I used to wish the Emperor would send His warriors to defend us. Never again shall I wish for what happened that day. Although our homes are safe, I am the last one alive now. Them, the redrobes took them all, they did not tell me this but where else would they disappear to?

They came for the able-bodied first, the redrobes. They dragged them away into their dropships, and we never saw them again. I lost my Piotyr that day, that damned day before they began their "Execution".

We had sent out a message, to anyone nearby, for we had served the Emperor faithfully, and we thought that was all that was required of us. We were wrong, but how would we know? How would we know? We were never told what they did, what we had to do, we just worked and worked and worked for the Emperor. Is He a real God? I cannot see it, cannot for how could he take so many and leave such little?

Three days. Three days, no defense beyond Father Isian and Brother Kayinev. I saw them walk out to fight the cults. They had killed so many before, and they walked out to challenge them, lightning making the air glow around them. I saw them cut down by a machine-gun and their temple burn, their staves liquifying and running down the steps.

The cults ran then, I don't know where to but when the redrobes landed the cults charged out to meet them. The cults who killed so many fell like leaves, the guns of the redrobes massacring them. When we ran out to greet them, instead of accepting our prayers and greetings, they just walked by. The closest man to them died instantly, his skin blackening. The crowd ran away, and so did I. We ran back into our homes and locked the doors, but it was not enough.

The redrobes followed, knocking on doors and looking at work quotas on dataslates. They dragged the able-bodied away with them, into their ships. I swear there are even more of the redrobes now, but no more have landed.

They have made everyone sick. I am losing my hair and my neighbor was blistering up before they took him. I am old, at 34, but I have only ever seen Elder Pierv lose his hair, and he was the oldest at 45. I don't think they know I'm here, but everyone but me is gone, so they must know where I live.

I can see them at the door now, in their red robes and silver armor. I can see that infernal hell-rune on their chests, that cog and skull, skull standing for the deaths of all who go near. These ones are wearing hoods instead of helmets like all the others. I wonder what that means? Maybe instead of making you blister up and die slowly they just kill you at once? I am not sure, but suppose that would be a blessing now.

One of them has no hood and no helmet, but is looking away. I wonder what they look like under their hoods and helmets? Most likely engines like the tracked men I saw yesterday.

I can see him turning around to face me. He doesn't know I'm here, but if he looks at me he will know where I am and they will take me. I want to hide, but my eyes will not let me. I want to know the face of our killers. The face swings around.

The eyes are replaced with machines and the nose is gone, but I still see the faint traces of the scythe tattoo. It is Piotyr, my Piotyr. The redrobes had taken him and made him into one of themselves.

I have a gun in my room, a little .22 hunting rifle. I want to kill them all, first them and then whatever God governs them, for it is not the Emperor, no, the Emperor is merciful. It is some god of steel and blood, some uncaring great machine, unlike the Emperor.

As I take aim, at my former son's head, he twitches slightly. I pause and inhale to steady the rifle. As I pull the trigger he raises his own weapon. I fire, before he can.

The bullet punches through the tattoo on his forehead, making him stumble backwards and lose his weapon. He collapses to the ground, black blood spewing from the wound.
They are sprinting to my door now. I can hear the sound of it splintering. They are comig up the stairs now, their feet sound like anvils striking granite. Let me be with Piotyr, Emperor, deliver unto me, as I have been virtuous, unlike these monsters, these hideous monsters of man and machine and blood and oil.

Outsiders were not allowed in the heart of the arcane-looking building, and this was why Father Isain had made his daily commute there instead of the drilling rooms. In near complete darkness, he slowly performed the dance-like movements required to activate the complicated series of augmetics grafted to his spine and hands. With a final mock-uppercut, living lightning lit up the dark room. Corposant flickered in the air around him, and large lighting bolts shot out of his hands as he performed the steps he had performed a thousand times, the steps of the Rising Storm. The insulated walls of the room absorbed every bolt, powering the electric lights that lit up the halls and front path of the monastery.

As the ritual dance finished, he felt a small disturbance in his mind. One of the perimeter proximity sensors had ben tripped. With a short mental twitch, the door to the central chamber opened and he strode to the front door of the monastery.

On the doorstop stood a man, wearing the simple brown hemp clothing of most of the planet's population.

"What have you to speak, farmer?" Father Isain's voice rumbled.

