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This story is really just an insight into the lives of the Acolytes when they're not out purging the unclean.
Very little violence or fighting, apart from the first part...

Part 1: Awake

Inquisitor Isabelle Lucent's armour gleamed pristene white, like the Emperor's divine light, as she engaged the nightmarish creature before her.
He was a Chaos Lord, though he was bigger than any Space Marine I'd ever seen.
Armour of gold and silver shone dimly in the chamber's interior, dark sigils and monstrous facets emitted an eerie light, his emotionless, metal mask gazed down at her with a blank stare.

Despite the size and bulk of the Chaos Lord's armour, he countered and blocked every swing and stab the Inquisitor threw his way, her sword crackling with a deadly blue hue which canceled out the deep crimson glow emitted from the Chaos Lord's viciously curved blade.

I could not watch anymore, I had my own problems to deal with.
Cultists, hooded and cloaked, firing solid-slug Autoguns at me.
I dived behind one of the chamber's support beams, a colossal thing of solid concrete, yet still autofire chipped away at it.

My Plasma pistols had cooled; I waited for a lapse in fire, then turned, firing off several plasma bolts at the enemy.
The game of cat and mouse seemed to go on for an agonizingly long time, and I cannot recall how many I killed.
Around me the battle raged, the stench of sewage and blood mixing together in the humid chamber, the violent exchanges of Las and Autofire made my ears ring.

Eventually, the cultists assaulting me trickled to a halt, and I began to make my way over to where I last saw Fenton.
There was a cry of pain from behind me; A distinctly female cry.
I turned, saw Lucent fall to the ground, saw the corrupt Astartes pulling his sword from her chest.

I tried to repress them, with all my might I tried, but the tears came; I ran over to my dear mentor, dropping my weapons, such was my anguish.
The tide had turned on us; what was meant to be a raid had turned into a siege, and we were losing.
But I didn't care; I rushed to my mentor's side, knelt beside her.

"Don't go..." I pleaded like a child, the tears streaking freely down my dirt and blood-crusted face, "Please?"
I felt a hand on my shoulder; Inquisitor Lamal's, I paid no heed.
Lucent pressed something into my hand, it was solid, cold; her Inquisitorial rosette.
I looked at her miserably, shaking my head, "No..." I whispered faintly.

"My dear boy..." she whispered, her voice little more than that, "This may not be the end...The Universe is full of surprises."
And then she was gone; the woman who had rescued me from a putrid existence of thievery and murder, the woman who had taken me under her wing and taught me just how beautiful and deadly the universe could be, the woman who, as long as I'd known her, had been more of a parent to me than my biological mother could ever have been.

A shadow loomed over us; the Chaos Lord.
Behind him lay a pile, comprised of nearly the entirety of Lucent's team.
My heart almost stopped beating until I realised Fenton wasn't in that pile.
I could feel the rage welling up inside me, the incandescent fury that only a man who has lost nearly everything knows how to wield.
I pulled a plasma charge from my webbing, looking back to Lamal.

I thought he was going to refuse, but he removed his hand from my shoulder, and I turned to face my enemy.
He was expecting the cool, calculating mind normally associated with an Interrogator.
But I was in no state to play his game; he began to speak, but I was already leaping towards him.
I grabbed hold of the rim of his armour with one hand, pressing the detonator on the charge with the other; he thrashed madly, trying to throw me off, but I kept my grip with the determination of a man who had nothing to lose.

I pressed the charge to his head, holding it there with my left arm as a high-pitched whine built up from inside.
The sounds of the battle seemed distant, now, like they were all in another room, the noise muffled by a thick wall.
Time seemed to slow as the detonator exploded.
The Chaos Lord screeched, his head exploding in a violent flash of blue plasma and unholy red light.
I seemed suspended in the air as I was thrown back, time grinding to nearly a halt as my left arm came away at the shoulder.

My world became black, a void in which only the Chaos Lord's blank, metal face existed.
"One day, Benjamin Mordecai," It said, "I will return, and you will fall..."
And then all I knew was pain, and blackness...

***

Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai woke up in a cold sweat; the bedclothes stuck too and restricted his slim, muscular body as he struggled to get out of the bed.
He threw the covers aside, and sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the magnificent teak four-poster bed.
He lifted his left arm, hearing its distinct mechanical whir in the dark.

