her, a slight look of longing. "Well," she says, turning to her seniors, "I guess I'm with you."

Bovill affects a hurt look. "That's a bad thing, judging from your tone of voice."

She taps the patch on her arm, smiling. "It's a junior officer thing."

"Ah, okay." Bovill nods sagely.

Some time later, floor one, Inner Tower
Bovill opens the bottom-floor door and ushers his guests out, before walking out onto the ground-stone path himself; the Commissar-General reactivates his shielding.

"Well, Mr. Bovill, how are we to transport ourselves to our destination?"

"Funny you should ask." A seedpod-esque craft vectors above Bovill's head as he speaks, stopping at the open wall and rotating to present its side to Bovill, Bryant and Nessa. Its carapace-like exterior retracts to form an entry to the pod's comfortable-looking interior.

"I was thinking a multitaxi might be nice. This one has the Flame Club preloaded into Points of Interest."

The Imperials look at each other, a slight smile on their faces before turning back and nodding curtly.

"What ... ?" Bovill's query is comically extended. He hops in first, fiddling with something inside. An exclamation of satisfaction comes from the small cavity, and he pops out to invite the Imperials in. The two enter, the male first, followed by the Kasrkin, showing that while security is laxer now, it is still present.

The interior of the pod appears to be a cylinder curved to fit within the pod's cavities. A holomatrix floats, abandoned, to one side, a map of the city rotating serenely within it - the most eyecatching feature being a stylised flame constructed of snaking metal girders, smack bang in the middle of the city.

Bovill manipulates the holomatrix slightly, and a submatrix of options pops up. After a moment of consideration, he stabs a finger through the 'Commence Journey' button, and the pod begins to move with absolutely no sound whatsoever. As a side thought, he appears to remember the carapace needs to be closed, but then remembers that it does that automatically anyway.

"This should be a five-, ten-minute trip ... ooh." Another pod floats ephemerally on the map, some distance behind their own. This one is tagged 'Ryana Taylor', thanks to the wonders of government employee tracking. "I wonder if she knows who's in this pod."

As a matter of fact, Ryana is unaware, but there is no way for Bovill to know that.

"Mister Bovill, I don't suppose there's a place for me and my friend here to leave our more ... daunting equipment, is there?" the Commissar-General enquires.

"How big of a place do you want? You can opt for the cabinet in the floor," Bovill indicates a switch with his foot, "or you can leave them here and the taxi will take them to a secure location just over three kilometres away."

Bryant and Nessa look to each other for a moment, joined in what seems to be almost a psychic connection. They simultaneously remove their larger armor plates, namely the chest and head pieces, placing them on the floor.

"Just here'd be fine," says Sarah. Bovill actuates the switch with his foot, and a section of the floor slides back, revealing a small cavity which is still easily big enough to accommodate the armour. An extension of the hover-field retrieves the armour, places it in the slot, then seals it up again.

"We do tend to have to take some precautions in this job. The floor cabinet is one of them ... otherwise we'd have briefcases and PDAs full of classified documents being stolen from multitaxis left and right. Public-system hacking is a moderately ridiculously profitable occupation these days."

The Imperials nod at this statement, a look of understanding in their eyes. "The AdMech do what they can to keep the idiots out of our systems, and for the most part it works well. That's why the hackers get paid so much - because of how difficult it is," states Nessa.

"We employ AIs ... not so much 'employ', since they don't want pay, but they tend to do municipal control jobs. Even so, though, they're protohuman intelligences, so they do tend to accidentally leave security holes here and there. It's a never-ending battle with the smarter members of our criminal fraternity, and I suppose our Police Command would be collectively out of a job if it were any different."

Nessa nods, retrieving a small data-slate from her kit. She taps the lone physical button and it expands, revealing some massive reams of code. "With the Commissar-General's permission, sir, this is our last version of our encryption, one behind us; it's been hailed as a breakthrough - might want to give it a try."

Bryant nods, and Nessa offers the slate; Bovill takes, gratefully. He scans the code and his eyes widen. " ... I'd hate to be attempting to hack this."

With some difficulty, he manages to upload the code to the local network admin AI, who also notes the complexity with some awe. From there, it is a simple matter of translating into kcode-g, then running it through a compiler.

The AI loads in the encryption into an unoccupied taxi, then tasks an unoccupied systems security intelligence to hack it. No luck. Even with the SysSec operator's massive computing resources, no security holes can be found.

About twenty seconds after Bovill uploads the code, the AI reports back, in slight shock, that municipal resources couldn't crack the code. Bovill turns back to Bryant and Nessa, usual raised-eyebrow of interest gone to be replaced by the widened eyes of amazement.

"Several thousand computers were just dedicated to cracking that encryption ... Nothing. They don't even have theories about how to crack it."

The two Imperials grin massively. "Adeptus Mechanicus. They are servants of the Machine God," states Bryant.

Bovill realises his mouth is slightly open, and closes it abruptly. "You don't say."

Sarah chuckles slightly, offering up a hand to retrieve the data-slate; Bovill hands it back with extreme care.

Sarah takes it, roughly tapping a square in the center. It collapses the screen into an object the size of a twenty-first-century universal serial bus flash drive, and she places it in her webbing. Bovill looks ruefully at the technologically-dwarfed-by-comparison PDA he left on his chair arm a couple of days ago.

Suddenly, the pod pulls up at the Flame Club, and his shock is cut off by renewed pride. Through the newly-reopened carapace, a large metal tube of some sort can be seen.

Upon climbing out, the sheer scale of the thing becomes obvious - a many-thousand-feet-tall, perfectly-sculpted outline flame in the middle of the city, held stable by a hoverfield that manifests as a light blue glow around the base. The Imperials look up.

And up, and up.

Sarah's jaw drops; the Commissar does his best to not fall to his knees in awe. "Golden throne," they say in unison.

Bovill knows how they feel. Before he came to Elin, he'd lived way out in the south, had never seen anything of the scale. When he'd entered the city, he had quite literally fallen to his knees upon the sight of a monument many times the size of the ancient Burj Dubai.

A custom had developed among the Kostemetsians to salute the Flame, as if it were a flag, and then get themselves out of its shadow as quickly as possible. Bovill does just this, saluting in a quick, formal fashion, then turning away and inviting his guests to follow; Sarah and Bryant do so.

The Flame Club appears but a hole in the wall, with a well-maintained sign above it. The sign carries nothing but a stylised image of the flame above, graduated in red and yellow. However, upon entry through the ID-scanner arch, it becomes obvious that this is a combination of an expensive restaurant and high-class sporting venue, except ... underground. A decidedly odd environment. Floating holographic arrows point towards each section of the establishment.

Nessa's hands rest themselves on her webbing, pushing down upon her pouches, while the Commissar-General pulls his cap down, in an attempt to look more formal then he already is. The Captain just resigns herself in the knowledge that she is dressed for after-combat R&R, not a formal dinner.

Bovill notices and chuckles. "This officers' club is very much military - to be honest, I don't know why they put it in Flame Circle. Only the military are allowed in."

Nessa's posture relaxes slightly as she hopes the other officers will understand why she's dressed as such. Steven simply chuckles, flicking the peak of his cap so that it raises back as it was before.

"I need some Amasac," she states, approaching the bar. Meanwhile, a Kostemetsian in minimalistic mess dress passes by, a sharp salute issued to the General Secretary and a curious glance at the Imperials. The bar lieutenant leans forward, wearing his friendliest smile.

"Amasac, you say?" He reaches under the bar, pulling out a large bottle of potent-looking liquor. Sarah eyes it greedily. "Where the feth did you get that? We've been allies for about two hours!" she says, chuckling. The bartender cocks an eyebrow.

"Trade secret. My friend in the Imperium would be MOST annoyed if I were to, say, reveal that I have a friend in the Imperium, so I should probably stop talking." He winks.

She chuckles, pulling her card from a slot in her webbing and placing it on the table. "Accept Imperial credits?"

"Just a minute ..." the bartender dials something on the e-till, frowning, then straightens up, smile back in place. "Today, we accept anything. That'll be, ooh, two credits. Alternatively, the General Secretary over there probably wouldn't miss thirty-three devisears. That's the advantage to having a strong currency."

She shakes her head, holding up her card in search of a scanner. "I pay my own way, buddy boy."

He smiles. "Just thought I'd ask."

A finely-aimed cashew from the General Secretary bounces off the bartender's right temple, accompanied by a laugh from the Commissar-General. It occurs to the bartender to wonder why there are cashews in here, but he dismisses the thought; the reason he keeps offering to charge things to the General Secretary's card is that the man pays operating expenses here anyway, and recently dared him to try and knock the expenses more than ten percent higher than they already were.

He offers a slim scanner, and the captain swipes her card quickly past it. "Keep it on log," she says, eagerly awaiting her drink, "I think it's time I got a bit loose tonight."

The profit counter behind the bar increments up by 0.33. Meanwhile, Ryana enters, unheard and unseen over the crowd, and heads to the other end of the bar, completely oblivious of the multinational trio opposite her. The high-class band in the corner starts up, playing an old 2700s rock number she's reasonably sure is a redo of a late-twentieth fizzler.

As the opening lyrics boom out across the floor (We built this city / we built this city on rock and roll ...), the crowd noise decreases slightly as people turn to listen, and the General Secretary, in between humming along, orders himself a tequila, knowing he can easily drink as many as he wants and not suffer a hangover, just because his biology works in what he himself has described, when asked for his view, as 'a ridiculously awesome way'.

Through the crowd, he spots Ryana, who's wearing her black stealth uniform, and looks ridiculously good in it. He debates whether to head over and say hello to the young woman, but decides against it; the club noise gives him a pretty good chance of being able to creep up on her later.

Impulsively, he turns to Bryant. "I have an exorbitant government salary burning a hole in my pocket. Drinks are on me."

The off-duty Commissar-General chuckles bleakly in response, indicating Sarah. "I think it's best you don't pay for her." Bovill casts his eyes skyward in a silent appeal to the universe.

"I suppose. Hold on a minute, there is someone -- over -- THERE -- I have to talk to." As he is saying this, he's pausing to weave between people. The Club seems rather packed tonight.

The Commissar-General follows Bovill as he wades through the crowd, stopping by Sarah and sitting next to her.

The General Secretary heads for Ryana, walks up to her very quietly, and suddenly places a hand lightly on her shoulder. It's a mark of her training that all she does is stiffen slightly and execute a quick turn.

"Huh, it's you! Did the Imperials want to check out the Flame?"

"Something along those lines. Lieutenant Kidd over there is probably going to be very rich by the end of the night, just off commission bonus."

"Hrm, I think I'll head over. All I have to do right now is think about Mkvenner, Cuu, Ce-chan and Ca. Making me envious, it is."

"Ha! You, envious? Come on, they're over this way."

Both are shouting over the music and the ambient level of everyone else shouting; they head over, the General Secretary slightly behind Ryana, who takes a bar stool. She finds herself sitting next to Sarah, and smiles at the latter.

Nessa looks up to Ryana, slightly intoxicated, but still in charge of her actions. Her drink remains unfinished, and she taps the bar, calling over the barman. "One of- er, shit. One of whatever she wants."

Kidd knows Ryana, and retrieves a bottle of Norfolk Tears from under the bar. "Expensive drink."

"Yes, I know. You keep reminding me. Seriously, though, thirty argentars a bottle? That's, like, sixty standard dollars."

"Seventy-five or thereabouts," Kidd corrects smugly.

"Eh, my pay is measured in argentars. Bloody exorbitant pay, too, I tell you. There are some benefits to being in the military." Ryana fills a glass full of Norfolk Tears, and offers Sarah one; the Imperial looks up.

"How many credits am I giving you a go, keep?"

"Ooh ... a lot. Normally a hundred and twenty, but I can give you the same bottle for a hundred. Diplomat's discount."

She nods. "I'll take two bottles. Fething guard doesn't normally let me spend."

Ryana laughs. "Be careful around this stuff. It's very, very good, like I think I might have said. Or did I? Eh." She takes a drink and lets the odd, brain-wrenchingly strong sensation of the Norfolk Tears run down her spine. She watches Sarah - she's known people who've drunk Norfolk Tears for the first time to actually drop into coughing fits.

As it is, Nessa drains the glass without a hiccup. Amasac, defined in the Imperial Guard Guide as 'a widely available and highly alcoholic beverage distilled from wine'. She bangs the glass on the counter, indicating for the Barkeep to fill her glass, being too lazy to do it herself.

Ryana fills the glass first, just for the satisfaction of one-upping the bartender.

"Golden throne," Sarah says, her head collapsing on the table as she gets more drunk, "I should probably slip-- er, sleep on something more confrotable then this scho-- sp-- stool!"

"You sure?" Ryana laughs. Sarah does appear quite drunk.

Ryana heads over to the General Secretary, explains the situation in a few words ("She's off her head, getting her back to base,"), gets the nod, and heads back to Sarah. She decides to go the direct route of helping Sarah to her feet, and makes a mental note to DEFINITELY get a taxi. She taps the near-insensate officer on the shoulder a couple of times.

Sarah looks up, her face a smile of someone who appears to be a simpleton. "A'ight, I'm up," she states, lurching to her feet. "Let's go home. Hoooooome, home on the range, where the deer and the bugaloo-- Er, hmm."

Ryana keeps the pair moving in the general direction of the door, and opts for the easy-go travelator. Both slide up it, eventually emerging at the doors and moving out into the cold air; she calls a taxi.

The taxi arrives, some time later, and Ryana's machinations ensure Sarah is eventually on the interior bench seat, one way or another. A neural-transmit chuckle from the General Secretary is met by a similarly neuro-transmitted sour look.

Ryana prods Sarah. "Any particular destination in mind?"

Sarah starts, coming back for just a few seconds. "Somewhere comfortable and waaaaaaaarm, baby!"

Ryana's eyes are momentarily cast skyward, but she can't stop a small grin. The taxi is ordered towards the Inner Office, and the pair are conveyed at high speed through the now-dark city.

With a fair amount of effort, Sarah is soon in bed in the 194th Platoon's four-star 'barracks' on the nineteenth floor, and Ryana is whistling tunelessly as she deals with some last things before going to bed herself.

---

Twenty minutes into her snooze, Sarah wakes up, looking about herself. She's slightly more sober, and is aware of how drunk she is. A desk lamp remains on, and Ryana is apparently considering getting changed out of her city uniform.

"Oh throne, I need a glass of water."

