[Monday / Wednesday / Friday]:
Book I: Only Heresy - [You are here]
Chapter I - Investigation Begins
I - First Impressions
II -Terrible Decisions
Chapter II - Deployment
I - Falling with Style
II - Camping
III - Lurking within tent
IV - Shaken up
V - Down-Time
VI - Entirely Thrown
Chapter III - A Sharp Interruption
I - Blocked Exit
II - Night Life
[Bonus Scene]
Chapter IV - Investigation Resumes
I - Wolf in the Night
II - Unexpected Reception
III - Pit Stop
IV - Into the Fire
V - Unexpected Aid
VI - All's Fair


Remember, you can click Filter Topic to read only the story entries and my notes.

Book II: Subject to Change
Book III: Future Shock

[Sunday Interludes]:
What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar
I - First Meetings
II - "Tea" & "Cushion"
[Valse] - Early Warning
III - Meddles
IV - Schola Daze I - Making a Name
V - Schola Daze II - Saving Face & "Office Duty"
[Valse] On Leave I
[Valse] On Leave II
[Valse] On Leave III
[Valse] On Leave IV

[The Incident on Valse]:
[Valse] - Early Warning
[Valse] On Leave I
[Valse] On Leave II
[Valse] On Leave III
[Valse] On Leave IV

[Mouse's Journal Drawings]:
Introduction I
Introduction II
Only Heresy: Chapter I - Investigation Begins:
I - First Impressions Shiny Thing
I - First Impressions Mistakes
Only Heresy: Chapter II - Deployment:
II - Camping First Night
Only Heresy: Chapter IV - Investigation Resumes:
Hiding


Q&A: - [Last Update 27th July]
[Mostly things asked by proof-readers - Will also update in line with the story]

Character profiles:
[Will update and add as story progresses]

Vox Officer Daniel Ahde (“Ahde”, “V”)

Appearance: Late thirties, 5’ 8” stacked short. Dark skinned, black-brown eyes, black hair worn short, starting to grey at the back ever so slightly. Small beard, also kept short. No visible scars. Very unlikely to be seen without his vox headset, even when off duty. Feels naked without it.
Wears standard regiment uniform, plus coloured cap, vox earpiece or headset, wears a small brass circular medal on his cap or chest.

"In fact the only one amongst the four of you showing any real promise is your Vox Officer." He gestured to Ahde who had the forethought to appear startled, or probably was, "An impeccable service record, including an award for keeping channels up, and highly maintained during a two month long siege. We can always use reliable men such as you."

Bio: Relatively little is known about his life before joining the guard, other than he volunteered. In fact Ahde has far more interest in learning about those around him. Very inquisitive, often to the point of irritating his friends through relentless questioning.
As a member of the 183rd, Ahde is an exceptional vox operator. Despite not being much of an engineer, he is almost peerless in his abilities, even in the most adverse situations. He is humble about his talents, and enjoys the work as a deep passion. Despite this, it’s not an obsession that drives his life, he is simply an exceptionally dedicated signal officer.
Captain Gaskell often jokes about Ahde listening to vox static for fun, but in truth he has trained his ear to recognise many different vox sounds and frequencies. At points even recognising subtle differences such as when a shielded transmission is being used nearby.

Philosophy / Rumours: Optimist on the outside. Mercilessly teases and questions his friends.

Medical: Nothing out of the ordinary.
Habits: Enjoys sleight of hand games and playing cards. Drinks in moderation.
Relationships: All mouth, very little action.

Captain Francis Gaskell (Gaz, Frank)

Appearance: Late forties. 6’ 2”, moderate build. Grey eyes. Short pale blonde hair fading to grey. Permanent dark stubble. Old, straight scar from his hairline to the cheek beneath his right eye (does not affect eye itself).
Standard Mordian Iron Guard uniform with Captain insignia and a couple of awards for long term service. Very tidy uniform, keeps it neat and clean, as to show respect for the Imperium. Not naturally a tidy man, but looks natural in his clothing.

[Cat’s Diary - recalling their first meeting]: “Look, lad. Do you not understand why we are here? What this is?" the officer frowned as he regarded me. He was a young man, I guessed in his mid twenties, but I had little point of reference. His uniform was sharp and fitted him well, but he himself looked worn. His grey eyes, shaded under a peaked cap gave him an especially tired appearance. Across one eye was a long, raised scar, marring what would probably have been a handsome face but for the sour expression he wore.