Could he ever get used to this?
The artificers had offered him synth-skin, but Benjamin had declined; the arm served to remind him of his failure, how he hadn't been fast enough to save his mentor.
Life before Lucent seemed bland, now.
A distant life, one led by another, a different Benjamin Mordecai, one who's parents had abandoned him and his brother to the streets when he was barely out of the crib.
One who had been raised by his brother in a world of thievery and brawling, believing that he had to take from others what they wouldn't give freely.

The voices were speaking in his head again, seductive, tempting, threatening.
He blocked them out; he would not fall to Chaos, not now.
The weight of Lucent's responsibility fell upon his shoulders, and he would see her wish of a Sector rid of corruption and war fulfilled.
It had been what had kept him from becoming a Rogue Trader.

The idea was still appealing, maybe one day...
He heard the ship's monotone voice warble, "Three hours until end of night cycle."
He knew sleep would elude him; it always did recently.

You need to work on sentence length. The pace seems a bit off at times. Short sentences are more useful for a faster pace (Combat or high emotion) whereas longer sentences slow the pace down a lot.

Will do.

That's the first passage I've ever written in 1st person, so its new for me, I was a little uncertain...

It's useful to leave something for a day or two before coming back to it before you re-read and re-draft it.
It helps get fresh perspective on it.

Part 2: Heroes and Cowards

Mon'Wern'A's room was a mess; allocated on the lower decks, close to the engine rooms was where he felt at home, and Admiral Gambit had complied, if grudgingly.
The room was small and cluttered, the furniture consisting of a bunk with drawers that his clothes were meant to be in underneath, in actuality they were strewn all over the floor.

Also adorning the room were several bulk-cupboards bolted to the wall, the hinge was broken on one of them, and on another, the handle had completely come off.
That handle lay on a small wooden table in the far corner, along with all the mechanical junk that Mon'Wern had been fiddling with recently.
Several crumpled pieces of paper also lay on the table, faulty designs that hadn't worked.

Mon'Wern knew he could make it work, it was just a matter of finding the parts.
A jug of amasec and two tin cups also sat on the table, and two chairs were drawn up alongside it.
People rarely visited Mon'Wern after the first few months; he couldn't see what the problem was.

He had always had an affinity for making something out of nothing, if they'd just let him fiddle with the navigation systems, just a little...
Suddenly, Mon'Wern'A the Inquisitorial henchman became Mon'Wern'A, the hero of the Ro'Yal sept.
He missed those days still, when he stood alongside his fellow Tau, when he had still had a home...

One slip-up was all it took, one fatal mistake; One mistake that could cost the lives of several comrades, and compromise an entire mission.
It was only since signing up with Mordecai that Mon'Wern had noticed how different humans were.
They had four fingers instead of three, for a start, which had made Mon'Wern want to throw up the first time he had noticed it.
Then there was the fact that they had no hooves, only two more misshapen hands, which they called "feet".

Then, of course, there was the fact that they all looked alike.
He could remember that dreadful time, as Mon'Wern the Mercenary, operating out of the seedier districts of Medrogus Lunaris.
Those times when people had spat at him because of his race, the way he looked.
The authorities were no help, he'd learned that after his first time running from them.

He had been a coward in those days, yet people had paid for his services.
Nobles, Hive Gangers, gamblers who wanted a debt settled; they all came to the infamous greyskin who never missed a target.
His reputation had made him unpopular with businesses like Slate Company, who charged collectively for their services as Mercs, and then came back for more afterwards.

And then Mordecai had found him.
Mon'Wern didn't know what to make of his life now, save that it was on the mend; maybe one day he'd find the courage to face his Cadre once again, and answer for his crimes.
Until then, he was a coward...

I approve of this, well except for the xeno filth part that is.

Part 3: To Many Future Victories

Servitor designation H01-T0N had always been a good servitor, tailored to be multi-functional, his limbs could be changed to suit their needs.
Most of the crew and the Acolytes had taken to calling him Horton, out of respect for the ship's second-longest serving member.
As the ship came out of it's night cycle, Fenton Muir had gone down to the firing range, escorted by Horton, carrying a tray of various firearms.