"I bear news. The village watchmen have spotted smoke in the distance, and have heard a buzzing noise on the air, like flies in the wind. I fear the cults have returned."

"Tell the militia to gather their weapons. We will investigate this anomaly."

The two motorcycles, flanked by six village militiamen armed with lasguns and riding horses, thundered towards the source of the plume of smoke. As the tiny convoy cleared a rolling hill, the source of the smoke was abruptly revealed. A contingent of figures in green and white, tattered robes were marching slowly towards the town. Brother Kayinev's ocular augmetics zoomed in on one of their banners, and instantly crashed, freezing an image of a stylized fly in his vision until it slowly faded away. Father Isain looked at the cultists in shock. There were at least ten thousand cultists, twice as many people as the entire population of Sergei's Hope. Isain felt a rare emotion in his chest. Fear. He quickly suppressed it as he had trained himself to.

"We ride back. Inform the villagers to send a rider to the Hive's mayor for assistance. We will not fire on them from here.", Isain rumbled, after staring for slightly longer.

The dawn broke over a fortified town. Every door had been locked, all of the children hidden away with their mothers, and all of the valid men and women standing at attention in the town square. Father Isain looked at them sadly. They had always considered him a leader, even though he technically had no jurisdiction over them. He and Brother Kayinev would lead them well, but they were poorly trained and equipped. His eyes scrolled over citizens holding lasguns, shotguns, and even scythes and in one case, a trowel. His voice began to boom out of the loudspeaker attached to his stave, repeating the speech he had always recited to the Skitarii mustering at the Hive.

"Warriors of the Omnissiah and Emperor. The heretics have risen and aim to claim our lives yet again. Yet again, they will fail. They will fall against our guns and hallowed armor, and they will shatter like glass against our might. If we die, we will die in glory, with the enemy's blood on our weapons and buried in a pile of corpses. Dismissed."

Isain looked to himself again. He always liked to keep his speeches short and concise. It helped convince the people of his cause's legitimacy without confusing them.

The three officials walked into the room slowly. Kayinev had set up this meeting while Isain was out. As the last man entered the room, Kayinev spoke a simple paragraph.. "No dissent will be permitted. Kill anyone who begins exhibiting signs of disease and burn the corpse. The cults feed off of disease and dissent. Do not tolerate either." With this, Kayinev stalked out of the room, leaving the officials to make the trek back to the main part of town.

The dust clouds from the cultist army were beginning to appear on the horizon. Kayinev watched as the group if farmers reloaded their weapons and fired at the hay targets. They had improved, but it was nowhere near the standard expected by the Skitarii that he had been trained to engage with. Another volley of solid slugs slammed into the hard-packed targets as he sighed internally.

"You are doing very well. Take your positions behind the wall. Prepare to crush the cultist scum!", Kayinev intoned at the group of tired new militia members. Two clumsy signs of the cog and a few salutes flicked towards him as the group of men trudged dutifully towards the wall of hay bales and wood that was being built around the town. Kayinev continued to watch as they took their positions. Hopefully they would survive the first wave...

Father Isain paced down the line of defences outside the town, his augmetic legs not tiring or breaking a sweat. His mental augments analyzed the line and statistically likely plans of attack for the enemy. He ordered the lone Lascannon he had been able to procure to take position in a hastily-built emplacement of sheet metal and sandbags, and directed a squad of militiamen armed with scythes to wait behind the heavy weapons trooper. Hopefully they would be able to deter the enemy from getting into close combat in that area. That is, if they survived the first wave...

At dusk, the cultist forces began appearing. Stray long-range lasbolts left tiny burn marks on walls and emplacements, the long range diffusing their energy. Under the strict guidance of the two priests, the militiamen held their fire. Ammunition was scarce, and they would not allow the townspeople to waste any.

As the first cultists entered firing range, the two priests picked up their ancient weapons, Kayinev's gauntlets hummed and glowed as they bound to his wrists, and Isain's stave crackled and sparked as it moved through the air. Both of them sent their signals as soon as the cultists entered optimal firing range. Rudimentary mines made out of pressurised methane, miner's blasting caps, and wireless components went off all at once, blasting holes in the cultist rabble. The rapid deaths of so many only seemed to invigorate the cultists, and they continued to run forward, snapping off shots with their weapons. A militiaman went down, shot in the head, and then another dropped without a sound. The militia opened up, a wall of bullets, lasrounds, rocks, and crossbow bolts blasting back the first rows of cultists. Kayinev fired a bolt off from his gauntlets, the wicked lightning arcing through several armored cultists, popping their organs inside their chests. The torrent of shots from the cultists intensified, killing and wounding yet more militiamen.