Bio: Gaskell has served most of his life as part of the Mordian Iron Guard. Promoted to Captain four years ago. Before this, he was part of the Mordian PDF; the problematic promotion after being seen as proficient in your position.
Had a wife and daughter on Mordian, hopes some day to return to them, not unrealistic about the chances of it happening. Most of his earnings are channelled back to them.
Warped sense of humour, beneath a dry exterior, often disarming those around him. Greatly frustrates the chain of command by both not appearing to take things totally seriously, whilst being very good at his job. Hates paperwork. Hates meetings. Hates most formality. Greatly enjoys practical jokes and subtle teasing.
Very accurate with his rifle and pistol. Efficient, doesn't waste time or energy when one shot would do the job.

Philosophy/Rumours: Upholding traditional values and showing respect (especially to those who earn it) are important to him. Calls a spade a spade, but is not simple in himself. Has a way of speaking that can be perceived as abrasive, but is actually his way of being amicable. Views the troops as a teacher would regard a class of rowdy teenagers: Affectionately, irritably… and responsible for their actions. Raises his voice on occasion, but scarcely in anger (frequently in exasperation). Seldom openly criticises command in public, and very rarely in company of others.
His priority is keeping the squad together and safe, not seeking glory. No coward, but extremely unlikely to make a push that would waste lives needlessly, where observation and precision would suffice. Can be frustratingly calm under pressure.
Tactically efficient, as far as Mordians go. Appreciates that uniforms get muddy in war, and it’s a sign of having done a hard day’s grind. Still, clean your boots, soldier.

Basically he’s abusive but it’s very good natured. Generally, the ruder he is to someone, the more comfortable he is in their company.

[Cat’s Diary] Gaskell sighed, “Feels a long time ago.” he took a drag on his roll-up and leaned back on the scrubby rail of the bar’s balcony, “You’re still a mouthy pain in the arse.”
Smoke and the dim lamps of the balcony emphasised the lines in his face. He hadn’t visibly changed much in the intervening decades, if anything he just looked slightly more worn.
“And you’re still a grim-faced feth.” I grinned as he mimed taking a wound to the heart at my comment.

Misses his family deeply but is under wild no illusion he’ll necessarily get to see them again. Remains faithful anyway.
Has a soft spot for Vox Officer Ahde, sharing many of the same plain-spoken viewpoints on life, and has a love-hate relationship with the man. Mostly camaraderie with the occasional desire to leave him stranded in a ditch.
Feels personally responsible for looking out for Commissar Yorke, despite being only ten years older than him. Mostly due to having met Yorke as a precocious (pain in the arse) child and set him on the path to his career, before encountering him again nearly 15 years later. It may seem like high coincidence that they ended up in the same regiment, but many uncanny coincidences happen around them both, and Gaskell has begun to suspect exterior involvement.
Someone with extremely long reach has an eye on them. For better or for worse, is yet to be seen.

Gaskell’s relatively recent promotion to Captain took place after the death of the previous Captain Creer.
A deeply disliked man, Creer died after an apparent mugging during leave on Valse. The same “mugging” left Commissar Yorke near death and two of Creer’s closest officers hospitalised. Upon his recovery, Yorke immediately privately executed the two officers involved. This has cast a shadow over Gaskell’s promotion, and though those close to him know the truth, it’s easy to speculate that this “cleaning house” has made life much easier for Gaskell.

The reality is [redacted]

Medical: Absolutely fine. Bouncy. Does not yet use rejuvenate treatments despite encouragement.
Habits: Drinks caffeine throughout the day, can be irritable without. Drinks alcohol in moderation. Smokes socially.
Relationships: Loyal to his wife/family and easily ruffled.

Commissar Ramirez Yorke: ("Ray", “Cat”, “Little Ray")

Appearance: Early to mid thirties. 6’ 10”, broad shouldered but lean, pale complexion, black-brown eyes, dark salt and pepper hair, worn short but shaggy, down to his shirt collar. No visible scars or augmentations.
Typical Imperial commissar attire, but vastly understated. Simple black-blue greatcoat without braiding, piping or epaulets, Commissar hat, standard crimson sash, boots. Typically carries slim power sword and antique hell-pistol.
The greatcoat he wears shows a jagged hole in the lower back, displaying colour of the sash worn underneath. Understood that this is to remind guardsmen that he has survived at least one attempt on his life. [Possibly that he is also terrible at repair.]
Does not wear any medals, despite surviving nearly a decade of active duty. [It’s not clear whether he has never earned any, had some but lost them, or just doesn’t turn up when they’re being awarded. All are very real possibilities.]