"Thought that might happen." Ryana heads to the kitchenette, and returns a second later with a glass of water. She places it on Sarah's end table.

The Norfolk Tears are starting to impact. Ryana takes advantage of her last couple of sensible minutes to get a jug of water, and make sure the box of caf in the kitchenette is OK. Outside, the city's daylife is winding down, and its deep-night life is starting up.

Sarah snuggles into her bed, her eyes remaining fairly open and alert, her Kasrkin training kicking in and giving her a fairly good control of her mind and body again. Tiredness is present, but controllable, and she stops mid-shuffle and climbs out of her bunk, to remove her remaining armour.

Ryana, by now starting to impinge on the fringes of post-Tears tipsiness, is impressed. "You can, like, make yourself sober? Wow."

Sarah finishes unclipping her leg and arm plates, as well as un-velcroing the padding worn below her breastplate. "We're guardswomen," she chuckles "And elites at that, I don't only get training on overcoming enemies, but poisons and such as well; one that'd normally cloud me, I can reclaim control of pretty quickly."

"I seem to remember training like that, way back. Not tha' awesome, though. We typically depend on our big guns." As the Tears kick in, so does Ryana's ancestral British accent.

Sarah reaches up under her shirt, unclipping her bra as a pre-bed ritual, leaving her fatigues on. She looks Ryana squarely in the face. "Honor guard units get it ... no-one below us."

Ryana is feeling like a game of one-up-womanship. "We're 'onour guard too, y... you know." Not so much one-up-womanship as equal-womanship, considering.

Sarah nods, noting the grog wearing at Ryana. "Just sayin', Kasrkin regiments aren't all fantastic."

"Sure fooled me."

The captain cocks a brow. "Oh?"

"I dunno, you people seem ... like ... fantastic. Finally we actually have friends, people to talk ter, uh, to, rather than subordinates ... everyone else in the military looks up to us. Bloody training."

Ryana collapses onto her bed and stares up at the ceiling. "Yay for multipurpose uniforms. Quartermaster says it's supposed to be possible to sleep in this with minimal loss of dignity."

Meanwhile, Sarah unclasps her pants buckle, removing the lower half of her uniform to show a pair of cotton briefs. "Damned Guard gives us these stiff-arse things that are hell to sleep in. Only ever done it once, but I'll give you the common courtesy of leaving the upper half on," chuckling at the end of her sentence.

Ryana is sleepy. "Common courtesy, heh. I can't be buggered getting changed. God, I have so much ... NOTHING ... to say. I mean, I could totally make small talk about, like, how Milan totally got his arse kicked at Halo by Fleurette, that's the Dresipent ... uggh, President, Fleurette van Dijk ... but, like, why?" She sighs, wistful but amused. It occurs to her that she may have drunk more than she thought.

The lieutenant is suddenly jerked back to full alertness as both of the aisle-side legs of her bed go at exactly the same time. She is ungracefully slid onto the floor by the new slope. Rolling off, she hugs herself ruefully, then checks for damage. The cause becomes apparent ... the damned engineering corps used the wrong bolts to fix the bed again, after the LAST time they used the wrong bolts when some fat dignitary was using that bed framework. Now there's a bolt head lying on each side of the room, and both of the leg hinges have bits of metal stuck in them. It's going to be hell to fix, and it's certainly not worthy of sleeping in.

At least, as far as Ryana is concerned, it isn't. Bloody civilian bedmakers. She looks up at Sarah. "I'm not too heavy or anything, I swear," and she raises her eyebrows in amused despair.

Nessa shrugs, an amused smile on her face. "Certainly don't look the part."

"I would hope not!" An affectation of horror.

Meanwhile, Sarah flops onto her bed, rolling onto her shoulder after finishing her water, and proceeds by tapping the spot in front of her. "C'mon. Sleepy time."

Ryana is given cause to hesitate, but eventually decides. "What the hell, why not." She collapses onto the bed, gratefully noting the side-effect of natural body heating.

Shuffling slightly, she feels a bit tingly. Puts it down to the Norfolk Tears.

Nessa begins snuggling into the mattress, and covertly shifting slightly closer to Ryana, keeping her distance, and being hesitant, to be sure, but close enough to show her intentions if Ryana is looking.

Ryana is aware. Doesn't intend to put up an objection - reasonably sure she'll end up regretting whatever she does tonight, but eh. She shifts slightly closer to Nessa in response.

Nessa slows her breathing and pushes it into a steady rhythm, appearing as if she was asleep. In this fake sleeping state she moves her arm over the top of Ryana, making it appear as if she's hugging her around her waist, but not applying pressure.

Ryana wriggles. Feels a slight sense of impropriety. Ignores it. She screens the windows just for safety. Nobody would be able to see them anyway, but it feels more private this way ... a blue fluid flows through the windows, glowing slightly and completely obscuring the room's interior.

Nessa begins to drift off slightly, enjoying the feeling of closeness she'd long since missed.

Ryana considers swiveling to return the 'hug'. Doesn't want to disturb the status quo, since she's enjoying it, so stays still.

Sarah alters her breathing, making it irregular again, in order to semi-covertly indicate she's still awake. Ryana reacts, wriggling in closer to the other.

Sarah snakes her other arm to apply slight amount of pressure to Ryana's underside of her waist, indicating she wishes to hold her. Ryana permits this. She stops thinking about possible consequences ... even if someone walks in, so what?

Very, very hesitantly, Sarah moves to kiss Ryana lightly on her neck; she watches for a reaction either way the entire time. Ryana encourages this, and lets out a slight 'mmm', shifting in the other's encircling arms.

Nessa's heart rate quickens slightly. She continues to kiss Ryana on the neck, with a consistant softness about it.

Ryana is starting to feel very warm ... odd, given that the air-conditioning is on.

Sunday, December 2, 2998 - 0550 hours
Western bunkroom, 194th Platoon coordination centre, Inner Tower

Sarah's eyes flick open, and she notices the girl in her arms.

Clothes are dumped on the end and side of the bed in various positions, and the single bed has a very slight sticky feel to it, and has a scent of ... something exciting. The alcohol, while not affecting her control at the time, has left a semi-forgetfulness after-effect.

Ryana, meanwhile, is still sleeping, more peacefully than she has done in a while. She looks amazingly serene; her dark red hair is across her face, obscuring one closed eye and moving slightly as she breathes.

Sarah rolls slightly, testing her ability to move, and noticing it's very constricted; the other girl is lying across her arm, and she resigns herself to the happenings, kissing Ryana lightly on her shoulder and returning to her previous position.

Ryana's eyelids lift open slightly. "Hello there."

Sarah pulls her in for a quick squeeze, stroking her stomach afterwards. "Mornin', sunshine." Ryana returns the squeeze, happily lost in the warmth.

The voices of the Commissar-General and the General Secretary are heard about a hundred metres down the hall, soft; Sarah makes a quick inquiry.

"Last night...did it mean something to you, or is it just a fling? I'm a tough nut, so answer honestly, I can take it."

Ryana considers. She never even thought it would have come up, but ... yes, now she thinks about it, it is something more than 'just a quick fling', and she says so. "Sarah ... wow, I'm not even used to calling you that ... no. No! I don't have 'quick flings'. It definitely meant a -- a lot to me."

The captain nods, climbing out of bed as the voices get closer. Just as she's stepping into her panties the door slides open, the Commissar-General entering, meaning to talk to Nessa. She looks up, unfazed, his gaze flickering for the slightest of seconds before the vision of the very archetype of 'uncaring' comes over him.

The Commissar-General makes a single, curt statement. "Briefing, one hour, room one, whatever that means." He steps out again, a single utterance of "Don't bother going in," spoken to the General Secretary as their voices trail off again.

Ryana, who was propping herself up on the bed, leans back, hitting herself lightly on the forehead. Well, there goes whatever respect Bryant might have had for me ... what the hell, it's none of his business. This is between me and Sarah ... wow ... feels so odd to be saying that.

Nessa finishes putting on her clothing, finishing up with placing her vox-bead in her ear. She checks in, to let Segmentum know what's happening. A quick glance to Ryana shows her feelings.

"Sir--" she begins, getting cut off instantly.

"Love is love, Captain. Get over it and get your ass out of your room. I need you down here on time." The vox-bead is fairly loud.

Ryana unfolds herself from the bed slightly slower than necessary, and dons a black 'Unarmoured Action' uniform, the gold stripe below her shoulder the sole, discreet indicator of her rank. She removes the clothes from the bed and drops them in the washing machine, tasking a cleaner bot to clean up the place. Before Milan and the two Cs ... show ... up ... DAMNIT!

Oh well. They can only suspect.

Nessa drops her breastplate over her head and clips on her helmet, slinging her las-pistol holster under her right breast, and her las-rifle over her shoulder. She looks at Ryana with a neutral look, evidently practiced within an older, unaccepting culture. "Thanks for lending me the bolts, Lieutenant, damn las-rifle was on the fritz."

Ryana responds in kind, recognising that now is not the time to be expressing sentiment. "No problems, Captain."

Finishing donning her boots, she opens the door and leans outside for a second. Milan is down the corridor, watching something with a faintly amused look - a little further leaning shows that Celia and Mkvenner are devouring each other's tongues, and Ce-chan's backed Mkvenner up against the wall. Bovill and Bryant are nowhere in sight, although Ryana would bet a hundred argentars she knows where Bovill isn't - namely, recuperating from a hangover.

She leans out just a little bit more, breaking the gathering up with her long-range "it's go time" smile.

Nessa steps out the door, discreetly running her hand along Ryana's thigh as she does so. She approaches the couple at the far end of the corridor, telling Mkvenner in passing, "Form up, trooper. Finish that outside the briefing room. Speaking of which ... Oi," she says the last word, calling back to the bunk room, "L-T, where's the briefing rooms?"

"Right ..." she taps some buttons, "... this ...", she continues tapping, then lets out an ah! of success, "way." A blue line snakes along the floor, arrowheads sliding along it in the direction of the briefing room.

The Kasrkins look at the line of lights, noting them. Sarah gives a distanced, wistful look of "come with?" before turning to follow the trail. Nessa discreetly drops a spare vox-bead on an alcove-confined end table as she passes it; the bead is already set on a closed link directly to her.

Ryana picks up the bead and, after some fiddling, works out its functioning mechanism. She turns it on, expecting something. "Hello?"

Nessa attaches her rebreather, the sound of it scraping for just a second as she attaches it to her face. With it masking her voice, she taps the C-LINK(X-MIT) button, speaking back. "Ah, you got it workin'."

Ryana brightens perceptibly. "Apparently so!"

"What's the time, local?"

Ryana holds up her PDA for an instant. "Oh-six-oh-five. Bloody hell, this lot," motioning, before realising Sarah can't see her, "don't tend to wake up that early, and they're enlisteds. Obviously, whatever it is, it's something important."

"Feth ... and here I was wanting to cuddle a bit more. We go to war a lot; probably just letting us know."

Ryana's mood darkens once more. "I'm just a lowly cyberwarrior. Don't know much more about war than what the DOs at the Commonwealth Military Academy taught me, and it's not a lot. I do know a couple of things, though, and they don't exactly cheer me up."

"As an honor guard unit, it's no longer much of a problem for me, unless the Commissar-General is deployed, and even then my armor is strong as feth, just below a space-marine. I feel sorry for the Guard who get caught up, but I'll be fine."

"Oh, thank God." Ryana comes very close to clasping her hands in a silent offering of gratitude to whatever god is above. She is coming very close to physically shaking with relief.

She had never thought a woman she had known for one afternoon and one night - principally the night - would have such an ... impact ... on her.

Nessa goes quiet for a short moment, as she approaches the briefing room and switches back to the public channel. "All right, Kasrkins, do who and what you want for the next little while ... wait for the Commissar-General to get here."

Subsequently, a brief closed channel conversation occurs between Bryant and Nessa.

"Captain."

"Sir?"

"Grats."

"Thank you, sir."

"As you were."

She relinks herself to Ryana. "Sorry, command stuff called."

A tone of sympathy enters Ryana's voice. "God, I know all too well what you mean. No disrespect to Commissar-General Bryant meant, of course, assuming it was him, just making a comment," she adds quickly.

A chuckle comes over the link. "It was him, but he's a fine guy. I can't think of one thing wrong with him."

The link goes dead for a moment, then reopens, the voice not coming out immediately ... when it does, though, it echos, as if it's in a bathroom ... and it's male."

"Lieutenant," the voice says - it seems to be coming from someone in their forties, definitely Imperial: no other races cover this frequency. Ryana has just gone from cheerful to an intense mix of frightened and angry in just under a second.

She manages to keep her voice sufficiently under control. "Yes? To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"It's the Commissar-General." Ryana's heart drops again. Now she's simply floating in a void of somewhat chilled ambivalence. She waits, not quite sure what to say.

"Let me put it this way. As long as my captain can function, so can I. I'm not one to go blabbing gossip, and a relationship is a relationship, not something to be brought into the public forum. I am not going to shatter you - breathe easy. Also, as a side note: I asked my captain why she keeps dropping out. She didn't give up easy."

The ambivalence lifts, and Ryana is back to cheerful, perhaps more so than she was before. "Thank you, Commissar-General ... that takes a -- a load, a whole lot off my mind. I don't know what to say."

The link closes and re-opens, Nessa now at the other end again. "Was that ... did you transfer me?" Ryana asks with breathless anticipation and a noticeable lack of hostility.

"I gave him your CL code."

At the same time, Ryana is trying to jury-rig a PDA to connect with whatever systems this thing might have, and switch onto closed link BB-28. "Oh, okay. Right," she says, still breathless. Her heart has jumped and dropped sooo many times this morning.

"Ri, I've lived with this fo--"

The link cuts out and switches over to Bryant's. Ryana is puzzled.

"... Hello again ... assuming this is the Commissar-General?"

He responds, shocked slightly. "One moment, General Secretary, I've got to take a vox." It goes quiet as he steps into an off-hallway. "Yes, lieutenant?"

"... Uhm, I don't know. My link just switched over to you in the middle of a conversation with the captain ... is something going on?"

"I'm going to assume you've switched it over ... Her code is KL-02."

"I don't know," Ryana shakes her head, bemused. Having worked out the systems, she switches over to KL-02.

"Hello ... sorry to interrupt you there. My link randomly changed channels."

"--t's why I lo--, oh, okay. Where'd you lose me?"

"After you said 'for', as in, 'Ri, I've lived with this for--'."