Fenton had always felt it proper to keep a routine when not out on a mission, so it was firearms training in the morning, followed by breakfast, followed by a quick prayer at the ship's chapel, then reading until lunch.
He was reading one of Ravenor's papers at the moment; despite what people thought of him as a source of comic relief, Fenton did that as much to lighten up the rest of the crew as anything else.

Ravenor's work had always grabbed Fenton's curiosity, and he could recall several times during his days as a Hive Ganger along with Benjamin stealing books from the Librarium on Jurdani Primaris.
Both had been teenagers, both eager to defy the society that had abandoned them, but the difference lay in heritage.
Where Benjamin had been raised by his brother after his parents had abandoned them both to go and live on a wealthy estate somewhere else, Fenton had run away from home.
His parents had both been working class; his mother had taught in a Scholam for disadvantaged children, which the local Governor had done little to support, and his father had worked in a Manufactory, making Flak Jackets for the Imperial Guard.

His father hadn't liked his job, and took it out on his wife and child.
Fenton still shuddered whenever he imagined his father's face.
They arrived at the firing range, the heavy doors parted before them, clanking open on ancient gears.
It wasn't exactly the biggest room in the ship, but it served it's purpose.
Three aisles were divided by thick metal plating, at the end of each stood a man-shaped iron figure approximately five feet tall.

They were old, the mannequins, each was already dented, riddled with bullet holes.
Horton clanked up beside him, Fenton gestured to the table beside him.
"Just there, please."
"Yes, Lord." Horton uttered in his grating, mechanical voice.
He set the tray down on the table, and Fenton selected the first of the weapons; a simple stub-pistol, not likely to do too much damage against an armoured enemy, but useful when wandering the brothels and bars of Medrogus' red light district.

He was still annoyed that Horton addressed everyone as "Lord", even the female staff.
But he couldn't change the Servitor's wiring even if he knew how.
He checked the chamber on the Stub; Loaded.
Fenton aimed and fired, emptying the chamber.
Five shots, all had gone wide of the mannequin's forehead.
He cursed.

Three more hours training, still he couldn't get that headshot.
By the time the canteen was announced open, Fenton had gotten up to a Hotshot Las; the walls of the firing range were reinforced, and it was the only place he was allowed to carry more than a simple Las-pistol.
Maybe he just wasn't feeling well today.

He tossed the Hotshot Las, making for the door.
"Stay here." He told Horton, the Servitor replied with his usual, monotone "Yes, Lord."
With any luck, Fenton could get a proper cup of caffeine before it all went and he was left with the putrid decaff stuff again.

***

Inquisitor Benjamin Mordecai stood on the bridge of the Razor Descent, hands clasped over the small of his back, his midnight-black uniform ironed and spotless.
Yawns and muttered complaints followed those working the morning shift on the bridge like a pack of Servo-Skulls.
He watched the stars sliding by as they made their way to the jump point.
His mind turned again to Lucent's appearance in his head back on the Imperial Highway.
That had been a month ago now, and he was finding out more and more about his powers every day.
He could sense the emotions of the bridge crew; their trepidation at their destination, their annoyance at having to be up so early to work the morning shift, their regret at not spending more time in the seedier districts of Medrogus Hive while they had leave.

He was also mastering telekineses; moving objects, it was useful, but could it ever be second nature?
"Caffeine?" a voice queried off to his right.
Admiral Anton Gambit stood beside him on the bridge, two plastic cups in his hands.
Both were full of a steaming, murky-brown liquid.
Benjamin nodded, accepting one.

They both stood for a time, watching the bridge officers going about their various tasks.
"You've been thinking about her recently." Anton said finally.
"How do you know that?" Benjamin asked, taking a sip of the steaming caffeine.
"You don't have to be a psyker to work it out," Anton replied, blowing on his cup to cool the contents, "Its a tough life, doing what she did, what you do now."

"The knowledge that one day, I will die in the same manner..." Benjamin began.
"Don't do that to yourself." Anton said firmly, "You start thinking like that, and you'll end up devoid of emotion. I've seen it happen before..."
"Maybe." Benjamin muttered, "How long before we can make the jump?"
"A few hours," Anton replied, "The men are nervous, Jurdani Tertius has a reputation for being a target of piracy..."