Bio: Stationed with the Mordian 183rd regiment, Yorke's silent step and uncanny ability to survive combat without apparent injury have earned him the affectionate nickname "Cat" amongst many of the guardsmen he watches over. [Some less favourable ones as well]
As a dedicated commissar, his first loyalty is to the Imperium, leading and inspiring guardsmen to better themselves in combat. A close second are the wellbeing and improvement of the men in his care, and preservation of civilian life. Reasonably well respected [but not entirely trusted] by his regiment, he is generally professional about his duties, and as far as possible, easy to get along with.
Despite being unnaturally optimistic about the company he keeps, it’s worth noting that he does not take great pains to enamour himself to those around or above him. Long realising that being affable conflicts with his duties as a commissar, it’s a perpetual struggle that can lead to quite sombre moods when alone.
No great skill with a blade, relying almost entirely on reactionary defence. Ballistic skill is nothing to write home about either, but reasonably well trained. His survival in the battlefield is mostly credited to moving like butter off a hot grill plate, exceptional defense, and taking careful advantage of opportune strikes. No coward, but not one to throw himself and his men into a suicidal charge to prove a point either.
A very motivational commissar, capable of convincing troops that all of their efforts are of great importance. Is able to work out how to get troopers up and going, after only a short while in their company; be it by coercion, flattery or platonic abuse. Deeply self-depreciating sense of humour. Excellent at getting a rise out of people whilst keeping a straight face.
Hangs around with Vox officer Ahde and Captain Gaskell, the three seem to be genuine friends.

Philosophy & Rumours: Yorke's motivation is a genuine concern for improving those around him. Determined to see the best in people, even if it kills him. [And nearly has on several occasions] Despite his calling, death does not sit easily with Yorke, his apparent outlook is that life is a gift, and the ending of it a last resort.
After five years alongside the current regiment, he is yet to use capital punishment as a motivational tool. Instead he chooses to remind those with him that they fight for those who cannot. [And what may happen should they fail.] He is no stranger to execution in the line of duty, however, attending and performing those of traitors and those who have endangered the lives of fellow guard. It is so far mostly unknown about his actions with his previous regiment by those around him, and whether this has always been his modus operandi [No].
His respect for life leads to a great dislike of servitors and servo skulls, despite possessing a great poker face, he is noticeably unsettled in their presence. [Having them serve food is a great way to put him on the spot.] Senior members of the Adeptus Mechanicus are similarly not his favourite company due to their predilection for augmentation, but are considerably less common encounters. He is unusually tolerant of Psykers for a member of the Imperial Guard.
[“There will always be bastards. And people will always make mistakes. But if I close myself off for the sake of saving myself from bastards and foolishness, I do everyone else a disservice by not giving them a chance!”]
Yorke was presented a different calling in early life but turned this down, wishing to learn instead how to improve his fellow man as a member of the Commissariat. [Due to his ‘uncanny luck’ this wish was accommodated, despite him being a child at the time.]
Widely spread regimental rumour is that he was thrown out of his previous regiment for being caught sleeping in his tank. Or having an illicit affair with the captain. Or that he punched the captain. Or that he rode his tank through the mess tent whilst having an affair with the captain.
What actually transpired, is that [Redacted]

Medical: Yorke sustained a serious stab wound in an attempt on his life. It caused significant damage. He refused any bionic replacements, making him slightly more susceptible to the effects of drugs and alcohol. Otherwise unremarkable.
Habits: Does not drink alcohol or caffeine. [Misses them terribly.] Chain-smokes given the opportunity.
Relationships: Unfussy.

[Private records concerning the Mordian 183rd Regiment]
Compiled in part by Renan, Ordos Malleus during initial investigation [732.M41] [Denoted by *]
Supplemented and consolidated by Commissar Lewis Cathery, Mordian 183rd [748.M41] Denoted by *]

Recorded logs:
Captain Francis Gaskell - Mordian 183rd // Captain Creer - Mordian 183rd // Miscellaneous Imperial Guard personnel

Personal data-slate journals:
Scribe Renan, Commissar [Redacted] Ramirez Yorke - Mordian 183rd [formerly Sirillan 19th] // Commissar Lewis Cathery - Mordian 183rd

Physical media:
Journal of apparent Xeno origin

[Commissar Cathery's Notes]:
- If you notice numerous grammar errors in one of Captain Gaskell logs: Captain Gaskell's grammar was generally appalling, because his logs were servo-recorded from speech. There was only so much regional dialect the servo-recorder could accommodate.
- "Mouse" was not entirely consistent with his drawings, either. Sometimes pieces of uniform disappear and reappear, change colour, etc. One might almost think that the illustrations were done out of sequence.
- “It doesn't work that way.”: All accounts as written, are from the viewpoints of the individual involved. Sometimes their views or understandings were just plain wrong. For example, the reported circumstances of Commissar Yorke's recruitment to the Mordian 183rd are adorably implausible. It's as though someone might just have been protecting his feelings...