"Right, well, I've lived with this since I joined the guard, and believe me, when there's guys who think they look like the Primarchs themselves, it's kind of hard to hide it. He's one of only three people who know: there's also Mad Larks and someone at Segmentum."

"Huh. Larks certainly looks like the able-to-keep-a-secret type, can't make a judgment on the Segmentum rep, obviously. And yeah, one tends to run into a LOT of guys like that at Flame and similar places; it must be something about being a male Commonwealth soldier."

The link goes into all-talk mode as the Commissar-General approaches.

"C'mon, Kasrkins, let's roll," the captain states.

"Ma'am," from Cuu; "Ma'am," from Mkvenner ...

"Hold y'fethin' horses woman," comes Laarkin.

The group enters the briefing room. Sarah removes her rebreather to allow her to speak normally, and she cuts the vox, hoping her statements were enough explanation.

"Troops," Bryant begins. "at war again. We've got mutants coming at us, shooting for our right hand side. They're cutting us down, and are aiming for Armegeddon again. Commissar-General Yarrick has command, as usual, but I might get pulled out, not likely, but possible. Just keep it on your minds, and I apologise for the fact that our transports still can't get in to pick us up. Don't relay the information to civilians, blah, blah, blah. S-O-P. Shift out."

The troops walk out, returning to their duties. Nessa re-opens her link, fixing her rebreather. "Yup, war, with the Orks, aiming for Armegeddon, again."

"God. War is always like that. Always for different stated reasons, but ultimately the goal of one side is to bring Armageddon ... and from what I've heard of the Orks, they're probably not likely to be, well, NOT going for Armageddon, if you know what I mean."

A small chuckle comes over the vox. "Armegeddon is our main vehicle production planet."

Ryana's brow furrows. "Thanks. That was absolutely horrible of you to do that to me, you know? But my point still stands. Someone is always trying to bring death and destruction."

"Aye. Don't worry, I'll be safe. Yarrick hates the Orks with a vengeance ... I doubt he'll be leaving. I just hope it finishes quickly."

"How quickly does it typically finish? If I might ask, that is," Ryana ends the sentence with an exaggerated level of politeness.

"Four, five months."

"Hrm?" This was not what Ryana expected. "How often are there wars, then?"

"Each enemy, with the exception of the Heretics ... about every 3 months between."

" ... Well, that would explain that then. Casualty rates must be horrible, though, surely?"

"They don't call us the inexhaustable billions for no reason."

"Well, I would think not ... even so ..."

"I try to focus on the ends, not the means, babe."

The second meaning of 'inexhaustible' strikes Ryana. She holds back an absurd giggle, striving to focus on the issue at hand. "True enough. A worthy principle, as long as it's done as cleanly as possible; I hate to sound so callous about it, but if there must be war, then at least let it be clean."

"Incidentally, where are you? We're free for the rest of the day."

"Well, I'm going to be on the ... hang on a tick." Some quick, quiet chatter is heard.

"Milan wants to pull roof duty today, so I guess that leaves me a day off. I'll confer with the General Secretary, but I should be around the city centre. Might see you there?"

A loud sigh and an exclamation of "Oh, for Christ's sake," are heard from the General Secretary's office. The tone is darker than Ryana has ever heard before. A second later, the man himself strides out, pale, angry, but somehow triumphant.

"I got an email last night from an invalid email address. The file attachment was heavily encrypted, and I spent a lot of last night working on it after I got back. Just finished up decrypting it now."

His anger darkens and becomes a smouldering rage.

Turning to Bryant, he hands the Commissar-General a green file bearing the nondescript white insignia of the General Secretary's Office, and upon opening it contains sheets in the official blue of the Kostemetsian State Intelligence Service. The sheets - three or four - are filled with clean-cut white serif text. No images are present.

At the end lies a particularly telling section.
Actions to be expedited
Three months prior to date of report, agent operating under codename 'Porthos' was deployed to the Elin City chapter of the extremist Kazthite Brethren, and has assumed a senior command position within this faction. 'Porthos'’ primary operating objective is to manipulate faction hierarchy and operations towards the expeditious removal of Commissar-General Steven Bryant and cohort, working towards the greater schema of communicating to Cult Imperialis that their personnel are considered subversive and are thus persona non grata in the Commonwealth.

The actions of 'Porthos' have inserted some basic knowledge of the Cult into the Brethren electronic compendium maintained on a Brethren-owned server which KSIS operations have not succeeded in locating. Additionally, 'Porthos'’ actions have placed this information in a context such that the Kazthite Brethren now regard the Cult empire as bigoted and heretical.

'Porthos' was inserted on the understanding that the Brethren would be predisposed to do as they have done in the past and commit terrorism against selected targets. At printing of this report – November 30, 2998 – there are no known issues with this view. The Brethren’s first strike against Cult Imperialis personnel is scheduled for 1700 hours exact, December 2, 2998, excepting further orders from senior KSIS personnel. Brethren penetration of the Inner Office complex is to be expedited by 'Aramis', agent operating within the Inner Office.

Conclusion: this operation will allow the conveyance of the message to the Cult specified above, and will allow the Commonwealth Police Command to proceed expeditiously with operations against the Brethren. Additionally, appropriate and timely issuing of orders to KSIS personnel placed highly within CPC command hierarchy should ensure the proper lack of investigation concerning the circumstances of death of the personnel specified in the order below.

I, 'Athos', issue the following subsidiary order:

As immediate security threats, the following Commonwealth personnel are to be removed by the Cult strike, if possible:
General Secretary James Bovill
First Lieutenant Ryana Taylor
Corporal Milan Dhesi
Private Celia Walker
Private Camellia Thompson
"Please distribute this to your staff. Let them know what's coming."

The Commissar-General takes it, reading it quickly and frowning. While he is reading it, almost riding on the back of the word "coming" is a slightly frantic transmission from Corporal Milan Dhesi, who took roof watch for Ryana that morning. Bovill puts a hand to the wall and transfers the call to the internal hall speakers.

"Sir? This is Dhesi. I can see ... whoa, I can see a LOT of people gathering outside the Office wall. Coming up on a thousand, two thousand? They don't look happy."

The Commissar-General looks at the file using his augmented eye, it providing a pict-link to Segmentum. Bovill glances wearily at Bryant and Ryana.

"Ryana, get Celia and Camellia ready, if you'd be so kind. Suit up and all. I'm going to power up my enhancements once I can remember the firing sequences." Vox-chatter sparks up at an insane level from Segmentum, parts can be heard rather globally. The Commissar-General gives some orders; meanwhile, Ryana is being slightly amazed at Bovill's statement - he is known for being the only man in the Commonwealth who can call down an orbital maser cannon strike, and is reputed to have enough firepower on him to slaughter a battalion, the only disadvantage being that he's a pacifist by nature.

The Commissar-General interjects. "Excuse me folks, time to get my elites ready." He keys a link to his staff. "Guard! Get your arses upstairs NOW. All of you slap your magazines in, and power up weapons. We've got a threat level one here."

A red reticle appears on the wall, and Bovill taps it with his right index finger. Immediately, alarms start blaring throughout the Inner Office, but Bovill has already turned his attention back to the neurocall. Meanwhile, calls of "roger" are heard over the vox. First to arrive is Cuu, being heavily laden down with his equipment, and carrying a las-cell charger over his shoulder.

Bovill puts an instinctive finger to his earpod. " ... Shit. Lower floors are screaming at me. They say the Defence staff are locking everything down. We've basically got three to five hundred people on the lower floors gunning for us ... plus the thousands of Kazthites outside. How fucking far did Athos go?"

Laarkin and Mkvenner arrive in the elevator, also sporting chargers and their entire kit. "Sir!" Cuu says, gaining attention. "I need a fething place to plug in if I'm goin' to shoot for too long."

Bovill freezes for a split second. "Just rerouted power from the lower floors. Just stick the plug into a random place in the wall and you'll start picking up power, if I've wired this thing right ... you'll find the wall yields a bit."

Cuu slaps a shock-breaker onto his charger, before doing as Bovill says. Mkvenner and Laarkin do the same, while Steven places a vox to Sarah. "Captain, where in the Emperor's name are you?"

Meanwhile, Ryana is starting to be slightly concerned. "I don't see Milan or either of the C's anywhere."

A garbled message is returning over the vox. "Captain here, I'm caught outside. I was walkin' the streets when this shit went down. I'm about five-oh-oh from the crowd, and I've got my las-pistol and armor, alongside my chainsword, but that's it!"

Milan's call is abruptly interrupted, but a bone-chilling scream cuts through the corridor. Ryana snaps to all-business. " ... Fuck. Milan's biosigns are way down, and he had no warning. They're packing something big."

Meanwhile, Sarah's transmissions keep up a constant rate, the roar of her chainsword can be heard, alongside the drew, drew, drew of her las-pistol. "DIE, YOU FUCKIN' HERETICS! DIE!" The transmission is reaching Ryana as well.

* * *

Outside, part of the fully armed crowd turns, recognising Sarah not as a bystander, but as a ... the unthinkable. An Imperial, daring to venture into Kazthite territory. They advance, palpable rage and hate emanating from them.

* * *

Meanwhile, Ryana is in the midst of an adrenalin rush. She literally shakes, looking left and right. Something to get back at those bastards, make sure they get nowhere near Sarah, simultaneously realising how stupid that thought is.

* * *

Sarah's Kasrkin training takes over as her rebreather is fastened and she ducks behind a building, using it as cover. Cuu is watching from the building, taking shots as people get close.

* * *

The Inner Office shakes, and Bovill's wallscreens flicker for a second. He freezes, a look of real fear coming over his face. "They're KSIS. I gave them the authority to bodymod however they wanted."

A laugh comes over the vox, from Sarah. "YOU'RE ALL AS POORLY TRAINED AS THE FETHING ORKS!"

"The entire orbital fleet ... Look, fuck it, I have just as much command authority as they do. The orbital fleet is probably out of this one," Bovill muses worriedly, "but I could have sworn that shake was a maser strike."

The Kasrkins are ignoring Bovill, trying to assist their commander, and comrade. Even Steven is only half listening, shouting his trademark commissar inspirations over the vox. He switches his speaker to broadcast for all to here. It's segmentum on the other end.

"Commissar-General, orders are to survive at all costs. Chimera strike force at your disposal, happy to deploy. Two regiments available, Tanith 1st and Verghast 2nd."

He looks to Bovill. "Diplomatic shattering if I ask them to come?"

Bovill waves a hand. "What the hell. FA can deal with it. We'll be lucky if we, personally, that's us in this building, get out with our arses intact, and I hate to think of pretty much anyone within five kilometres."

The Kasrkins have now all fastened their rebreathers, allowing Pict feeds to come. Sarah has turned on her camera, and she screams as one man manages to jump on top of her. His head is evaporated by Cuu, and she strikes a woman, lunging at her with the chainsword, cutting her in two. Bryant nods at Bovill's note, and voxes for support.

Ryana heads down to the 194th Platoon's floor and suits up. It might not do much good, but it will do some. It may not do much good, but it should do some. Seconds later, she is falling down the wall of the Inner Tower, landing lightly thanks to the gravitic safety net.

She has exchanged her wrist gun matrices for a pair of cannons capable of firing stun bolts and demolition pulses. She dials up the latter and starts mowing down the rampaging crowd, moving to keep a minimal number of rifle hits from the ridiculously well-armed enemy at all times.

Chatter is heard over all the vox-sets, including Ryana's. It's the commissar, following his training and doing his duty. "Fight, men! Keep at it. We've faced worse before! Remember Hagia, we had a whole fleet of Chaos versus a single regiment and STILL we succeeded! Keep up the fire, mow them down!"

Ryana adjusts for recoil, continues firing. Almost ninety jihadis lie insensate, but there are thousands still. Bovill helps - an arc of white 'flame' sweeps down from the observation deck at the Inner Tower's top, teleporting away several jihadis.

A scream pierces the sets. It's Sarah. Her pict on the Kasrkin's screen shows she's taken a vicious hit to the leg, which has penetrated her carapace armour. She's bleeding, and can't stand.

Ryana freezes. For her, everything goes quiet for an instant - then, reality returns, and she begins to run through the crowd, stunning and knocking aside jihadis as she goes.

* * *

Still Sarah's chainsword roars, her las-pistol rings. Cuu is firing at the enemy with withering accuracy, trying to cover her, but it isn't enough.

* * *

To Ryana, one objective is predominant. Finally, she reaches the gates, flooded purely by humans, and spikes her grav field.

"Sarah! You okay? ... Sarah?"

"MEEEEEEDIIIIIIIIC ... !"

More stun bolts flail out from her arms, left and right, as she cuts a swath through the crowd, heading for the captain.

Another scream is heard, cut slightly short. The pict shows a small hole in the breast-plate; even though she can't see this, Ryana gets the gist and swears loudly.

* * *

The chainsword activity starts to wane, growing gradually less frequent. The las-pistol's report is becoming less apparent.

* * *

Ryana rises off the ground and starts battering through the crowd with the wave-front of her gravfield. Her objectives are to wrap up the situation while preserving as many allied personnel as possible and killing as few psychotic jihadis ... right now, those sync neatly with her personal objective.

* * *

In the offices, Bryant turns to Bovill. "I can get a squad of Marines there in five minutes. It'll do collateral to the city if I do though," he says.

Bovill laughs bleakly. "I shouldn't authorise this, but I think I'm going to anyway. Drop them as close to the Inner Office as you can - minimise damage to the residential and commercial districts ... please."

* * *

Ryana spins like a dervish, sending out a whirling line of danger through the crowd. Even the stun bolts are death sentences in a mob this big and psychotic, but she no longer cares.

* * *

Steven nods, keying his Vox to Segmentum. "Segmentum Alpha dog six, this is Charlie Gamma Bravo Bravo two-eight. I need Marine support as quick as possible. Landing co-ordinates niner ... two - minute six ... zero - second three ... niner - mark - seven ... four - minute two ... two - second four ... eight. Can I get an ETA please?"

Segmentum voxes back. "ETA ... four minutes, Bravo-Bravo-Two-Eight. Segmentum out."

* * *

Ryana is barely aware of anything, one point squarely in her mental focus. "Sarah, speak to me!"

* * *

Sarah coughs. "Wounded. Immobile. Wounded, got my damn liver and nicked the kidney. YOU GOT MY FUCKING GUTS, YOU HERETICAL SCUMBAGS!"