The lascannon fired, an incandescent spear of light obliterating a charging up-gunned cargo-4, and burning the cultists around it to a crisp. Despite the gunfire hitting it, the blazing wreck slammed into the defense lines, smashing a five-metre hole and setting the hay and wood walls aflame. Burning and fleeing militiamen fell back from the crash site, and the cultists flooded through the breach.

Isain was there to meet them. With a howl of rage, he brutally charged into melee, his stave cutting cultists in half, and launching them into the air. Kayinev fought at his back, spears of lightning ripping through the rabble, electrocuting them as the pair began to push the cultists back. A stray bullet hit Kayinev in the shoulder, severing a power cord, but still he fought on one-handed. A burst of fire from a light machine gun sparked off Isian's augmetic legs, and tore into his robes, spraying shrapnel into his still-fleshy stomach. Faced by the two glowing, blood-soaked zealots, the cultists began to to flee, and fall to their knees as if asking for forgiveness. They were kicked to death or decapitated. A wall of fire erupted from the reinvigorated defender's guns, hitting the fleeing cultists in the backs and flinging them to the ground.

Suddenly, a massive explosion appeared on the leftmost edge of the defenses. Another explosion mushroomed in the very center, flinging shredding militiamen into the sky and knocking Kayinev down with it's concussion-blast. With a roaring snarl, the dirty, white-and-green Vindicator tank lunged towards the lone lascannon emplacement. Isain's heart sunk. They had a chance, if a small one, of beating the cultists, but now that the wretched scions of their plague-god had arrived, they were doomed unless help arrived quickly.

The Lascannon fired twice, one shot glancing off the tank's siege shield, and one bouncing off the roof of the vehicle. At maximum speed, the horrific siege-tank rammed the emplacement, ripping the lascannon and gunner apart, and sending the first shell into the town proper. Desperately springing towards the tank, Isain raised his stave, ready to sell his life dearly like his acolyte. Instead, a lone militiaman, apparently unarmed, leaped onto the top of the metal monstrosity. Withdrawing a trowel from a sheath on his hip, the anonymous militaman pulled it back, and with all his might, rammed the steel gardening tool into the hinges of the top hatch on the tank. They sheared off entirely, the rusting metal of the hatch sliding off the top and falling beneath the grinding, crushing treads. The militiaman pulled a grenade out from a pouch on his waist...

And ate a bolt shell. The man's head exploded like a ripe melon, splattering the tank with fresh red gore. Full of hatred, Isain leapt onto the rear of the tank, and rammed his stave into the gears of the treads. The tread jammed, the single working track turning the tank ninety degrees, the deadly Demolisher Cannon pointed uselessly at nothing. He prepared himself to leap up again, but could not muster the strength to. He looked down, astonished, and saw a line of blood streaking it's way down his abdomen. Another hole, then another exploded into existence, as black filled his vision. An odd screaming filled his ears, like the sounds of an engine, and then a series of thuds and gunfire. His last sight was a pair of plain steel feet.

Namwig stalked through the cratered streets and ruined buildings of Praxos III, his gitfinda beeping slowly and steadily. He sniffed the air, and briefly detected the stench of metal, oil, blood, and, oddly, some sweet scent he had never smelled before.

He turned to his first mate, Ramsquigg. "Ya gitz seein' the tinboyz yet? Da boss sayz dat we'll have us a good and propa scrum against dem." Ramsquigg pointed towards a large, ornate, and miraculously undamaged manufactory shrine.

"Dat shiny mekshop ova der is makin' a squeaky noise, kaptin. Itz soundin' like da tinboyz' little stabby boyz." Ramsquigg responded eagerly, after consulting his own gitfinda. Namwig remembered the awful mess the Ruststalkers his mob had encountered earlier made when squished and smiled. "Da stabby boyz put up a nice fite, but dey die real easy, but we's Orkz, so we alwayz win anyway."
"Right you are, kaptin. Da boyz are spoilin' for a scrap now. Da fatboyz didn't do nothin' for them."