[Only Heresy - Chapter I - Investigation Begins]

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732.M41] *

Suppose that I should really start at the beginning, but I can't. Don’t know where the definite point of descent began. All I can offer is the day that I realised there was no turning back, that we could no longer pretend things could ever return to normalcy. The day that, for the first time, I wondered if I'd be better off dead for the sake of those around me.
Not through cowardice, you understand; nor through self-pitying destructive wishing. But because my continued existence brought pain to those who had only sought to assist me, and at the same time very nearly allowed evil to succeed. But I am getting ahead of myself, or perhaps even behind, it's difficult to tell these days.

It started in a room; plain, and small, like millions around the universe. A neatly laid bunk, aboard a great imperial vessel. The Caput Inter Nubilia, our home for the 183rd Mordian “Holly” regiment.
My two closest friends, Captain Gaskell and Vox Officer Ahde were returning a battered tan folder. It had been one of my few possessions, taken and stowed when they first assumed me dead during a recent deployment. For better or for worse, I had later proved them wrong.
“We looked through it, just to see if there was any details of who we could contact.” Gaskell sighed. His face was tired, extremely tired. I felt responsible. The artificial light deepened the aged lines on his face, and the prominent scar that dipped across his right eye. I felt responsible for that, too.
I raised an eyebrow, “And did you?”
“You know we didn’t. Bunch of random crap and a few picts, but no identity.”
It was my turn to sigh, “Do you not remember how you met me, Gaz? Besides, you both know commissars come from the bloody Schola. What were you expecting, letters from my loving family with a home address?”
“Friends, maybe. Some signs of a life outside of all this.” Gaz smiled sadly.
Having no answer to this, I picked up the folder, causing a worn pict to slide out. I caught it lazily in mid-air as it span toward the floor.
“May I?” Ahde interrupted my thoughts, tilting his head at the dirty pict I was now holding. I passed it to him. He handled the picture with surprising care, his own face concentrating as he raised it to get a better view, “So this is you, but who are these folks?”
“First regiment I was assigned to. That’s Captain Dalton, Sergeant Crichton, and the rest. You can just about make out Flint and Siobhan... There.” I pointed to a couple of blurred faces in the front line, “It’s not a very good picture.”
He squinted, “It isn’t. You look very… Unlike yourself.”
“It was a different time.” I said simply.
Ahde reached the pass the pict back, but paused, retracting his arm and examining where his hand had moved on the image, “Wait…” he muttered, rubbing his thumb gently on an area, dislodging a thick dark smudge onto his pale thumb-tip.
“Don’t-“ I held out my hand gesturing for him to return the image.
“Hold the phone, these looks like medals. I thought you didn’t own any medals.” he eyed me, highly amused.
Gaz peered over, his eyebrows raised, but catching sight of the uncovered imagery, his smile fell and he murmured, “Drop it, fella.”
Ahde chose not to hear, and tilted his head, “Now that’s a Skull, but the other? I don’t recognise it.”
“Pray you never have to. That’s a Saint Kark.” I sighed again, still holding out my hand. He finally returned the pict, I stuffed it hastily back in the small folder on the bed, and cast it aside, “Commissariat award. It means that- It means, I turned our squad back towards the enemy and then, well we took them down. Several- Several summary executions in the line of duty” I stared at the folder. Through it, to an unmeasured distance in both time and dimension.
For once, Ahde stayed silent, but Gaskell spoke quietly. I hadn’t expected it, “How many?”
Prickled by the intrusion, I answered testily, “That day? Five. That week? Ten, a dozen perhaps. That month? Maybe twice that. You want a headcount each year, or the accrued total?” speaking low, in a growl barely above a whisper. I turned back, wearily. Upon glimpsing their horrified faces, the fuse on my temper ignited, and I snapped, “Don’t you remember who I am?”
Gaskell raised his hands, signalling for pause, “Do you? You’ve always been more than fair with us. We don’t know this Commissar Ramirez Yorke.” he pointed to the tattered folder, “We know you, Cat. Our Cat who listens. Cat who encourages rather than grinds down. Cat who can even get men out of the trenches without drawing his pistol.”
I spat at the floor, “The same Cat who killed four of our own guard the week you got promoted, Captain. One of them simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“You-“ Ahde began, but Gaskell put out a hand and stopped him.
“Our Cat. Who doesn’t buy into self pity.” he said calmly, before walking out with Ahde in tow.
The fire stolen from me, I threw the folder under my bunk and inhaled deeply to calm myself, feeling ashamed. It wasn’t their fault that I was on edge. We all were, the Inquisition’s invisible cage was driving us all to distraction. Since our return, the regiment had been confined to barracks, awaiting the arrival of whichever sinister bastards the Ordos Malleus had seen fit to send. Ahde and Gaskell were both were suffering the same confinement on my behalf, and yet they’d had the good grace to keep me company. I removed my hat and ran my hand through my hair, the gesture I’d come to associate with Gaz. Leaving that blasted cap on the bunk, and taking another breath, I stepped out of the room to track my friends down and apologise.
I didn't have to go far. In fact, just to the doorway. As I opened the door, Gaskell was waiting, paler and visibly shaken.