* * *

Something like a second sun appears in the sky. The 'sun' appears to be growing bigger, at quite an alarming rate.

Ryana looks up, momentarily distracted. "What the hell is that? ... Anyone?"

The sun shows its true form, slamming with titanic force into the pavement just outside the offices. It cracks all the road and pavement for about ten metres around it. Instantly, the sides flick open, allowing Marines to be deployed.

A half squad of marines runs out, their weapons held high. They're eight feet tall, and have armor which makes them appear bigger. Their weapons are huge machine-gun-like weapons, currently being fired in warning, having no effect on the Marines' accuracy, but .75-calibre bullets flying through the air at massive speeds.

One of them speaks. "LISTEN HERE, YOU HERETICAL FUCKS. CALM THE FUCK DOWN OR WE START SHOOTING." He appears to be the sergeant.

Ryana stops for a moment. Her objective is still to retrieve Sarah, but these people ... wow, and I thought I was elite. Meanwhile, the crowd, mostly armed and dangerous, drunken and high on performance enhancers (save a couple of ecclesiarchs near the back) are realising the marines are there, and another tendril of the crowd splits off to mob them and try to crush them.

This provides an opening for Ryana, who jumps over them with a grav hop. She can see Sarah's position tag just under a kilometre away, shining brightly on her HUD. "Sarah! Almost there! Can you hold on a little longer?"

The sergeant fires a single round at an on-rusher. His head disappears, along with his neck and most of his shoulders: the round is explosive-tipped, as are the rest of them in their magazines.

The crowd is not deterred. Why should they be? Kazth protects us against these -- these presumptuous infidels! Fusillades of shots from autorifles begin to fly out across the crowd in the sergeant's general direction.

The sergeant sighs, and voices a single order. "Kill the fuckin' heretics." Fire is sprayed into the crowd - all the jihadis' ammunition is pinging harmlessly off the Marines' power-armor; it's much, MUCH stronger then the carapce armor. As each Marine's round strikes a kill or at least mortal wound is guaranteed.

* * *

Nessa shouts back, faintly. "Mediiic. Mediiic. Meeedic. Medic. Oh throne, medic."

* * *

Something flies in a long arc from the top of a nearby tower, landing very near the marines. In the five seconds Ryana gets looking at it, she sees it's a large, perhaps soccer-ball-sized object, with one hemisphere glowing an ominous yellow. Then -- it explodes, in a blinding white flare, wiping out a gigantic chunk of the crowd, putting a big hole in the ground, and causing localised earth tremors.

She swears loudly and continues, hoping Sarah hasn't been trampled yet. "Cuu! Where are you, and how are you doing?"

He responds, though fleetingly, concentrating on his shots. "In the tower, you dolt, just like I was before. The Cap's about a hundred metres from you ... hang a left at the next street and follow it to a bakery or some shit. Hang a right there, and she's in the alcove."

Ryana feels some absurd humour creeping up on her. "Dolt, is it? You better hope you don't survive. ... Thanks, anyway. Very much appreciated," she says, sincere, unquantifiable thanks in her voice.

A massive streak of red light from Cuu's long-las wipes across the sky; an accompanying fetooooow is heard - he just fired a full-power shot at a Kazthite ecclesiarch.

"Ooh. That was pretty spectacular."

"Long-las, baby, now save that sexy beast who's my captain. Some of us back here like lookin'!"

She drops the grav field, feeling the odd scrape of her feet connecting with the ground again, and grav-hops through the crowd. Finding the street Cuu indicated, she pulls a sharp left into it, then a right into the alcove, and sees Sarah. Even though the Captain is in a terrifyingly bad state, Ryana still feels an amazing rush of relief. It leaves her light-headed for an instant.

She kneels by the other woman's side. A gloved hand is gently placed on Sarah's shoulder. "You don't look so good."

Sarah looks up, delirious. "Saint Sabbat?" Ryana curses quietly.

"I'm getting you out of here."

A long-las round streaks not fifteen metres behind Ryana. "RUN, YOU TWIT! HERETICS ARE GETTING CLOSER!"

Picking Sarah up not overly gently, Ryana screams into her mike. "James! For fuck's sake, get us out of here!" Back in the office, Bovill endures the sonic onslaught, and keys a sequence of modifiers with shaking hands.

Ryana and Sarah disappear in a star's flash, reappearing seconds later a few millimetres from the wall of the darkened fortieth-floor hall ring. Ryana sees the clearance between Sarah's feet and the wall and winces. She keys her mike.

"James, I'm outside your office. Going to run down to sickbay, get one of the medics on her."

"Not possible, sickbay's been locked down by the Defence people ... wait a sec, some of these bodymods might help."

Bovill strides from his office, hands outlined oddly in some kind of bluish, eldritch energy. Kneeling next to Sarah, he places his hands on her stomach, and before Ryana's eyes the captain's insides seem to seal themselves off in a bubble. Inside the bubble, something appears, before a patch of skin closes over.

She looks at Bovill questioningly.

"Non-standard body-mod. I can fabricate prosthetics, and I think I've cut off blood loss for the time being. She won't survive past twenty-four hours if we don't get her to someone who actually has the faintest idea what they're doing."

Sarah is muttering something to herself, very, very quietly. Ryana leans closer, trying to hear.

" ... I pray I have served you well ... may your undying light guide me from this world should my time come. Ever more I am your servant. Truely, you protect, in life as well as death. Praise the Emperor."

The young lieutenant looks up at Bovill. "She's stuck in some sort of loop. Repeating a benediction of some sort over and over." Turning back to Sarah, she leans in close and says quietly, "Sarah? Sarah, can you hear me? Are you in there?" The elation she felt from what she thought was saving a life has quickly gone, to be replaced by a horrible emptiness.

A dim light of response flicks on in Sarah's head. "Saint Sabbat, dearest holy one. I am here."

Ryana looks up at Bovill, who's puzzled. His private, gallows-humour theory is that Ryana is actually this saint Sabbat, but now is definitely not the time to voice it.

Ryana, meanwhile, shrugs. "What am I supposed to do? Pretend to be the saint?"

Bovill shakes his head energetically. "No. No fucking way."

Sarah mutters something lightly. "Tanith silver. Straight silver. Knife." Ryana looks forlornly down at her own combat knife, a surge of weariness overtaking her.

"If I knew this benediction, I could puzzle out what was coming next ... "

"Sister saint, please. My knife."

Ryana detaches a knife from Sarah's belt as lightly as possible, and places it in one hand. It can't do more harm than good, can it?

Nessa draws the knife, dropping the sheath. She clutches the blade in one hand, the hilt in the other and pulls lightly, making a small nick in her skin, the length of a bottlecap. She sighs, as if some sort of morale relief is swept through her, and she mutters something again.

Ryana considers this nicking - it seems something religious. If only she could remember what the Defence people (a wave of anger sweeps through her) had said about the Cult ... ; suddenly realising Sarah is muttering something, she leans back in. Bovill is watching, on tenterhooks.

"... thank you for allowing the homeworld to be the last thing that pierces my skin. If you take me, I will be ready."

A deep well of shame and anger springs to dark life inside Ryana. No! No, I am not ... I can't let her ... die? God no. Stop it!

"Saint Sabbat...Thank you. I am ready if I must, but I'd prefer not."

With no warning, Laarkin bursts through the door, grazes on his cheek and shoulder plating. He pulls a standard guard-medkit out of a pouch; he was medic trained, but isn't a doctor. He can save her, but not fully fix her.

Bovill looks up. "Sergeant-Major! Thank God."

"Shut the fuck up and get the fuck out," Laarkin says quickly, setting to work on Sarah.

The Kostemetsians depart in quick order, sensing that now is not the time to be here.

* * *

The RSM gets down to work instantly. He unclasps the breast plate as quickly as possible and pulls out a scalpel; he cuts down the wound point, before clamping the arteries.

* * *

Ryana, leaning against the wall of the General Secretary's office, exhausted and nerves stretched, suddenly remembers something. Celia and Camellia are out being the Kostemetsian component of the strike force; where the hell is Mkvenner? Is he alright?

* * *

Mkvenner screams over his las-fire. "WHAT, DAMMIT?!"

* * *

Ryana's nerves get a bit more frazzled for her trouble, but a tag pops up bright and cheery on her basic-level HUD, tracking Mkvenner - who appears to be on the observation deck, shooting the living fuck out of the enemy.

Bovill flashes out, leaving Ryana alone with herself, her worries and regrets, and two Imperials in the next room. A rumble is heard as a ship loyal to Bovill delivers a gigantic stun beam into the centre of the crowd.

* * *

Laarkin carefully begins exploring; using a small steel prod as a guide, he finds a foreign object. Using some forceps he pushes the skin aside, opening the wound, then uses tweezers to tentatively remove the round; he succeeds, and no extra bleeding occurs. To be sure of this, he cauterizes the wound with a minimum power las-burst. He removes the clamps, then sutures the wound.

Ryana peeks out as quietly as possible, then returns to leaning against the wall of the dark office. It is lit only by the screen on Bovill's desk ... the screen! She runs over, skidding near the desk, and looks at the screen ... coordinates of some sort. Her mapping files tell her they map to the Inner Tower, and a third reference locates them in the Defence Executive range.

A deeper expansion locates State Intelligence Service headquarters, and Ryana saves down the coordinates, repressing a vengeful fury.

* * *

The Commissar-General is in contact with Segmentum, requesting more Marines. The other lot did a shit load of damage before being wiped out, and that was just a half-squad.

* * *

The crowd is almost a third gone, but the remaining Kostemetsians are still looking for more, paranoia hitting them hard.

With no warning, a constellation appears in the sky, growing rapidly bigger - the rest of the 194th, an armoured Celia realises, shaking. Drop pods slam into the ground, crushing several jihadis, and almost a whole platoon's worth of cyberwarriors show up. The odds have evened slightly.

* * *

A low grumble is heard about ten kilometres behind the fighting lines. Air and land vehicles are approaching, with five hundred or so land vehicles, supported by thirty aircraft are on approach. Six thousand trained guardsmen, their commanders, vehicles to transport them and support are on approach. No armor is attached outside the APCs. ETA, ten minutes. They vox Bryant, making him aware they are on approach; he forwards this on to Bovill.

* * *

The jihadis are not to be so easily defeated - a flock of dangerous-looking modified carpods rises from nowhere, modifications shining. Bovill laments that the police command never found this, and is starting to wonder if said lack of finding really is an accident; he acknowledges the Imperial support, glad for it. A battle is raging in orbit between KSIS-controlled and Loyalist ships, making it unreasonable to expect orbital cannon fire.

* * *

Commissar-General Bryant orders the men to advance, and load las-cannons.

* * *

The ship Bovill summoned before reports in, the commander explaining the fact that he simply cannot provide any more fire support. All his cannons are devoted to fighter cover.

* * *

Massive screams from the las-cannons are heard, followed by the carpods detonating rapidly. Burning fragments fall into the crowd, which is down to about three thousand strong, and reduce its numbers by perhaps another hundred upon detonation; many are wounded, some are killed.

* * *

The Chimeras are closing in on the crowd. They cut off the entire road loop containing the office and aim their guns inwards. In a mass formation, six thousand guardsmen disembark from their vehicles, taking cover behind them and sighting their weapons. The commander, a Colonel-Commissar, Ibram Gaunt, speaks to them over a loud-hailer.

"One warning, heretics. Drop your weapons and give up or we kill you. You have ten minutes to comply." The crowd roars, but stays back, collectively wary.

* * *

Commissar Bryant turns to Bovill. "And here's one one-billionth of our military forces. Want more, sir?"

Bovill raises an eyebrow. "Six thousand billion strong? Impressive. No, this will do, I think, for the moment," he deadpans.

Two minutes and thirty seconds later, a shreeeeow, as if from a trombone slide, can be heard, getting louder and louder until eardrums bleed. A perhaps-four-hundred-fifty-strong rank of ramshackle-looking drop pods drop in behind the crowd, and land in perfect sync, all slamming in at the same angle. Again, in perfect sync, the drop pods are ripped apart, and their occupants march out. These are the Kazthic Immortals, an elite group of body-modded priests ready to sacrifice themselves and everyone else for the cause.

* * *

The crowd, re-emboldened, matches the Immortals' pace and begins to walk forward in a slow, steady wave. Ryana sees them, and knows her place is with the other Kostemetsian cyberwarriors, holding back the advancing ... well, not to be overly melodramatic, the advancing death.

She disappears silently. Seconds later, she reappears in her reserved place in the cyberwarrior lines, forming a triangle with the frightened but determined Celia and Camellia and a pissed-off, patched-up Milan.

The Guardsmen fire a single volly. Dozens of jihadis die, while hundreds more are mortally wounded and several hundred take nicks.

The gigantic front rank of the crowd falls, and the squad gravhops back with them to avoid being misidentified. The Immortals, however, standing almost nine feet and holding guns that would put a four-barrelled shotgun to ballistic shame, continue to march. As one, they lift their weapons and return fire, raining a golden-hot wave of flying death upon the Guardsmen.

The Chimeras dent and buckle as the rounds strike their armour. Three hundred Guardsmen are killed, but their officers and Commissars hold the line. Pods of Space Marines now descend, slamming into the ground behind the Guardsmen.

One and a half thousand Marines depart the pods, armed with a massive cache of weapons.

* * *

Bryant looks to Bovill again. "Want some Sisters of Battle on the field?"

* * *

Celia screams and points, and it is in this second that what is left of Ryana's helmet is ripped away by the fist of an Immortal, and a strong forearm fastens round her neck. Even the claws in her gloves do not deter the strangling Immortal, and she feebly scratches at the arm. Milan opens fire, but the Immortal simply laughs as a bullet rips through just above his pelvis, and Milan is hit round the head with a large plank by a Kazthite congregator. Camellia almost takes an Immortal-gun blast, but is ported out by a sharp-eyed Bovill, while Celia starts firing stun pulses at the Kazthite Immortal, a fellow of whom renders her unconscious with a punch from a head-sized fist. She disappears a second later, and Ryana, descending into airless darkness, wonders why she can't go with them ... oh, right - my transponder was crushed.

* * *

Bovill, in the Inner Office, frowns. "Yes, I would deeply appreciate thaaaaaaa ... wwwwwwait a minute. Lieutenant Taylor's subcut transponder has just dropped out."

His frown starts engraving itself in his forehead; seconds later, the insensate Celia and Milan appear, the former collapsing to the floor and completing her fall, the latter staggering for a minute, then falling.