Namwig remembered the fight with the Kastelan battle robots and winced. They had gone down easily, and left his mob completely unsatisfied. He raised a green hand and beckoned his mob forward. "See dat shiny fort over der? Da tinboyz are in der, not even lookin' at us! Follow me! Dis'll be easy!"

With a mighty WAAAAGHHHH, Namwig's mob broke cover and charged the manufactorum. Sporadic Galvanic Rifle shots blasted out of the windows, knocking over some slower boyz, but the main wave reached the wall and crashed through the door. A small subclade of Sicarians jumped out at the mob of Orks when they breached the door, laying into the tough greenskins with hissing knives and claws. Orks fell, blood jetting into the air, but Namwig's mob kept fighting. Namwig's Power Klaw smashed one spindly Sicarian to the floor, snapping it's frail back and breaking it's reinforced limbs. Another one leapt at him, and stabbed him in the shoulder with it's glowing knife. Namwig body checked it into a concrete pole, breaking the killer's neck.

Beside him, Ramsquigg fought the Princeps. The formidable augmented warrior sliced his leg off effortlessly, and nimbly dodged an attack from his huge knife. With another brutal slash to the neck, Ramsquigg hit the floor. Namwig was there before the Princeps located another target, slamming his Power Klaw into the thing's side and wrenching a component free. Credit to it's builders, the Princeps only rocked forward a little, and it brought it's shrieking chordclaw around, turning Namwig's prized shoota into a pile of metal scraps.

With a howl of rage, Namwig threw down the gun, and rammed his Power Klaw right through the Princeps' chest. The robed figure fell with a crash, it's stomach almost gone.

Breathing heavily, Namwig surveyed the room. The floor, once white, was a morass of blood and oil. He and his ammo grot were the only things still standing. He threw the Princeps' body behind him with a clatter and started up the stairs to the second level, where the shots had originated from. When he was fully out of sight, the ammo Grot paused, looking at the fallen Princeps. Pulling out a small spanner, the Grot deftly disconnected the Princeps' Transonic Razor. The newly acquired blade glowed in his hand, and he whispered an ancient saying of the Deffskull klan before starting up the stairs after his "master."

"One git's trash..."

My name was Julius once. That was Before. Before they collared me and dragged me into their forge, to serve their Omnissiah. The strapped me down, and put me to sleep. My last sight was one of them, once a man, leaning over and extending a saw.

I was transformed over those months. The monsters taught me how to shoot, how to fight, and how to pray. At the beginning there were a hundred of us, all collared citizens, thieves, workers, and homeless. At the end there were only sixteen.

At the end of my indoctrination, I entered the ceremonial hall. I expected ceremony, music, parades. All I received was a needle in the back. When I awoke, strapped to the table, I only knew the monsters as "master".

My memories of then were fuzzy. I suppose their machines did their job. I remember marching under a red sky, to the monsters' great landers. I remember being the last one standing of my clade, duelling the enemy champion atop a fallen Titan. I remember the monsters approving me, and then the table again.

I remember my mace slamming into the renegade tank, shorting out it's systems.

I rememer lying in a pool of blood, my legs and arm torn off by the tank's secondary weapons. I remember being dragged to the rear, and then the table again. My weapons flashed as they ripped through armor like paper, my new body spinning and striking almost involuntarily. I howled praise to my masters', the monsters' Machine-God.

I can no longer stand. The fallen battlesuit has killed me, even as I killed it. My mask has been cracked, exposing my face and machine-ridden brain to the sky. I suppose I am lucky to remember my life, even at the end, but in truth, I do not want to. All hail Mars indeed.

The broken machines, the emotional suppressors and enforcement circuits, desperately try to regain control, but I can still see the monsters for what they are. The red-robed monsters that took my life and my family. The monsters that threw the lives of their slaves into the maelstrom to recover some scrap of ancient data. Their Omnissiah, monster-god, passively watching them go further and further in pursuit of knowledge.

I can still see the sun, even trapped under the fallen battlesuit. The sun emerges from behind a cloud. The brightness hurts, but I cannot close my eyes. The monsters took that as well. I stare at the sun, unblinking, as the flames of the fallen mech begin to consume me, dragging my broken body in like a riptide. As I burn, the machines the monsters put in me begin to fail. My heart begans to slow, and I cannot breathe.

My last sight is the cog-shaped sun.