The Inquisition had arrived. Three of them.
Beside my friend two robed figures, I suspected one in deep purples to be a psyker due to his bowed stance, and the other clad in deep blues, possibly an Assassin. Both were overshadowed by the unmistakable form of-
“Nope.” I quickly closed the door again. They probably hadn’t expected that, and it bought me a moment. Oh feth from above, that’s an Adeptus Arbites out there.
“…Ramirez Yorke, you open this door right now!" with the tone of an exasperated parent, Gaskell shouted at me and slammed on it with the flat of his hand. 
Using the brief confusion, I moved faster than I have in my life before or since, and whipped a small bundle of black cloth out of my coat pocket. I stuffed it unceremoniously into the side pocket of Gaskell's satchel that he'd left on the floor in his haste to leave.
Pressing my ever fluffy hair down and fixing my hat on my head, I stepped back toward the door. I hadn’t locked it, but the assumption that I had was enough to buy that time.
“So sorry. Forgot my-"
The door nearly burst off its hinges, and I found myself face-to-top-of-head with the Arbitor. He fixed me with a steel glare, despite the heigh difference, “I am Judge Aaric Boorman, working on behalf of Inquisitor Cape, of the Ordos Malleus. My associate is Celena.” he gestured to a cloaked female form, but didn’t expand on her profession, he didn’t need to. I recognised the presence of an Assassin now I could see her fluid step forward. He continued, “And this is Renan.” the robed psyker nodded politely. “You are requested to come with us." finished the judge. There was no request to his tone.
We had known they would come, we just hadn't expected it so soon. I caught sight of Gaskell’s face, his body language was as ever, still and calm. His grey eyes were telling another story entirely.
Trying my luck, not for the last time, I nodded, “Understood. Please, allow me to speak briefly with our Captain, for the sake of easy relations, and… safety.” ours or theirs, I wasn't yet sure.
"You have five minutes." Boorman stepped back, but remained close by in the corridor, with the door held open. 

Gaskell stepped past him uneasily, and into my room. He picked his small satchel up off the floor, being habitually tidy, and slung it on to his shoulder, "Cat-"
Cutting across him, I looked straight into his eyes, "Gaz, you have to promise me that you'll do whatever they ask of you. Tell them the truth. You can't have my back on this one. Be honest in that none of you knew what I was doing. Whatever- Whatever happens to me, you have everyone else here to consider." 
With a pained expression, he nodded, “You’re right. I know." His usually warm face was now tired beyond reason, and I hated myself for being part of the cause.
"Make sure Ahde doesn't say anything stupid either. I spend enough time worrying about both of you already. Don't need him making inane jokes that land you all in the gak." I forced a smile.
“You-“
"Soft-hearted feth-wit.” I finished for him, and he gave a smile. I saluted him, doing my best to return it, "See you later, Gaz."
"You fething better." he replied.
I stepped out of my room.


[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732.M41] *

You grow accustomed to the reactions of people once they realise or discover your position as a member of the Inquisition. Fear, hatred, cowering, unease. Even attempts at currying favour.
Opening the door, loudly declaring, "Nope!" and closing it again our faces was a new one. I think that rather caught us all off guard. I was quite glad for the hood of my robe allowing me to conceal the fact I was trying very hard not to laugh. 
Poor Captain Gaskell was left standing beside us, very much wishing a breach in the hull would open up and swallow him. Which is a pleasant change from the usual wishing it would swallow us instead. Beside me, I felt his concern on an almost paternal level for the man we were to collect, and deep frustration at his antics.
After hammering on the door, he sighed, “What is he doing in there?"
"He's putting his hat on." I replied, still amused but carefully containing it.
He didn't ask how I knew, “Oh for- Sounds about right."

I found myself intrigued by the captain’s attitude to the commissar. It is my understanding that quite often these two roles are at odds, or uneasy truce, watching one another like circling cats. Yet here the two men were quite clearly friends, with Yorke emitting an almost palpable sense of loyalty to the regiment.