Five minutes later, Milan is the first to awake, and Bovill steadies him on his feet none too gently. "Corporal, we've lost the lieutenant ... not dead, but literally 'lost', as in: we don't know where she went."

Milan's expression turns from groggy 'kill-me-now-migraine' to a horror never before seen on his usually amiable visage. "You're kidding me ... Nobody got the Immortal?"

Bovill raises an eyebrow, the other one still contorted in a frown that is threatening to become permanent. "The Immortal?"

"An Immortal got her round the neck. Thought he was trying to strangle her -- did he?"

* * *

Outside, more drop pods arrive, bearing the Sisters. The Imperial force now numbers ten thousand.

Some of the less dedicated jihadis break and run, uncaring that their likely fate is to be cut down by the Imperials.

---

Adeptus Arbites are waiting with the Guardsmen, Marines and Sisters. They are the military of the Imperium, but only number a couple of hundred within the current formation.

---

The crowd is confused and dispersing, its pitiful strength now not nearly enough to counter the massive Imperial force. The faltering jihadis are quickly disarmed and interned for judicial proceedings through the local system.

* * *

Bovill, in the meantime, turns to Bryant. "Commissar-General, would you happen to know where Miss Taylor went? You number many forces on the field, and twice as many eyes ... I doubt the Immortals would have killed an officer. They are, for all their faults, more intelligent than their congregations."

* * *

Bryant reaches for his vox, linked with the division heads on the field. No-one has seen any Kostemetsian officers outside the office.

Within thirty seconds, Bovill has Celia and Camellia revived, and is questioning them about Ryana's location. The implications are not good - the cyberwarriors could be rendered disoriented without command, and indeed, even as Bovill watches, another tag flares red. He ports the soldier out, arraying the wounded around the back of his office, which has become a makeshift sickbay.

Suddenly, he remembers another matter in the maelstrom of the pitched battle. "Is it possible to know Captain Nessa's status without disturbing Mister Laarkin?"

For some reason, Nessa has planted herself deep in his mind, along with the cyberwarrior complement. Something tells him it is absolutely vital she must survive.

* * *

Steven nods, thinking "pict feed - Laarkin" and having his augmented eye respond. The situation appears to be stable, and she is sleeping, not unconscious, on a rug. "She's fine. He's stabilized her ... any particular reason why?"

"I don't know ..." The General Secretary frowns. "It just came to me, I suppose, to ask that. Now that the Imperial forces on the field have the immediate situation contained, all I can really arm myself with is ... knowledge."

He feels a rush of thankfulness knowing that Nessa is stable. but his attention, restlessly roving, returns to Ryana.

* * *

Sunday December 2, 2998 - 1752 hours
Small abandoned commercial building, two hundred metres from what was an organised riot until ~1730

An oddly small hand hitting her viciously round the head brings Ryana back to consciousness. She is restrained in a dungeon so unabashedly cinematic she would have laughed, were there not two Immortals guarding the door and staring viciously at her.

A mental situation check tells her she is alright; no serious wounds ... just a cut to her neck and slight bruising. Meanwhile, a skeletal old woman stands in front of her, attired in the black-and-maroon of the higher Kazthite priests. The crone smiles once the Lieutenant's unamused gaze locks onto her, and the expression is one of pure malevolence and evil.

"So. The infidel, the presumptuous heretic, she awakes."

* * *

Outside, Guardsmen are systematically checking building after building for resistance. They are still quite a distance from the utterly non-notable little Kazthite base.

* * *

The crone silently takes a crude wooden cup of what appears to be cold water from one slavering fanatic and throws it in Ryana's face ... yes, it is cold, it's bloody freezing; Ryana spits back at her, refusing to allow the pitiful old bitch to try and break her spirit, and starts up her own most evil glare.

"Just ensuring that you are worth keeping alive," the crone croaks smugly.

* * *

Cuu is sitting on top of the building with Mkvenner, talking about their new "friends"; however, he does maintain a level of alertness, and continues to watch the streets through his scope.

* * *

Ryana maintains the flat glare, and the crone meets it for some seconds before turning at the sound of a footstep. It is a young, slender priest of some unknown sub-order of the brethren. "Lady Uthana, the heretic dogs approach. What should we do?"

The crone, Uthana, snorts. "Ha! What can they do? Simply allow them to approach. If they come too near, cut them down."

* * *

Guardsmen knock on the door of the building, listening intently. They take up a breaching position.

* * *

The young man holds something up, and the crone manipulates it, making sure to keep it out of Ryana's field of view.

* * *

A Space Marine sergeant walks up to the Guardsmen, and they are distracted. "Squad: we're needed back at the CP. Follow me."

* * *

"We must remove the heretic girl to a secure facility, now," and at this, the young man throws a contemptuous glance at Ryana, "such that we may inform the Commonwealth of our dominance."

* * *

The squad look at each other, shrug, and wander away after the Marine.

* * *

Ryana, desperate to interrupt the idiotic, pointless formality, takes in a large breath and screams as loudly as she can. The crone and priest just chortle smugly and leave, while an Immortal heads forward, tapping a cosh against one palm and walking so as to flaunt the horribly sharp scimiknife at his belt.

* * *

One Guardsman hears the scream, signalling the group to stop. The Marine stops as well. "Hear something, Trooper?" he asks.

The Guardsman nods, and they about face, returning to the building.

* * *

At this moment, the Immortal hits Ryana round the head, cutting off the scream. A few moments later, after savouring his minor victory and his small power, he unsheathes the knife and starts stropping it, whistling tunelessly.


* * *

Again the Guardsmen take up a breaching position, the Sergeant informing Platoon of what's happening.

* * *

A group of Kazthite fanatics proceed to the door, katanas unsheathed, and take up positions against the walls, swords at their shoulders. They completely fill what used to be a small residential hallway, but has since become the path to the Kazthite Elin City chapter.

Twenty-five Kazthites are there, waiting for the guardsmen to come in and be sliced apart. The larger marine may pose a threat, but they are confident they can dispose of him.

* * *

The sergeant sets up his weapon, a heavy bolter, and aims at the door, signalling the breacher to crack open the lock. The breacher fires the breaching shotgun, blowing away the lock and accidentally sending a lone pellet into the room.

The door is kicked in, and followed up by a flash-bang.

* * *

The Kazthites - most of them - are familiar with breaching procedures, and have turned to the walls and shut their eyes. There is, however, no cure for ringing ears, and they turn, deafened, to assault the incoming Imperials.

Taking their curved swords firmly, they begin to hack at the Guardsmen, while five make it their divine duty to dispose of the Marine.

* * *

Las-rounds lead, followed by the point-man charging in with bayonet, going down quickly.

All the guardsmen are lost except the sergeant who was standing with the Marine. The Vox-beads are on the whole time, and platoon can hear all which is occuring. The Marine draws his power-sword, slicing two of the blades in half, as well as their wielders, while the Guard Sergeant thrusts and parries with his bayonet.

* * *

The crone Uthana, having abandoned all pretence of subtlety, reappears at the cell door. At the same moment, the Immortal, completely serene in his work, finishes stropping the knife.

"Infidels are at the door. The faithful hold them back, but there is not much time. We must leave, quickly - make the first carvings and be done with it."

The Immortal hits Ryana one more time with the cosh to ensure she is unconscious, then takes a knife with a sadistic slowness to her left cheek and starts carving an angular figure-eight into it. She shudders slightly, but otherwise shows no signs of awareness.

* * *

Back in the office, Nessa quakes slightly, before returning to normal.

* * *

The Marine fires with his bolter at the same time as hacking away, it comes down to one-on one with a Kazthite. The Guard sergeant keeps clear, having survived.

The Kazthite leaps for the Marine's neck, aiming a thrust with the katana and hoping to skewer the man's throat.

* * *

Meanwhile, the Immortal and living burden are proceeding at a brisk trot down a back hallway of the abandoned residential building. His object is revealed - a multi-story freightpod, mobile headquarters for the aggressive arm of the chapter.

* * *

The Marine dodges the blow, to have the Guardsman come to his aid, taking down the Kazthite. The two look at each other, a single notion coming to mind. "Back up," they say in unison.

* * *

With no ceremony, the Immortal leaps into the cargo bay, fastens Ryana unceremoniously to a pallet which is bolted to the floor, and makes his way up a ladder. All the faithful are onboard, except for the soon-to-be-martyred at the door. Another Immortal is detailed to begin the straight-line cuts high on Ryana's cheek that will complete her marking as a Kazthite prisoner, and the Immortal proceeds to the command deck, bowing as he enters Uthana's presence.

* * *

The Marine and Guardsman hear the powering up of the engines, and cock their weapons.

* * *

The freightpod hums ominously, and the hoverfield is powered up; Uthana laughs horribly as the relatively weak wall comes crumbling down and the titanic pod smashes its way into the street, turning left and fishtailing slightly; it takes out the edge of a building before starting down the road's slope at a brisk rate.

* * *

.75-calibre AP rounds and the meagre las-rounds come chasing after it, chewing up the road and walls behind the vehicle.

The rounds bounce off the starship-grade shielding Uthana had installed some time back, and the pod continues disappearing into the distance.

"FUCKIN' HERETIIIIIIICS!" cries the Guardsman.

"IN HIS NAME," screams the Marine.

* * *

The remaining two Kazthites appear from their alcove and challenge the Guardsman, running at him, katanas leveled. It is a final stand, and they know they will be Kazth's martyrs, the faithful, the welcomed into the Second Frame.

He swivels just in time to be caught in the chest, and is killed. The Marine turns his bolter, still firing, and evaporates most of the two Kazthites; the organic wreckage collapses to the ground and spatters all over the Guardsman, still weakly pumping ichor.

The Guardsman, with no hope of survival looks to the Marine, a katana stuck in his chest. He gives him a final thumbs up, his other hand in a middle-finger salute to the blood-pooled corpses, before collapsing. His face, with blood splashed all over, is set in a severly pained smile.

Celia, on sniper duty a few hundred metres back, sees the horrible scene, and does her best not to vomit, not being able to suppress a few wet retches.

* * *

Cuu watches the ship as it departs and charges his rifle to maximum power, firing a single, faithful shot. It strikes the pod, punching a clean hole the whole way through.

"Feth you heretics."

The vox in Ryana's ear buzzes his statement through; she wakes to a blinding pain, feeling elated for some reason, absorbing Cuu's words, then passing out again through a mix of the pain and a rush of relief.

* * *

Uthana curses. "That must have been a powerful gun to pierce the protection we have been granted ... Kazth challenges us; we shall not fail him."


Sunday, December 2, 2998 - 1800 hours
Freight pod, thirty kilometres out from Elin City, traveling at 260 km/h

She reawakes to a not-quite-as-blinding pain, finding herself locked in some kind of small cell. It is not nearly as cinematic as the basement cell in the Kazthite chapter house, simply being four sturdy metal walls and an obligatory bed for the prisoner to rest. On the floor stands a metal-braced wooden bucket of water for drinking - significantly, there is no bucket for human waste, indicating the Kazthites wish Ryana's overall state to remain generally hygienic. They wish to keep her alive?

She pulls herself from the pallet and uses the bucket as a makeshift mirror, keeping the pain in her left cheek out of range of the bucket's opening. What she can still see is somewhat shocking, although not all that much (a general mentality of weariness is settling in) - the tips of thirteen straight cuts, sitting below what appears to be the edge of a figure-eight.

She has seen this before in briefings ... she is marked as a prisoner of the Kazthites, one of their subjects.

The vox is still working, and she is weakly receiving chatter from the forces in the city.

"-essa alive, com-"

Attempts to communicate, however, are fruitless, and she can only listen sadly as the pod pulls further away. At the syllables "essa alive", however, she perks up.

Thank Christ, Sarah got out. That's a bloody relief to know, it really is. She knows she may be assuming, but it's hard to stop herself believing that "essa" wasn't part of "Captain Nessa".

She tries to communicate, raising her voice. "THIS IS RYANA! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?" The voice echoes around the tiny cell-closet, and someone above laughs, likely assuming she's pleading to them.

She continues calling without result for some time, not letting herself give up hope. The signal certainly isn't getting any weaker, which is a blessing.

Steven is standing in the top of the tower, watching the Adeptus Arbites capture the remainder of the crowd under the supervision of the Imperial Military. He turns to Bovill, a look of slight worry and anger in his eyes.

"My good man, you've just witnessed a small scale counter-strike action by a tiny fragment of our military. By the authority given to me from Imperial High Command, I offer you the use of our six trillion troops at any time. Let's hope it isn't needed often, for all our sakes."

Bovill nods, keeping a very calm facade to cover his ' ... wow ... ' mentality.

"Thank you, Commissar-General. I doubt it will be needed - six trillion troops in the defence of four billion people is a -- well, a bit much."

* * *

Monday, December 3, 2998 - 0859 hours
General Secretary's Office, floor forty, Inner Tower

Bovill secures something with a large spanner and grunts in satisfaction as the gigantic screen now sitting on the wall of his office flares on, picking up a remarkably clear feed from the Civil News Network. "If any of you want to watch, the news is on. I want to see what spin they're going to put on last night's riot."

Milan trudges in dismally, a bandage wrapped around the left side of his forehead. Bryant also wanders in, a coffee in his hand and a tired look in his eyes. As an experienced trooper, he doesn't calm down after combat for quite some time. Shortly after, Nessa hobbles in, her leg better then it was and a small amount of vitality in her body.

Bovill welcomes Bryant and Nessa, then remembers something, and frantically runs over to his desk just in time to switch a portable holodisk on. Now both the desk and the gigantic viewer sport images of serious-faced CNN anchor Vanessa Scolin.

"Hello - this is CNN Elin City, and I'm Vanessa Scolin. Today's top story - Kazthite riots at the Inner Office, ten thousand troops deployed.

"A lot of our viewers called in last night, claiming to have heard explosions in the centre of the city and seen things shooting across the sky. We ourselves were concerned, and quickly went to collecting information to present on the oh-nine-hundred broadcast. What we have ...

"First things first. The General Secretary’s office today released a statement confirming a large-scale riot last night surrounding the Inner Office.

"Initial conflict reports indicate that at least five thousand members of the Elin City chapter of an extremist religious group calling itself the ‘Kazthite Brethren’ executed an armed march on the Inner Office and surrounding barracks; upon arrival, they were met by Government armoured troopers of the 194th Heavy Platoon. Visiting Cult Imperialis nationals targeted executed their own rapid response immediately thereafter, deploying almost ten thousand troops from orbit and destroying several billion argentars worth of Government military property.