"A good job we have you at the helm, then." Benjamin grinned.
"You know, you remind me of Lucent when I first knew her," Anton said, "unsure, but determined."
"Thank you," Benjamin's lip twitched in a slight smile, "It's good to know that someone has confidence in me."
"Inquisitor, wherever you go, whatever you do, we are all behind you." Anton assured, raising his cup, "A toast to your many future victories, Inquisitor Mordecai!"
Benjamin chuckled, "To many future victories, Bridge-Admiral."

I like it, but for heavens sake try to make your sentences longer! As of now the current form really ruins the story!

Part 4: Temptation Is A Powerful Thing

Fenton Muir sat at a table in the canteen with a cup of decaff in front of him, looking like he wanted to punch the mess sergeant on duty.
"Want some company?"
Meera Shanton sat down on the bench beside him, wearing a red and black crew uniform that hid the curves so boldly displayed by the skin-tight bodyglove she wore in the field.
"Why can they never get some proper bloody caffeine in?" Fenton grumbled.
"Tax?" Meera offered, "Maybe the mess officers just don't like the crew staying up late..."
"Bah." Fenton left his decaff sitting on the table, walking towards the door.

She followed him down the hall, easily keeping pace with the ex-Hive ganger despite being shorter.
"You never said, where did the Inquisitor pick you up?" she asked.
"He didn't," Fenton said simply, "We practically grew up together."
"As Acolytes?"
"And as Hive gangers before that." Fenton replied, pausing as he hit the elevator button.

"In Medrogus?" she queried, "I never heard of you."
"Medrogus is a big place," Fenton countered, irritably mashing the elevator button, "Now stop interrogating me."
"Isn't that your job?" she teased, "You're his right-hand man, after all."
"Benjamin never picked an Interrogator, that's something you do later." He stepped in as the doors opened, leaning against the railing as Meera slid in before the doors closed.

"What if there is no later?" she asked mockingly, "Universe is a dangerous place, after all...People die so easily..."
Inquisitor Lucent flashed across Fenton's mind, he growled, "Would you shut up?!"
"Sorry..." Meera's grin faded as she looked away.
They both stood in silence for a long time, until the doors opened and they stepped out into the corridor that led to the firing range.

"So, what's your story then?" Fenton asked cautiously, "I know you were a nobleman's daughter, why run away?"
"My father was always so overbearing," she sighed, "After mother died, he wanted for me to join the Ecclesiarchy as some kind of nurse or something."
"So it was an act of defiance?"
"Of freedom." she clarified, "He wasn't a bad man, he cared a great deal, but the life he wanted for me just wasn't what I wanted to do."

"Did he ever know?" Fenton asked, keying in the passcode for the firing range.
"After I met Elster, I wrote to him a couple of times," she said, "He never replied."
"Elster?" Fenton raised an eyebrow as he picked up the Hotshot Las from earlier, he checked the charge on it, roughly half was left.

"Trained me in firearms and knife fighting," she explained, "Ex-Guardsman, a good man."
"I'll admit you're handy with that blade of your's," Fenton began, "But you don't seem the sort to go around wielding a Long-Las on the battlefield."
"Who says it has to be a Long-Las?" she grinned, snatching the Hotshot Las away from him.
Fenton began to protest, but anything he said was lost over the low whine of Lasfire as Meera lit up the room in red light.

When she finally emptied the cartridge, the head of the metal mannequin had a love heart burnt into it.
She set the Hotshot Las down, smiling smugly as she folded her arms.
"That's just not fair..." Fenton muttered.

***

Benjamin stood with his arms folded, leaning against the wall, directly opposite the metal bulk-door.
"What are you doing?" Mon'Wern asked, he was stood at the end of the corridor, staring blankly at Benjamin.
"I'm not sure what to call it," Benjamin replied, still staring at the door, "I suppose...Meditation?"
"It looks like no meditation I've ever seen." Mon'Wern replied skeptically, taking up position beside Benjamin, staring at the door.

"Temptation is a powerful thing," Benjamin explained, "My mentor kept something behind this door that she didn't want anyone to know about. By resisting the temptation to open it, I become stronger."
He looked back to the thick, impenetrable bulwark of the bulk doors, almost seeming to mock him with their immovable silence.
"I see." Mon'Wern replied slowly, his voice betraying his uncertainty.
"No, you don't. You have no warp signature."