Captain Gaskell I already knew some details about, having read his file on the trip over. At almost fifty years old, surprising longevity didn’t quite cover it, especially considering the Mordian predilection for bold, uncompromising methods on the battlefield. I came to the conclusion that for all his rough edges, he was a man who considered every action and repercussion. Right now he was considering strangling his comrade.
I very rarely consider outward appearance, but it bears mentioning that the 183rd uniform is especially luminous. White and ice blue, amongst some of the least subtle ever witnessed. It made their continued survival even more impressive, if not perplexing.

Commissar Yorke himself was a curious character, my first thought being that he didn't exactly strike me as true Commissariat material. But then I accept that perhaps my view is skewed by the typical company we encounter. Very rarely, in fact never, are we called upon to intervene or investigate pleasant circumstances. The men and women we encounter match the situations in which we find them.
Instead of the expected trained, rigidly tempered structure, I sensed at Yorke’s core, a malleable adaptability and willingness to compromise. Not entirely unusual in itself, but the additional exclusion of most unpleasant qualities was. He was finely tuned to care for those around him, and lacked any sense of self importance, but other than that, I was unsure of his motives.
Upon drawing close to us, fear poured from him in waves, but uncharacteristically for those caught in these moments, it was not fear for himself. The man was terrified beyond reason that he may have condemned his companions and troops by his actions. I wished I could be of some reassurance, but for all I knew, he may well have done.
Of course this was only my first reading of his presence, and I am certainly not beyond being proven wrong, so I held off my initial temptation to consider him an upstanding gentleman just yet.  Either way, my opinion of his character was not important, it only served to reflect upon how the two acolytes’ investigation and handling of the unfortunate fellow proceeded.

Sent there by Inquisitor Cape to follow his newest recruits, I was purely to observe, and if possible, reign my charges in to avoid total public catastrophe. This was intended to be a small scale, low key-investigation into 'a person of interest' aboard the Caput Inter Nubilia.  One the journey over, Celena and Boorman had concluded it must be Commissar Yorke, as he had recently mysteriously vanished during a deployment, only to resurface a month later with rather unusual company. 
Two as yet unproven acolytes amidst a large amount of greatly frustrated soldiers, in a small area. A dropped flare in a room full of det packs would be less lethal than mishandling of the current situation. They did their damnedest anyway.
Prior to his escort, I had politely reminded them that their proposed method of shackling and dragging the commissar across the middle of his own barracks was definitely not the best way to proceed. And so I observed, and silently prayed to the Emperor that we made it through the day without serious incident.

[Mouse's Journal Entry] [ ???? - 732.M41 ] *



[Journal: Commissar Yorke] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41]

The strange trio led me down several long corridors, all of which became less familiar as we travelled. My senses were frantically feeding me information on all possible bolt holes and exits along the route, but it was pointless. I walked with my head held up, smiling and attempting to be civil, but other than the psyker, Renan, nobody was paying me much attention, the Arbiter and Assassin were muttering into their internal vox and left us to walk.
"Long trip out this way?" I had the self preservation instinct to attempt to be friendly, for all the good it would do.
Renan shook his head but kept pace, "Surprisingly no, for once. We have been monitoring this area for some time." he sensed my surprise, "The planet you encountered was included, but not the focus of our interest, I'll admit."
His judge companions glared hard at us, and I'm sure if it were possible, Renan would have rolled his eyes.

Finally we reached what I'll kindly refer to as the interview room. It was bare apart from four chairs, a short desk and scant pre-assembled recording equipment. A servo-skull, a monitor, some files. I started to experience some trepidation to say the least. The Nubila had been our home for a few years now, and whilst I'd never regarded it as particularly comforting, I'd never felt afraid aboard it either. Fear amidst familiarity was deeply unsettling. Pausing in the doorway to glance back down the corridor, I didn't know who I was hoping might arrive. There was no higher power or eleventh-hour escape. Then again, for all I knew, the Inquisition were just going to ask me some questions. I could handle that. I just had to be honest.
And then hope that act in itself wasn’t damning enough to have everyone else I knew shot as well…