"Just over two thousand rioters are confirmed to have survived unscratched; all are currently in Police custody. At least three thousand were wounded and dozens killed during the conflict, subsequent to the use of heavy automatic weapons by Imperial rapid-response personnel.

"Unconfirmed reports indicate that first lieutenant Ryana Taylor, leader of the Kostemetsian contingent, disappeared or was killed during the conflict --" The broadcast cuts out.

"Oh feth ... " Nessa states, collapsing onto a couch. The screen flickers; Bovill is about to hit it with the spanner again, when he notices that the shiny-new holoviewer on the desk is also dead, which should be impossible.

Suddenly, a patriotic anthem of some sort, infused with much pipe organ music, plays over, followed by the Brethren figure-eight-and-slashes insignia on a shield. It fades, to be replaced by the head and shoulders of Uthana against a black background.

"Greetings to you, Commonwealth. Especially to you, General Secretary."

Bovill's head flicks towards the screen, puzzled anger starting its creep across his face. Meanwhile, just as Uthana finishes her sentence, Ryana's ID picture appears above her right shoulder.

"As you can no doubt see, we have your heretic, and we have marked her as ours."

As Uthana says 'marked her as ours', Ryana's head rotates, the picture quality changing to that of a holoimager still, to display the eerily regular cuts. Notably, even though the cuts are obviously there - as in, not edited in - Ryana's expression is stoic.

"Oh, she fought bravely, for a heretic, but even heretics must surrender to the inexorable will of Kazth eventually.

"You must be wondering, deprived of Kazthic enlightenment, why we would want to keep your heretic in our sanctum of sancta; we feel it is our duty, as His proxies, to deliver the enlightenment to you."

Nessa's hand is reaching for her las-pistol; it appears as if she's about to shoot out the viewer. Bovill holds up a hand to forestall her, feeling a physical pain in his stomach.

"We keep your heretic as a token: release our – Kazth’s – blessed children within seven days.

"Allow our people the gift Kazth has seen fit to give them – the privilege of seeing the deaths of, no, of executing the heretical aliens they fought so bravely to defend Kazth’s Commonwealth against.

"Of course, for this to happen, our people must be released from the prison into which your misguided ‘lawgivers’," this word is spat, as far as that's possible, "have thrown them.

"Do you not see, General Secretary? You have committed a great sin against the one true power by allowing these – well, these pieces of living sludge, to desecrate the holy Commonwealth by infringing upon its borders.

"Heretics are worth nothing! Remove them from our Commonwealth, put them out of their misery and ours, and you and the Commonwealth will know the full truth of Kazth’s gifts. Allow them to remain, and we and our allies will first righteously execute your heretic in the same fashion we are delivering this message, and in the view of billions, as a harbinger of Kazth’s immeasurable power."

"We will then, with no delay, bring a storm of death and destruction upon this nation such as you have never seen.

"Nor will you ever see it again, for you will have no capacity to see it. You and the rest of your heretical teachings, your false god, will drown in the holy wave of fire Kazth brings upon you, and you will thereafter be frozen unceasing pain forever in the Lowest Frame.

"Think it over, General Secretary. You may either release our people in one swift, righteous stroke, or condemn billions - whose completely curable crime is ignorance - forevermore to the Lowest Frame through your own selfish want to preserve your short-sighted worldview and your precious aliens."

The hijack stream abruptly cuts out, going back to an oblivious Vanessa Scolin.

"... in turn, said Imperial forces cannot justifiably be blamed for using-- Sorry? Oh. Ladies and gentlemen, we're experiencing technical difficulties. Apologies, but we'll be taking station break for an indefinite period." The screen cuts to the CNN logo, with the extended newstheme playing over.

Bovill turns to the little assembly, speechless.

Meanwhile, a vox-cast comes into Steven's bead as soon as the transmission ends. Marine and Sister force commanders are communicating directly to him and the regional Lord General-Militant. He wanders out of the room to take the call, while Sarah remains on the couch, as white as a sheet.

Bovill collapses into his chair as if his strings have been cut. Meanwhile, Milan continues staring through the eye that isn't bruised over at the viewer, as if that will bring it back online.

Nessa is staring off into nothingness. Finally, Bovill speaks in a croak. "They ... they kidnap Ryana, they order me to execute you, all in the most ... the most," his voice regains some semblance of life, this with rage, "fucking arrogant manner, and they expect their orders to be followed?"

He stands, strides over to the door - after a second of vacillation, he kicks it hard enough to put a crack in one side; he turns, and his rage fades instantly upon seeing Nessa's state. "Captain?" She doesn't respond.

Now he is worried. Sarah looks as if she is about to collapse. He is not a counselor and does not know what to do.

She turns very slowly to Milan. "I. Will. Kill. Them." Milan nods silently, imbued with a very dark sense of purpose.

The Commissar-General re-enters the room, and a shaken Vanessa Scolin abruptly reappears on the viewer.

"Ladies and gentlemen ... we've been getting a host of calls asking us what the hell we think we're doing broadcasting religious propaganda. Let us assure you, this is not our work. However, officers from Commonwealth Network Operations are telling us a piece of attack code was loaded onto one of our computers during last night's riot, straight after ... Lieutenant Taylor's ... kidnapping. They can't trace the owner."

The screen snaps off again, and Bovill slams a fist onto his desk. "No!" He jumps from his chair again, striding quickly around the room, acting as if a man possessed. "No," he repeats quietly, the angriest he can ever remember being.

Steven looks up to the motley assortment. "We've got a battalion of Marines and a squad of Sisters ready to roll at any moment: the Fist and the Purifiers. Furthermore, we've got Tech Priests en route to the station to try to get a trace." He snatches up his carapace armor, throwing it over his head.

"Make it so! The Kazthites don't fuck with Ryana, not on my watch." Bovill's trenchcoat hides armour, and his skin hides an assortment of extremely powerful weapons. As he powers them up, he begins to glow with an eldritch energy again - not simply in his hands, but all over.

Bryant speaks briskly. "I'm deploying, Captain Nessa, you can watch on pict if you want ... I'll personally execute that Heretic. I want you to stay here, you're far to weak to come with." He picks up a case left by the Segmentum transport that came through. Opening it he reveals his favorite weapons: a power sword and plasma pistol.

Milan retrieves his Dullahan maser rifle from where he left it on suiting up - namely, on the office desk - and pumps it, hard. "I have this. So do Celia and Camellia." The Dullahan being a shotgun or thereabouts, it can do a whole lot of damage.

Bryant shakes his head. "Come with if you want, but the Marines are breaching, and failing that, the Sisters are going to burn the living shit out of the buildings."

Some of Milan's black humour returns. "Burn ... burn everything ... kyahaha," he mutters under his breath.

Bovill stabs at a touchscreen. "Karin! Get the pod out, will you, I'm going for a ride." He eyes Milan. "Trying to find the freightpod, perhaps."

Sarah stands up. "I need some air," she states, before proceeding to the roof - a simple observation deck: high rail, still oddly white despite the amount of dirt it must be exposed to, guarding the edges of a walking surface which is entirely made of cement with stones embedded.

She sighs, pulling the vox bead from her ear and observing it. She fiddles with some settings, praying for something to happen. Over and over, she tries different modes (Closed Link - Transmit only, Closed Link - Receive only, Closed Link - TX/RX, Closed Link - High-Power TX, Closed Link - HP RX). None work. Suddenly, a thought clicks in her mind, and she rushes down to her barrack room, retrieving a backpack. Sarah bolts back upstairs, placing the pack on the floor, and extending a wire from within it, making it about five metres, erect. Finally, Nessa retrieves a piece from inside the kit, and holds it to her ear, before programming in a code. "Closed Link code: ML-24". The backpack is a full-powered vox-caster, much more capable of long range transmission and reception then the beads.

"Honey, can you hear me? Ryana?"

* * *

Ryana hears a strange noise on her vox and perks up, even more so when it is quickly followed by Sarah's voice. "... Sarah? Chrissake, where are you? You got out okay?"

"I'm here in the offices and alive, thank Larks later. Where the hell are you?"

"No bloody idea. I'm in a closet of some sort, looks like it's on a freightpod of some sort. Think it's an Archer pod, model unknown. Beyond that ..." Ryana is breathing fast, happy and excited.

"Are you movin'?"

"I'm reasonably sure I am, yeah. Freightpods tend to hum when they're moving, and this one is humming. I don't know what I'm here for; just an officer, me ... why didn't they go for, say, the GenSec?"

"Need someone in power to tell to shove something up their ass?"

"Just trying to figure a way out. The walls don't even rattle ... got some serious armour plating, I think. Which reminds me, shields are definitely up, I can hear the generator whirling. How the hell are we even having this conversation?"

"Well, I'm using an actual vox-caster. Damn thing's got enough power to broadcast to half a world."

"Wow, I can tell. Wait a minute, I can hear someone. Please hold." She says the last two words in a VoIP operator's voice, trying to impart some humour into the situation.

Sure enough, an immortal rips open the door to glare down at her. "Foolish girl! You and your heretical ways disturb our ceremony to Kazth. Silence yourself, or be terminated." He slams the door shut with quite a lot of force, and Ryana takes a couple of seconds to resume breathing.

"Sarah, you there?"

"Yeah. Look, I heard what he said, we can get you out, just do exactly as I say.

"First, remove the Vox-piece from your ear, then flick the switch marked 'Closed Link - TX/RX' to 'DSTRSIG - TEI', then shut up and wait."

Ryana does so, finding the tiny switch and flicking it. She shuts up and waits, as per instructions.

* * *

Sarah runs downstairs, activating her vox-bead as she runs and getting in contact with the AdMech representatives.

"Alright, cog-boys, listen up. We've got a distress beacon on our channels, CL code ML-24. Find it, ping it, tell the Commissar-General."

"As you wish, Captain."

A few moments pass, and they get a lock. A pict feed is sent directly to Bryant who tells Bovill; Bovill, in turn, requests the pict feed be piped through to his own neurolink, providing appropriate IP address and port.

A second later, the feed comes through. Bovill is getting nothing, adjusts something with a mental pulse. A second later, a counter pops up: INITIATING DATA TRANSFER IN FIFTEEN SECONDS.

"So, while I wait, what should I be expecting to see? Sorry about this, by the way - having an antiviral installed at the only link going to my retinal implants is kinda annoying."

"It's a feed to where your lieutenant is," one of the AdMech people says.

"Wait a minute. How does this work? I didn't think a pict feed could be initiated on a standard vox bead, is what I'm getting at. Has technology suddenly become several times more awesome while I've been locked up in this office?"

"Radio and video waves are incorporated within the same broadcasts; we just have our vox-beads filter out the video when only have audio," the AdMech rep says.

"Well, there you go." The pict feed pops up suddenly, overlaying Bovill's ordinary field of view and showing a slightly shaky feed from inside the small closet-like thing. The view shifts sharply right and down, showing its owner is lying on what appears to be a wooden freight pallet. A bucket of water stands nearby, and everything is constantly trembling, almost imperceptibly.

"Ryana? Are you there, can you hear me?"

No response is heard; it's only a video, with a map tracking the pod's travel path. Bovill facepalms.

"Sir," Nessa voxes to Bovill, "She can't talk to us - her bead is on distress beacon mode. It's conserving power."

"Still, we've definitely got something. Looks like the pod is vectoring onto the Equatorial Freight Link ... that's basically our local superhighway. Whole lot of traffic out there at this time of day, and a whole lot of people who won't recognise the Kazthite insignia or just plain won't care," Bovill muses. An idea pops into his head, and he turns to Karin Czeklak, the local network operator.

"Karin, can you link me into the nearest Ko Ess comms transmitter to that beacon?"

She does so, and Bovill can suddenly hear static and the bustle of a freightpod's interior. Before switching on his jaw mic, he thumbs-up at the Imperials, then shifts his jaw enough to initiate his end of the transmission. "I presume I'm speaking to the Lady Uthana?" He transfers the comms feed onto the wall speakers.

The crone's voice replies, not in the least surprised. "Greetings, heretic. Will you stand against Kazth and doom your young girl to death, or will you let enlightenment come?" Above, in orbit, a Space Marine cruiser has loaded two squads into a drop pod.

"Come now, mi'lady, you're not helping the matter by calling me 'heretic'."

"Given that you have nothing which can destroy this pod, I can call you by your true name with impunity."

* * *

"Marine squads, ready for deployment. Command squad waiting to enter pod."

* * *

"Your forces no doubt seek to infiltrate us at this very moment - it would perhaps save a few worthless lives to remind them that they cannot pierce starship-grade shielding with anything short of a starship-scale energy weapon. If we detect even the slightest charging of a single weapon, your pet soldier will die, we will disappear, and jihad will ensue."

* * *

"Command squad ready. Deployment waiting authorisation marker M-22. Local General Secretary must authorise."

* * *

"Mi'lady, no baseless accusations, please. Though we may be enemies, we are equals, and I wish to retain my heretical," he infuses the last word with a large amount of sarcasm, "opinion that both of us could be called honourable."

"Ha! No, boy, you are a heretic. What do heretics know of honour?"

"One moment, mi'lady, while I and my staff consider satisfactory," more sarcasm, "terms." Bovill mutes his jaw mic.

* * *

"Orbital bombardment ready. SD-EMP rounds loaded."

* * *

"Call off your troops. If they see anything, they will kill Ryana ... they're fanatics, it's what fanatics do," he says quickly, then flicks back to Uthana. "Mi'lady, we pitiful heretics," sarcasm yet again, "wish to meet with your personnel in three days."

"Personnel? They are Kazth's holy warriors, infidel, and I would mandate that you remember that."

"As you wish ... mi'lady."

"Perhaps the infidels and the saved can finally reach a compromise, General Secretary. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have infinitely more worthy faithful to attend to." The link snaps out. Bovill is slightly pissed off, but feels he's scored a point - as long as Ryana isn't executed, all is peachy.

* * *

On the freightpod
Uthana frowns. How did the damned infidel track them down? It would not have been the girl - she was scanned on the way in, and no deceptive devices were found. "Immortals! Check this conveyance for tracers."

* * *

"What now, Commissar-General? I think complements should be present from each of us ... to 'negotiate' with the 'faithful', 'peaceful' Kazthites in the most 'efficient' manner possible." One can practically hear the air quotes. "I would choose Milan, Camellia and Celia - they deserve to know their lieutenant's status. Do you have a similar group of four to go?"