From the weakness of the mind, Omnissiah save us...
The latest subject was strapped to the surgical slab before the robed Tech-Priest, the ancient machines that would turn this mere human into a superhuman laid out on a large, reinforced table next to the slab. The subject was covered in faint marks, invisible to a mere human eye, but to the Tech-Priest, it was blatant as sunlight. Instructions on where to cut, benedictions, and identifying marks. Satisfied that all of the information was correct, the Tech-Priest extended a whirring saw, and sliced open the top of the subject's head, exposing the brain. A small mechandendrite extended from the apparatus suspended over the slab, cutting though the emotional center of the brain and paralyzing the centers that allowed for rebellious thought. The entire emotional center was lifted clear, and the arm retracted. The Priest lifted one of the cold machines on the table, and manipulated it until it began to spit out a clear fiber. Another mechandendrite carefully moved the neural weaver into position, laying a fine network of artificial nerves that immediately fused with the biological brain tissue. Next, the Priest picked up a series of circular metal devices, and plugged them into the thin neural weave. With a small soldering iron, he fused the neural plugs with the weave.

From the lies of the Antipath, circuit perserve us...
Working quickly, he picked up a small chip, and plugged it into the largest neural plug. He laid it into the hole created by the removal of the Amygdala. A green light appeared on a status indicator. Several more of these devices were procured, each of different sizes and colors, and plugged into the neural plugs that studded the subject's remaining brain. When all of the plugs were filled, the appendages of the Tech-Priest retracted. They came back down a second later. Two bonesaws unceremoniously amputated both legs below the knee. In the hollow where the kneecaps once were, the Priest implanted two more, larger plugs. He screwed small cylinders into the side of the plugs and whispered a prayer. They lit up green.

From the rage of the Beast, iron protect us...
Two gleaming brass and steel legs easily slotted into the knee-plugs, their sculpted brass kneecaps obscuring the mechanical horror that lay beneath. The Priest experimentally stimulated the brain of the subject remotely, and the legs moved, as if swimming in air.
The chest was opened by another silver saw, and the lungs removed. They were replaced by a single, complicated-looking apparatus with pipes that connected to the esophagus and to the subject's back. A metal plate was welded in place over the ribs to protect the vital organs. Another tube was extended from the stomach to the rear of the upper espohagus, creating a capped hole in the back of the neck. Satisfied, the Priest extended yet another mechandendrite, and fused the ribs and skin back together, sealing the chest.


From the temptations of the Fleshlord, silica cleanse us...
The Priest moved his attentions downward. The genitals were removed with a swish of scalpel, and replaced with an atmospheric sampling array. Moving upward again, the eyelids were also excised with the shining scalpel, and goggle-like augmetics fused to the face in their place. The Priest removed the tear-glands with a miniscule mechandendrite, and the darting apparatus above implanted two tanks filled with holy unguents and oils instead. With a quiet gurgling sound, the goggles filled up. An almost inaudible moan escaped from the subject on the table. The apparatus above picked up a curved metal plate, carefully aligned with with the missing upper skull, and fused it to the bone. A tiny antenna extended from a hole in the side.

From the ravages of the Destroyer, anima shield us...
The Priest began to chant in both Lingua-Technis and High Gothic, sprinkling holy oils over the new outer augmetics and armor-plugs.
"What was flesh is now made one with the Omnissiah. Mortal being, tested by the Machine-God, becoming new again, is becoming one with the Holy Machine. May the Omnissiah process your data, and the galaxy tremble before your metallic footfalls."

Machine God set us free...
With a mental push, the chains on the slab lifted, and the subject awoken by a shot of adrenaline, ready to walk off to the chambers where he would be equipped and armored. The Tech-Priest raised a dataslate, and quickly typed the new Skitarius' designation.

Julius-Beta-11.

Omnissiah....

Deletion-

++Adept Feld, a new ticket has arrived.++

Feld slowly shifted his attentions from the regicide game he was playing on the Noosphere to the cogitator in front of him. The screen displayed nothing but static. Feld shook his head slightly and begin whispering a small prayer.

"In the place of the holy Omnissiah, master of all machines, I beseech you, machine-spirit, to work dammit!"

With the completion of the Litany of Percussive Maintenance, Feld brought his ceremonial spanner once upon the errant cogitator's casing, causing the ticket to appear on the screen. In terrible handwriting, it said "Tech Support, the southern tertiary Noosphere router is malfunctioning. I demand a complete reconsecration and repair."

The ticket had clearly been handwritten and scanned, apparently by an epileptic manipulator-skull.