*

"I'd really rather not." I was not restrained to the seat in any form, but leaned back slightly from the proffered beaker. The contents were clear like water, and moved similarly, but something about the fluid was causing me to feel deeply uneasy.
"If you have nothing to hide, commissar, I don't see your objection." Boorman said coolly, his arm holding the drink still extended.
To my left, the Assassin flexed her hands slightly.
"Because I don't know what it'll do." I started to panic internally. Ever since the incident on Valse, I'd been warned by medics to steer away from drugs due to my diminished ability to process them. The offered liquid was a cocktail of various substances that I didn't understand, but would allow for ‘verifiable truth’, as it'd been put to me. Sounded like crap in my opinion, but I was more bewildered than wary.
Renan sighed quietly, “It’s in your best interests, Ramirez. You would not prefer the alternative."
I looked to him in confusion, "Alternative?"
To my left, the Assassin gave a grin that I have trouble forgetting for all the wrong reasons, "We take you next door."
Closing my eyes, I gripped the beaker and drank. It tasted of nothing, and had a slight silty texture. The three of them watched me silently. I wondered what was supposed to happen, or how immediate they'd expected the result to be.
Feeling petulant amidst the danger, I muttered, "No personal questions, though."
Under his hood, I thought I saw Renan conceal an amused smile. He struck me as the more personable of the three, despite being a psyker, and so forced to restrain his emotions. It reassured me slightly to have someone human in the room.
I looked up, remembering, "And the edict still stands? No matter what?"
"You have my word." Renan replied, raising his hand.
I felt relief. In exchange for my cooperation, a set of Gaskell’s logs, and a discrete investigation, Inquisitor Cape, the power behind the incursion, had granted the Holly platoon protection from all investigative activity, and permission to carry on in their duties. I sensed there was something bigger afoot than my personal misadventures recently, especially with the block seeming counter-productive to the groups' own investigation.

But still the sense of relief permeated. In fact I started to feel quite good. Upbeat. Hang on.
It was fairly cool in the room, but my palms started sweating slightly. I didn't greatly care. These were very nice people, after all, and they'd look after me. Nothing bad could happen with them here, I was sure of it.
The gnawing sense of something being amiss had gradually subsided, and I found myself distracted by the enchanting servo-skull recorder that was rigged up to the desk in front of us. It was very pretty. The green lights were glowing in a sparkling array over its surface, and it bobbed up and down slowly. I bopped it gently with a finger and it flashed several different, equally beautiful colours. I did it again, it chittered at me in a most adorable electronic voice, and tiny red lamps appeared. I hoped I hadn't upset it-
"Yorke. Please leave that alone."
"Hm?" I turned my attention back to my new friends.
"We need to ask you some questions." the Assassin lady said patiently.
"I can help with that." I smiled, it's always good to be useful to such nice people.


[Mouse's Journal Entry] [ ???? - 732.M41 ] *


~ ♬ Now I believe in unity, and I am willing to compromise, but I'm not gonna lie or sell my soul.

Erm, I'd just like to know if you and I have a different definition of the word 'finite'? Anyway, this looks really cool and the FAQ is helpful as well. Can't wait to see more of this.

that is indeed finite. Our esteemed card playing friend perhaps wishes otherwise.

It's like watching the man in the sweetie shop filling a little paper bag with butterballs and knowing that sooner or later the lid will go back on his huge sweetie jar which must inevitably return to the shelf because there's only so much buttery goodness a little paper bag can hold.

Sweet, deliciously buttery, and finite.

I was just surprised at the initial length at it right from the start, and in hindsight a nice would have been good after that question. Curse you Internet and reading text for communication, it really can make it tricky to get the right tone across.

Just started working through this. I love the line "I should start at the beginning but I can't" -- that raises so many questions, and is so contrary to expectations, that it makes a hell of an opening hook.

[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

For fear of the side effects of our drug having a damaging effect before we could collect any pertinent information, I monitored Commissar Yorke's body language and pulse, letting the two acolytes attend to the interview. I would not have let them extract the information forcibly from the poor commissar, as it would have been unnecessary and dangerous, but he wasn’t to know that.
Deception through lack of clarification is not my fondest technique, I preferred transparency, especially considering what we were asking of him in turn.
But as I remind myself daily, the universe isn’t fair in that way.



[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [5 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41] *

They told me that I have f't start keeping a log f't sake of posterity. I'm not that keen on the old hand-writing, so’m using one of these servo-recorders. Putting my brain int ‘nother eyd, eh. Then some poor bastard likely hast f’t read it. My mithering int’ their brain! Rather jus tell someone t’ their face.
[Coughing] Don’t rightly care f’t all t’ record keeping, but ever since Valse, they had me tek over as Captain. Dan think Creer ever cared for this crap. Pretty sure he had someone else t’ do t’ writing, that’s certain.
We're off overt Jallen reet soon, there's been a camp gone and got itself disconnected. No word f't well over a fortnight.
Jes' gonna be a small squad, me, Ronson and some of't new lads, first real air they'll get. Ahde too, can't get away from t'prick. That’s unfair, we need him if I’m honest. And Cat of course. Get t'mardy bastard doing sommat aht than sooking.

[Pause]

So how do I see what’s been writ so far then?
[Sound of items being lifted] Let’s see. Ah strewth, is that really how it’s been taking this down? I thought these bloody things had accounting f’t regional speech. F’ feth's sake. Githi.