Bryant points to three from his troops. "Nessa, Cuu, Laarkin, you're with him. Get Sister Cannoness Mkway to go with you. She can purge the heretics."

Bovill salutes the officers present, in turn. He feels a strange sense of purpose, washing away the rage, fear, sadness and sundry emotions he had felt. "Captain, Corporals ... it's a pleasure to be working with you. Three days from now, it's show time." He marches out, already formulating his evil plot. First stop: armourer.

Captain Nessa voxes Ecclesiarchy command. "Sisters, I'm Captain Sarah Nessa, second Kasrkins, Honor Guard for the Commissar-General."

"E-c-c-Command here, yes Sister?"

"The Commissar-General requests that Cannoness Mkway comes with us to rescue our ally."

"We serve the Emperor, sister, not the Commissariat."

"We need some heretics purged, ma'am."

"Then by the duties of the Ecclesiarchy, we will send her."

Bovill has tuned his internal link to the frequency. Diplomatic or not, he feels like 'purging some heretics' right now, especially that bitch Uthana.

The day after, he can be seen as a dot several kilometres distant from the Inner Office, hawkishly watching the reconstruction of the destroyed Inner Complex. The most notable thing is that he appears to be walking on air. Flying, even.

Third day, Bovill is restlessly striding about his office. The commando uniform doesn't fit - but he curses himself for thinking about these petty things, even while simultaneously realising that if he were to do nothing but seethe about the fanatics and their treatment of Ryana for three days, his effectiveness would be way down.

* * *

Back on the freightpod, Ryana has been enduring a very uncomfortable three days, and nothing remotely like 'being in the know' has managed to impinge on her misery. Still, she looks forward to seeing several people again, even if it's only to be for a short while.

On the first day, she sustains three additional symbolic slashes to the right cheek, giving the line of slashes the appearance of a triple-crossed tally mark. After recovering from the procedure, which is performed without the benefit of forcible unconsciousness, she quietly asks why, and is icily told in return by her torturer that she is a 'stupid heretic who cannot be expected to understand the glories of Kazth imparted to the soul'.

The second day, Uthana presents her to the heretic crowd assembled in the lower cargo bay as if the captured lieutenant is simply some sort of trinket being held up for auction. The crowd roars in an eerie mirroring of its manner during the riot, and she can see the faces of several Brethren in the front row contorted in anger.

The third day, she is hit around the head to wake her up, another bruise beginning its slow, spectacular growing. More slashes come, and she is beginning to get the horrible feeling that the Brethren are going to keep doing this until the diplomatic party she has heard them warily muttering about arrives. Finally - in what feels like kicking her spirit when it is down and groaning - the back of what remains of her uniform is ripped away to allow a Kazthite torturer (who appears to be enjoying his work) to carve the Brethren's complex insignia in excruciating detail into her skin. Again, no coshing. She is getting the feeling the Brethren hate her more and more.

She spends the night on the same pallet, trembling, desperately empty and in borderline fever; the sole Brother who looks in on her in the middle of the night laughs in the same manner all of their subverted men and women do, and throws something in at her. It feels like a spiky ball, landing on her back, and the cuts are yet to heal - the pain is blinding, and she screams loudly enough that another Immortal comes in, gives her another bruise, and roars at her to 'shut your heretic mouth - you are not even worthy to scream on a ship of Kazth!'

* * *

Finally, the day arrives. Bovill is feeling a darkness in the ether, Milan, Celia and Camellia are downstairs planning the horrible tortures they are going to wreak upon the crone and her lackeys, and netop Czeklak is slightly privy to it - more than enough to give her a too-much-information sense of the horror Ryana must be suffering.

* * *

Ryana, meanwhile, sustains a final series of cuts - the Brethren's barbaric insignia now sits on both cheekbones, a reminder of the power they have and the abuse they execute. She has completely lost her sense of time, and the only personal interaction she has is when an Immortal throws some heavy, folded cloth at her through the door and slams it in the psychotic warriors' traditional manner. Unfolding it with hands that are shaking like a shmok addict on the second day of withdrawal, she finds it is a robe of some sort, made of a rough but thin material. It looks oddly like the old vid portrayals of a human sacrifice's robe, and she gets a horrible feeling that that is what she will be, no matter what happens.

Sarah! Someone! Help me! she screams silently, knowing nobody would be able to hear her anyway.

Nessa now has a significant portion of her strength back. She prepares for the day, equipping her Carapace armor and standard gear. In addition, she has handed her las-rifle in for her standard hell-gun. Her chainsword has been swapped for a standard officers sword, and her las-pistol now replaced with the plasma gun.

Bovill has taken the precaution of activating some personal shielding, and his new weapon implants are now fully integrated. They should be more than adequate for the act he wishes to execute onboard the freightpod.

Milan, Celia and Camellia are armed with the absurdly powerful Dullahan shotguns, and are dolled up in armour which is not quite as thick as their powered cyberarmour, but comes close.

Cuu has swapped his Long-las for a stub gun and power fist, while Laarkin carries a chain-fist and a bolt-pistol.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I believe it's departure time." Bovill's slightly raised voice echoes out across the oddly desolate gardens. A larger-than-usual pod sits at the outer terminator of the Inner Office's almost-restored ground-stone entry path.

Cuu looks dangerous, a hint of psychosis in his eyes that Camellia hasn't seen before. Bovill vaguely sees the look of psychosis in Cuu's eyes, and is vaguely horrified to find himself vaguely approving of it. As the moment approaches, all his attention is focused on the girl they are making their way to rescue at all costs, no matter how many damn Immortals and priests they have to cut through.

Bovill is the first to get in, taking the manual controls in the front point to make sure Uthana doesn't simply subvert the systems on the way.

Steven makes a final speech, as is a commissar's duty.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's about time we finished this mess.

These heretics have been a thorn in our side for far too long, and have broken the universe's codes by disrupting a diplomatic meeting. What was your reaction when you saw them outside? Fright? Rage? Confusion?

"Well now is the time to give it right back to them. Inside their pod is a Sister in Arms, one whom we must take back. Do not falter while you are out there, not that I need to tell you, I'm sure you won't.

"These people, must be killed at all costs, they have disrespected me, they have disrespected you, and worst of all, they have disrespected Him. So when you get there, wait until the order comes, then blast the living shit out of them."

In response, the Cannoness hoists her Flamer and power-sword. "Onwards, my friends."

Bovill leans back from the cockpit. "Transit time. One of the orbital weapons platforms will warp us in, because I don't want to be pissed off for the next four hours simply because it's going to take that long to catch up to the pod."

One second of an odd purple gleam, and the pod is neatly slotted in amongst the other similar pods in this low-traffic area of the Link. The freightpod is vaguely visible ahead, and with every metre they cover closer to it, Bovill's rage and anticipation grows.

Finally, they are at the rear loading ramp of the freightpod, and it is almost lowered on top of them, presumably on purpose. Bovill simply guns the lower thruster and smashes straight through the thin ramp, to the shock of the Immortal standing inside. The pod stops and Bovill leans back from the cockpit.

"There's a whole lot of Immortals about. I want to kick their asses just as much as you do, but we need to leave it until after Uthana is dealt with - although really, I don't need to tell you this. Conveniently forget I said anything."

The troopers instantly flood out, their weapons raised and cocked. The lead Immortal in the bay simply laughs, contemptuously cocking a long-gun that, if stood vertical, would likely come to Bovill's shoulder.

"Come, heretics. You will be delivered to the Lady, the personification of Kazth on this pitiful world ... she will decide your fate."

"Show me the lieutenant," Sarah says, her voice seething with rage.

"In time," the Immortal laughs. "She will not forget her days here, I promise you."

Sarah frowns, drawing her sword. "Heresy begat exterminatus," she recites; the Sister nods, smiling evilly with her powersword turned off to hide its true form. The Immortal's face contorts.

"Careful with your words, girl ... we could simply kill your lieutenant now, and be done with it. Come to think of it, we could kill you all."

A door opens ahead, a fairly conventional light shining from it and a ramp displayed. Bovill takes point, as is his right and duty.

A green route marker appears in what seems to Bovill a horrible travesty of his own office route marker - placing hands out to either side, however, he meets an invisible shock-pulse shield. "Keep to the line," he seethes, just barely keeping his voice under control.

The line leads through the entire ship, sneering Immortals lining the walls. Bovill has to literally safe some of his implants just to stop himself trying to futilely shoot them and getting everyone in his party killed when the bolts would rebound. Finally, an identical door beckons at the top of another slope, and Bovill walks into the bridge - which is quite literally a bridge, as it is a metal platform suspended on sturdy columns over several-foot-deep water.

Uthana stands directly opposite, staring into his eyes as if searching. She turns away and issues a quiet command to one of her lieutenants.

"So, General Secretary. I believe you are, to us, what some of the Judeo-Christian faith might call 'Satan' ... the leader of all the heretics, the ignorant, the sinful."

Bovill retorts, "And you the same, Lady Uthana ... slaughterer of the innocent, deceiver of men ... I don't wish to enumerate your various unwritten crimes, but their sum can be lumped together under what is called treason."

He stands straight. "Enough small talk. Just show me the lieutenant, we'll speak, and one way or another we'll be done here."

Uthana smirks. "Oh, but I don't know that you want your feisty little heretic enough to give Kazth's people what they have been denied. Perhaps if one of your lackeys here could corroborate your story? Otherwise, I will have no recourse but to have the Immortals execute you - all of you, I might add; no exceptions - for falsehood in Kazth's sight."

Nessa draws her las-pistol and swings her sword out. "Show me. The fething. Lieutenant." She aims the pistol squarely at Uthana's forehead.

The Immortals draw their weapons. Meanwhile, Uthana's smirk deepens, but Bovill can - just - read the element of fear in it, and the woman takes a few steps back.

At the same moment, the Sister starts her Flamer's pilot light; her death would detonate the whole thing now. She aims it squarely at the Immortals.

Uthana issues another quiet order to one of the console operators, and there is a clang in the ceiling above. With a squeak, an insensate Ryana descends from the ceiling in some sort of retaining cage. She is fastened to the ceiling by a rope around her wrists, and seeing the injuries that have been wreaked without even a single sickening 'reason' to justify them, Bovill feels absolutely horrified. The horror is only increased when Ryana rotates and the blood-engraving on her back is revealed.

Sarah looks at Ryana, giving a single, somewhat pointless reassuring nod before turning to the old crone. "Oh no you fething well didn't ... "

The rope sparks for a second, and Ryana's eyes open, fluttering for a second. She sees Sarah and her tense, even in unconsciousness, posture deflates immediately. ... She's ... here ... Oh my God ...

Bovill tries to communicate to Sarah somehow to stay back. Meanwhile, he walks around to Uthana's side of the bridge, wearing a patently fake smile. It is so obviously, painfully fake, that even the crone stiffens, sensing something is coming.

"The magnitude of what you did to this officer, mi'lady, is only increased by the truth."

The Sister taps Nessa on the arm, keeping her weapon aimed at the Immortals. "Now is not the time, Sister ... heresy's purging comes when there is minimal risk to us, with maximum risk to them," the Cannoness says very, very quietly. Nessa's finger still tightens on the trigger; she's lost all grip on reason.

Bovill places an almost-companionly arm around Uthana and starts slowly walking, the crone's neck level with his elbow, into line with Sarah's las-pistol. As he goes, he speaks.

"The truth, Lady Uthana. You've been operating without for the past twenty years. It can't be fun. These poor, deceived souls see you as their leader, their source of enlightenment, the one who'll lead them to the Second Frame - your heaven, isn't it?"

"All this time, though, you were simply working to destroy them, just through another's personal vendetta. Oh, you were simply working under his orders, I get it. But you enjoyed doing what you did, and in the end it became a part of you. However, the facts that you knowingly did this," he sweeps a hand at the tortured form of Ryana, "and you knowingly committed acts of mass murder, still can't be denied."

Uthana is now in line with the las-pistol's muzzle, and shock is spreading over her face.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Agent Porthos, veteran officer of the Kostemetsian State Intelligence Service. Agent, as an officer of my government and a citizen of my nation, you're answerable to my laws.

"As General Secretary of said nation, I am authorised to act as the supreme adjudicator of its courts."

The Immortals' weapons are slackly held, and they too are feeling the first edge of the mental shockwave spreading from Uthana, counterbalanced by the icy cool and focus of Bovill's mind.

"I charge you with treason, incitement of a group to public violence, and conspiracy to commit mass murder.

"I find you guilty. The sentence for your actions is death, non-appealable; as such, I authorise Captain Sarah Nessa to carry out this sentence, effective immediately." Uthana almost turns, but is firmly held in place by the General Secretary's iron grip.

The weapon implants serve their purpose, and with a single tap, Uthana's personal shielding is gone. "Captain, you may execute the defendant at your discretion."

Sarah utters a single, final statement to Uthana.

"Heresy ... begat ... exterminatus. Bitch."

She drops the pistol's muzzle, firing three shots into Uthana's abdomen, piercing her stomach, kidney and liver, before delivering a coup-de-grace into her diaphragm. The Sister jams her finger on the trigger at that exact moment, letting white-hot flames spill from the promethium fueled-muzzle of her weapon.

The other Kasrkins draw their weapons, preparing for a fight, but letting Nessa take the lead. She promptly snatches the Sister's sword, cutting cleanly through the bars before taking Ryana in her arms.

Ryana fully wakes up, the reality of the battle getting to her. She looks up at Sarah, and says "Thank you," a near-heartbreaking relief and gratitude in her voice. The General Secretary, meanwhile, is fending off a group of completely insane Immortals. He shouts over the noise of the energy exchange, "I know Porthos' tactics. She'll have rigged up timed explosives to the engine core, and the timer will start when the biosigns stop.

"Sarah, can you please do ... something to get Ryana out of here, all possible speed? The pod is still in the bay. I can tell, I'm linked to it."

The noise of the exchange falls silent, and Bovill sketches salutes to Sarah and the near-comatose Ryana. He falls to one knee next to the dying Porthos, and takes her head in his hands, rotating it towards him, surprisingly gently.

"Porthos, I remember knowing you when you were still a girl. You didn't care for petty political games ... Christ, you were a minarchist before I was. No economic, religious interference ... you just wanted to be able to enjoy the things you liked ... classical music, et cetera.