Benjamin stepped over to the other side of the corridor, and began keying in his passcode.
"What about resisting temptation?" The Tau asked quietly.
The Inquisitor stopped for a moment, frowning; it would be disrespectful to disregard Lucent's wishes, but if whatever was behind the door was dangerous, he needed to know what it was.
Mon'Wern's three-fingered hand tightened around his wrist before he could finish.
"Don't." he said firmly, and Benjamin nodded in grim acceptance; he had almost given in, and he would never have forgiven himself for doing so.

"All hands prepare for Warp translation in fifteen minutes," Anton Gambit's voice rang out loud and clear over the Vox system, "Inquisitor Mordecai to the Bridge, if you please..."

Part 5: The Briefing

He emerged out of the elevator to find the bridge in uproar; one of the Servitors had fallen out of it's station, and loose wires trailed from it's limp form all over the deck.
"Bloody idiots couldn't wire a Servitor properly if they had a bloody Tech-Magos standing over their shoulders!" He slammed his fist into the wall, then patted it softly and muttered a quiet "Sorry, dear...".
Fenton and Meera were already there, both standing quietly in the corner; everyone knew better than to question the Admiral when he was in a temper.

"And you," He pointed a finger squarely at Mon'Wern's chest, "Don't touch anything!"
"Calm yourself, Bridge-Admiral." Benjamin ordered, striding over the deck towards the central command pulpit.
It was customary for the Inquisitor to give mission briefings on the bridge of the ship, with all Acolytes in attendance.
It was only when they were all gathered that he saw how few he had compared to the operatives Lucent had once had, or the ones Lamal had spread across the Sector.

"When we emerge," He began, "We will be in orbit around Jurdani Tertius, a world so near the edge of the Sector it barely counts as being Imperial space."
He looked at the mixture of surprise and trepidation in his Acolytes, he wasn't feeling so confident about this mission himself, but it had to be done.
"The local Planetary Governor has reported several hundred missing people over the course of the last six months, numerous pleas for help were sent to Medrogus Hive, but apparently the Sector Governor is incapable of doing anything other than taxing his citizens."
They were all listening intently now, the nameless Sector Governor had popped up a few times recently, always listed as being incompetent.
"So, we're going to investigate said disappearances, and then head back to Medrogus to deal with this incompetent Governor."

"I trust you have leads for us." Fenton said with a raised eyebrow, he already knew the answer, but caution had taught him to ask anyway.
"I do," Benjamin tapped a few buttons on the command console, and a projected map of Chirgon Hive, the planet's capital, burst into view in front of them, "The first is Pious Anol, an ex-military Ministorum Priest who tends to his flock in Pit-Town, one of the more run-down areas of the city."
A red blip flashed at a point near the Hive's base as Benjamin scraped a finger over another key.
"The second is a dancing girl from the red-light district, goes by the name of 'quicksilver'."

"A holy man and a harlot?" Fenton muttered, "Don't you have any more reliable contacts?"
"They were the only ones who saw a kidnapping sober, Fenton." Benjamin rebuked, lighting up another red dot a little further up on the Hive with his finger.
"You and Miss Shanton will be speaking with Pious, me and Mon'Wern will see what we can find out from this red-lantern dancer..."

They all exchanged worried looks as Anton declared the brace for warp translation; Jurdani Tertius was famous as being a hub for the less favorable kin that mankind had to throw at the universe.
But Benjamin was sure this was a link with the missing convoys on Jurdani Primaris; it was just a case of finding the evidence to prove it.
As the Warp engines began their distant whine, and the ship lurched forwards, Benjamin Mordecai took his last look at the stars before the metal shutters blocked out all sight of the cold, unrelenting universe.

I've seen several threads now with these characters, Castra.. I'd advise you create one "big" thread to put all of it in one place. Link all the threads together in chronological order and just post everything to do with them together because it's a single setting. You'd probably get a greater response that way and it'd mean there's less threads jostling for views on the first page.

I see what you mean.

I really don't have much more for this story arc, but the next story, I'll post links to all the others and make sure that everything's in one place.

Good job. I always wondered what goes through acolytes minds, and you portray it in a good way.
Though I agree with everyone's opinions here. Try to use longer sentences when there isn't action, slower rhythm is more appropriate for thoughts .
Keep one the good work