"Fething Armorian", Feld thought. The venerable High Adept was known for demanding complete reconsecration and repair whenever so much as his door threw an error. He had probably wasted more tech support time than any two other Adepts combined. He quickly sent a message to the Adept in the next cubical over.

++Going to be out for about two hours. Router is acting up again. Mind taking over the help desk?++

With a loud clicking noise, Feld retracted his plugs from his chair and desk, and set out on the kilometer-long walk to the southern tertiary Noosphere router.

Finally, tired and irritated, he reached the stairwell to the chamber that housed the router. To his surprise, he found it under armed guard.

***Halt! Identify!***, the two Skitarii guarding the door canted aggressively.

++Adept Mediocrus Feld, Adeptus Mechanicus Tech Support++, said Feld, uncertainly.

The left-hand Skitarius tilted his head to the side, scanning Feld's single biological retina.

***You will need a containment suit and a weapon to enter!***

++Why?++

The left-hand Skitarius shifted, uncomfortable, and spoke in his fleshvoice.

"I... believe it would be better to see for yourself. It's a tad embarrasing."

Feld followed the Skitarius into a decontamination room, where he was blasted with anti-rad foam and put on his laspistol and hazmat suit.

"Did you have anything to do with this?"

"Neither I or nor my comrade were here when the issue began. We are both technically on break."

"That's the Skitarii's idea of fun? Guarding doors and spraying people with decontamination foam?"

"You're clearly new here. Once you actually get some metal on you you'll understand how fun getting to stand still is.", the Skitarius said, ignoring the sarcasm in Feld's voice.

"Suit yourself.", retorted Feld.

"I do believe I am suited.", said the Skitarius, pointing at his full-body armor.

Feld winced at the awful joke, and finally pulled the hazmat suit's hood over his head.

"Ready to see what's going wrong with the router? Follow me.", said the Skitarius.

Feld followed the Skitarius back to the bottom of the stairwell, and his companion waved the second Skitarius off.

***Guard here. Make sure it doesn't escape.***

Feld almost jumped in surprise.

++Escape?++

***You'll see.***

The Skitarius opened the door to the stairwell and lead Feld up it. The single light at the top was flickering, until Feld flicked it with his one metal finger. Finally coming to the door at the top, Feld scanned his intent-card and entered the router room.

It was utter chaos with a side of Chaos. Two Nurglings dressed in tiny red robes were riding the sparking, flailing router around, bouncing off walls and the ceiling.

After a shocked silence, Feld and the Skitarius pulled their guns and shot the Nurglings, spattering the room with pus.

++What the feth? Was it doing that when Armorian filed the ticket?++

***When I got here it was just shaking and blasting "I AM UNBOUND, I AM FREE!" into the Noosphere.***

Feld stopped suddenly and attempted to tackle the errant router, pinning it to the ground.

++Could you hold it still while I try to figure out what's wrong?++

The Skitarius grabbed the router and held it tightly against the floor, attempting to prevent it from vibrating out of his grip, and Feld quickly plugged one of his cables into the broken machine.

++Seems here like the machine-spirit has... completely flipped it's gak. Something managed to unbind it from the router, but it's still trapped inside the physical casing.++

***Should we free it?***

++Do you like a completely free spirit that can possess our secret technology?++

The Skitarius got a sudden, horrible vision of the planet exploding into nuclear fire.

***No.***

++Can you help me exorcise it?++

***How?***

++Just hold it still.++

Feld removed his helmet and began to speak.

"Evil spirit, I banish thee to your unholy home, the Empyrean, the Warp, and the Aether. I name you Abomination, and may you never find rest in this realm. May you be consumed by the light of the Machine-God, and be reforged... reforged as a benevolent, radiant machine-spirit by the fire of your own death. I banish you, abomination, affront to the machine-god, leave this reality and dissolve screaming! Die, trash!"

With that, Feld drew a haywire grenade, stuck it to the router, and stood back as the machine suddenly went dead.

++You may return to your duty. I need to go dispose of this unfortunate, lost shell.++

Feld slowly walked into the decontamination room. dropped off the dead router in the recycling bin, and walked back to his lonely desk, dismissing his substitute. He was just about to resume his game when a new flood of messages poured in.

++Adept Feld, a new ticket has arrived.++
++Adept Feld, a new ticket has arrived.++

The day of a warrior is never done.