"What happened? Now you're spearheading the kind of interference that once you passionately swore to kill any initiators of, just to carry out Athos' vendetta ... damn it, we both know Athos. We've known him for a while.

"He hates the Kazthites, he hates me, he hates democracy, and he'll do anything to see either or both gone. What made you abandon your ideals just to carry out one man's vendetta ... ?"

Sarah lifts Ryana into a fireman's lift, sheathing her sword and redrawing her pistol in the process; she makes for the door, her eyes narrowed and searching for Immortals. As she leaves she finds what she's looking for, and drops them with shots to the chest, followed by to the groin and then the face. She kills seven in total.

Porthos groans. "It was either you or him. At the time ... I was ... uuhck ... an idiot, I thought Athos looked better ... you wanted to go into Government ... remember your argument with him? He said a nation could only be defended by force, and you advocated diplomacy ... I wanted to defend the ideals ... and I went with force ... and now, here we are, ten years later. I'm sorry ... I didn't understand ... I am so, so sorry."

Down in the bay, Sarah opens the pod door, lightly placing Ryana onto a seat and removing her own rebreather. She kisses Ryana lightly on an unwounded point on her cheek.

Ryana looks up, the gratitude still shining from her eyes, almost a physical light. She vaguely senses she's in a transport pod, still retaining enough spirit to remember that.

On the bridge: "No. No, I can't forgive you. You had thousands killed for Athos ... You are not Porthos, you are Uthana. I have no sympathy for Uthana whatsoever," his expression softens, "but once Porthos and Uthana re-merge, tell her I forgive her ... in fact ...

"I condemn you, Uthana, to execution ... I forgive you, Porthos, and absolve you of all crimes. But ... your sentence has already been carried out ... just ... not completely. I believe Captain Nessa may arrive soon to administer its completion."

In the bay ... "Sleep," Sarah whispers into Ryana's ear, "I've got one more thing to do, for you ... for love." She swaps out her officer's sword for a chainsword, and re-approaches the bridge. There she draws it, and stands over Uthana, looking to Bovill. "Can I kill this fuckin' heretic?"

Bovill shares one more glance with Uthana, and the same glance with the girl she used to be ... a glance of hopelessness and despair. "Do as you will, Captain. This is over."

Her face hardens and she arcs up the chainsword, its whine ringing over the remaining sounds of the bridge. She hangs it over Uthana's waist.

"Don't ever ..."

She slices at half of Uthana's waist, between the edge and the navel.

"... touch ..."

She severs the remainder of the abdomen.

"... my girlfriend ..."

She raises the sword over Uthana's chest, directly above the sternum.

"... bitch."

She stabs it down, directly into the heart. Blood is sprayed everywhere, including all over her armour; Bovill stands, stoically watching the end of Uthana and the release of the bright, idealist girl Porthos ... the girl who died when Porthos chose Athos' cause.

Blood is weakly splattering against him, but he ignores it, standing unnaturally still. Sarah turns to him, and notices he got a fleck of blood on his face from her slaying of Uthana. She licks her thumb, and wipes it from under his eye. "Sorry, sir."

With that, she walks back off to the pod. "No problem," he says to nobody in particular. Surveying the dismal scene, he leaves silently, treading as lightly as he can.

Without warning, the priest who stared so contemptuously at Ryana reappears from an alcove, just in front of Bovill, who wearily raises his hand, prepared to end another life; the priest, however, smoothly makes the symbol of peace.

Bovill drops his hand for a minute, and the priest begins to talk. Sarah turns, her hellgun raised, wary.

"General Secretary. My name is Nick d'Artagnan, and until three months ago, I was a Service officer working undercover long-term in the Kazthite Brethren - back when they were just a basement plot with aspirations to glory.

"When Porthos started shaping the Brethren in earnest, I saw something coming that wasn't good. I cut her out of my personal chain of command, went rogue. I started deciphering her command codes.

"You have exactly," he holds up his wrist, "one minute and thirty seconds. I have a PDA. I am going to try and end the countdown if it is the last thing I do. Go."

Bovill shakes his head with the same stoicism and untouchableness that has characterised every action since Uthana was executed. "There are Immortals onboard. I can see them with my retinal implant. You are going to need some help ... Captain Nessa, please leave. Get Ryana, Milan, everyone, get them out of this hellhole. D'Artagnan here deserves a chance."

The remainder of the Imperium's forces arrive back at the pod, and begin piling in, ready to leave. d'Artagnan begins to protest, but Bovill silences him with a look; Sarah lowers her hell gun slightly, then draws her chainsword, throwing it to Bovill.

"It seems to be good at killing heretics this week," and with that she climbs back into the pod, starting the engines. "Thank you, Sarah," he calls out, not knowing if she can hear or not. D'Artagnan slots back into the alcove, while Bovill wields the chainsword, swordplay lessons coming back.

At forty-five seconds remaining, D'Artagnan looks up, desperation in his eyes. "Wi-fi is down. Going to have to be a direct physical link." Bovill nods.

"Do it."

d'Artagnan runs, slotting the PDA roughly into the engine core at thirty-five seconds. Bovill uses a PDA taken from Uthana to adjust the shield radius, disrupting Link traffic and making damn sure people are outside the blast radius of a possible explosion.

At five seconds, d'Artagnan looks up, relief in his eyes. "Defused ... fuck!"

Another, very much armed bomb is visible on the other side of the core. In the tiny time remaining, Bovill strides to d'Artagnan, locks an arm round the other man's shoulders, and issues one final, almost desperate neuropulse into his system. Something tells him it works, and that is the last thing he sees before a white flare wipes everything away.

About an hour later

Bovill shifts slightly, grumbling as he returns to consciousness and becomes aware of the rough road digging into his shoulders. d'Artagnan is standing at the edge, talking to a couple of angry-looking pod owners.

... The edge?

Bovill looks around, and notices the gigantic blast crater he is currently lying on one fringe of. The freightpod appears to have self-annihilated, along with everybody still aboard ... except for, of course, him and d'Artagnan.

Standing up and roughly brushing away dust, Bovill walks over to d'Artagnan, feeling a muscle ache assert itself in one leg. The pod owners, who weren't particularly inclined to speak to the priest, snap to attention at the sight of the General Secretary. One shifts nervously on his feet.

"Mister Secretary, we was, um, just talking to your, um, religious advisor here."

Bovill smiles, feeling some humour returning for the first time in the past three days. "I'm sure you were. Gentlemen, I require the use of your car. Standard three-hundred-argentar-an-hour fee payable by me, and I'll try to have it back without scratches."

Both perk up instantly. "Yes, Mister Secretary sir ... three hundred argentars an hour? Sounds very acceptable."

Bovill adds, "Each."

Both are suddenly starting to look like a pair of cats who just swallowed very large, cream-covered canaries with crunchy nougat interior. "Might I ask what a respectable government officer, um, such as your fine self, sir, is, er, doing so far from Elin City?"

Bovill cocks an eyebrow. Everybody lived, and beyond that he's not too concerned. "No. No, you may not."

One minute later, he and d'Artagnan are sitting in the luxury pod, and Bovill is rigging up a VoIP connection to an orbital operator. Upon connection, he is matter-of-factly told, "You are decidedly not the General Secretary of Kostemetsia - that individual was," the voice becomes mechanical, "killed -- in a -- insert incident descriptor here -- on -- insert incident datestamp here -- at -- insert incident timestamp here.

"Please stand by for custody."

Bovill laughs, the sheer bureaucratic absurdity getting to him. "Excuse me, but I wish to speak to a human customer service representative."

A series of beeps suddenly sounds over the speakerphone, and a distinctly happy operator whose voice Bovill doesn't know is coming over. "Voiceprint verified. Planning to buy any lotto tickets soon, Mister Secretary?"

"No, not really. Never been much of a gambler," the politician-turned-warrior deadpans.

"Where would you like to go today?"

"Elin City, Inner Office. If you'd be kind enough to deliver this pod back to its legitimate owners when I'm safely inside the Tower, that would also be good."

"Sure. Initiating ..." the purple gleam shows again, "aaand, we're there. We hope you've enjoyed your trip with the Commonwealth Orbital Defence Grid, please come again."

* * *

A scant few kilometres away, Space Marine shuttles have landed, dropping off the communal pod's occupants thanks to a message voxed from Cannoness Mkway that the situation is under control.

* * *

Bovill, grunting a bit, makes his way out of the pod, transferring the call to neurolink and thanking the orbital operator before abruptly cutting the young man off. Striding down the ground stone path, he enters the lobby; the eyes of everyone he passes jump out of their heads.

Entering the elevator, he calls up floor forty. It's been a long day, and all he really wants now is to collapse in his office chair ... also to get a caf to sustain him until the others arrive. The reactions should be interesting.

A thought strikes. "Don't touch my girlfriend"? Huh. So that's why the CG told me not to bother going in. Got to wish them, I dunno, what do you wish upon a couple? Eternal happiness is a bit trite, and also a bit large-scale and presumptuous.

Whatever. First we have to get the matter of how I didn't die in a core explosion out of the way, THEN we can move onto matters which don't give people heart attacks.

Oh yeah, and d'Artagnan didn't die, either. That one deserves a medal, he does.

On the ground below, a pod skids wildly out of control up to the gates of the offices; it is evident that the driver is used to piloting aircraft and tracked vehicles. It stops just short of the gate, and a head pokes out, its owner wearing a flak helmet, and a severely bloodied shirt below it.

"Captain," the driver pants, "Nessa, 2nd Kasrkins, Diplomatic Honor Guard. Mind?"

* * *

Bovill authorises Nessa's entry, deliberately suppressing the "Your request was authorised by ... " automessage.

* * *

Some seconds later, the gates open.

The pod enters the garage, bumping into the wall and causing all its inhabitants to jolt. "Sorry," Sarah calls back, "doesn't quite handle like a Chimera." The party disembarks and heads for the elevator.

* * *

Meanwhile, Bovill waits. He has time in abundance.

* * *

A few moments later, the elevator arrives at the top floor, and the occupants (bar one) stagger out. Nessa leads the pack, Ryana being supported over her shoulder.

* * *

Bovill watches all, and considers booming out "Welcome to my humble abode ... well, not so much my abode, more my place of business," over the speaker system, but decides against it.

d'Artagnan waits in one of the chairs that were intended to accommodate Bryant's party so long ago. The newly-commissioned second lieutenant is sipping tea, and sports a prototypical Kazthite Conflict Citation on his chest; as the party approaches, he discreetly hides the tea in a thermos and stands in the corner trying to look inconspicuous. As the newest member of Bovill's military staff, the twenty-year-old is going to have to try hard to fit in.

The door hisses open, and Bovill abruptly terminates their quiet, serious conversation. Upon entry, Nessa first notices the former 'priest', swinging her pistol outwards. "Heretic!"

"Not so much, Captain. Charles d'Artagnan is a rogue KSIS officer who was assigned to infiltrate the Kazthite Brethren some months ago. Three months ago, he cut Porthos out of his chain of command and started feeding back data to our Government."

She notices Bovill, and swings around to meet him with the same weapon.

"In fact, I do believe he's the anonymous source who forwarded us the initial riot warning," the General Secretary continues, totally unperturbed.

"You son of a bitch ... " She lowers her handgun "How the hell?"

"No idea. I'm here, though, and paid a bloody exorbitant hourly - hourly! remember it - rate to use a pod for a bit under five minutes." His flippancy terminates.

"How's Ryana?" He motions at the still-unconscious lieutenant Nessa is supporting.

"She's going to be okay, I hope. Larks helped her out a bit."

Thank God for Larks, Bovill thinks, respecting the formidable sergeant-major even more, if that's possible, than he did the minute beforehand.

"Mister Laarkin ... thank you," the General Secretary says, a note of distinct thanks in his voice. The long, boring ceremonies can come later - for now, all the General Secretary is going to force upon Laarkin are words.

The RSM drops his plasma-pistol from his hand, along with some other gear. "Give me a medal and I'll castrate you." A repair bot trundles the gear over to a neat pile in the corner. d'Artagnan's fake vestments are neatly folded there, but kept well apart from the military gear.

Bovill looks around. "Thank you all ... for everything," he says, his voice cracking. Mkvenner walks in: "What'd I miss?"

Bovill smiles weakly. "The issuing of medals and six-figure yearly pay increases."

"Oh, for feth's sake..."

"'Everybody lives, Rose! Just this once, everybody lives!'" the General Secretary comes back. "The vid heroes of ages gone by couldn't match one billionth of what you did today."

"Pah," Sarah says, with a fake-mocking tinge to her voice. "All we did was our jobs, all we did was kill heretics."

"All of you ... I can't say it enough. I'm stuck in a loop," and he smiles weakly. "You did your jobs better than anyone else I've ever seen, and you did them to restore justice, not simply because you were getting paid. You were noble, in a word."

Sarah lightly places Ryana on a couch, before collapsing on one herself. "Well, thanks, but right now the noble need rest."

"And you shall have it. By the Emperor, you'll have it."

Unnecessary credits
Directorial staff
Lead Scriptwriter
Assistant Director of Pornography
Lead Assistant Llama Trainer
Eriq "Cult Imperialis" Farrugia

Vice Deputy Sub-Assistant
Executive Director of Awesome
Executive Director of Ego
Executive Director of Mary Sues
Assistant Scriptwriter
James "Kost the Red" Bovill

Cast in order of appearance
Commissar-General Steven "Medico" Bryant is here portrayed by Solid Snake, with David Hayter as stunt double.
General Secretary James Bovill is here portrayed by David Tennant.
First Lieutenant Ryana Taylor is here portrayed by Carla Chases.
Captain Sarah Nessa is here portrayed by Jamil Mullen.
Negotiator intelligence John 005746 Dejitaru is here portrayed by Brad Pitt.
Regimental Sergeant Major Mark Laarkin is here portrayed by Matthew Fox.
Corporal Milan Dhesi is here portrayed by Ajay Devgan.
Private Celia Walker is here portrayed by Maki Horikita.
Private Camellia Thompson is here portrayed by Emma Watson.
Corporal Mkvenner is here portrayed by Paxton Fettel.
Corporal Cuu is here portrayed by Sam Fisher.
Lieutenant Kidd is here portrayed by Thomas Felton.
Lady Uthana is here portrayed by Holland Taylor.

Clothing and Props
Weaponry and vehicles were provided by Project Team DoGA of Osaka, Japan.
Uniforms were designed by William Ware Theiss and Eriq Farrugia, and were produced by American Apparel.