[Disconnect]

Right. Now the fething thing ought to write me up less like some kind of fethwit green-skin. Whole point of speaking aloud was so nobody has to deal with my handwriting, or have to dictate to someone like Cat. He’s all trained in fancy cursive, he can whip up a page and have time to do something useful after. Schola will do that for you. Me, it'd take all week to get a day written down. And then nobody would understand what it said!
"What's this scrawling, Captain? Did you uncover and slaughter a foul Xeno camp, or did you attend a school production in the local town?" Ha.
When I get time, I’m supposed to go through some of Creer’s old logs, see if I can make use of them. Can’t imagine that prick wrote anything worth reading either, but I won’t skip on the work I’ve been set.

[Pause]

Anyway, we got our orders. Mostly. We are going to Jallen to recover comms with the 57ths down there. They were supposed to be scouting and securing. No real record of what they discovered. One small Ork scout ship that they laid waste to, then their lines were dead. Probably equipment failure and they don't have anyone down there with half a mind to sort it out. They've missed reporting back for quite a while now. We're taking Ahde down, he's a fine hand at mending comms. Probably the best I've ever known, not that I'd tell him. 
We had a good night tonight, but I noticed Cat weren’t with us. I’m not sure where he went, Michelle says she thinks he saw him head off to another deck. Guess he wanted some peace. I’m going to talk to him when he gets back, make sure there’s nothing I’m missing here.

[Disconnect]



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [5 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41] *

As I swigged my drink, a small voice inside me decided that I also needed a smoke, and I made to stand up. Or attempted to. Things weren't cooperating as they rightly should, and I was already fairly foggy headed. In honesty, I hadn't meant to stay at the bar quite so late, or drink so much. With each moment's consideration, the long walk back to bed seemed to extend further into the night. The seat however, was here. Settling back down, I stretched in an attempt to compose myself.
A shadow drew across me and I looked up fuzzily. Not someone I knew.
“On your own then, Commissar?” 
"Mm." I replied eloquently.
"Feel like company?"
I shrugged, or mostly managed to, "Your choice. M'not great company myself, though.”
"Oh, I don't know. Even if you're not up to talking, as your lot go… You’re quite easy on the eyes." There’s that double-edged sensation of being half-damned, that I’ve been fielding most of my life…
Amused, I snorted and put back more of my whisky, "Whatever floats your boat." I shifted to allow space behind the table.

Deliberately, I wasn’t on the same deck at the rest of the squad. Tonight I’d sought out a common room that was far enough away to avoid bumping into any of the Hollies. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew what I wanted to avoid. Questions. Looks. Folks like Ahde who knew that usually I didn’t drink, and would silently watch every mouthful, killing any slight enjoyment. But most of all, avoiding the reminder that despite my priorities proven time and time again, the majority still saw me as a predatory figure, on the prowl for any sign of weakness. I had no desire to be liked, but I also needed the occasional break.
This bar offered cold indifference and privacy. It also offered the gritty, low grade liquor that I was greatly fond of. Some folk would regard this choice of drink for an officer as purposefully slumming it. But in some strange manner, I found it reminded me of home, the way others may be reminded by the scent of fresh baking, or the sound of rain on glass. It was absolute filth, in better times I had kept a flask of it in my desk, and it was almost universally guaranteed to still be there at the end of the day, compared to any other alcohol left laying around.

After another hour, I really was ready to leave. Standing up carefully, I excused myself, "I better go, before I can't find my own way back." Before? I’d be lucky to get halfway. Stifling a yawn with one hand, despite the fuzzy head, I still tried to remember my manners.
"Allow me. My place is nearer."
“Oh? Sure, sure. Fine.” I mumbled. Sleep was calling to me, over the myriad jumble of everything else. 
A steady hand guided me gently by the shoulders across the room and down a few twisting corridors. Despite the brevity of the trip, I was already lost. But a bed was a bed, and that part I understood well enough. Tomorrow's Yorke can deal with geography, I decided. Tonight’s Yorke wants a sleep, a smoke, and not necessarily in that order.
Passing through the doorway into the proffered bunk, the door slid shut behind us both. I found myself pressed firmly against the plain metal wall, by two hands on my chest, the brushed surface cold against the back of my neck.
“Still sleepy, Commissar?”
I blinked, groggily realising that at times I am not a clever man. This was undoubtedly one of them. Grinning, I started to shake my head and reply, but was cut off by a mouth claiming my own.
Ah, what the Hell. ‘…for tomorrow we die.’



[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [4 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41] *

Morning now. Calling it a night waiting up for Cat. Like his namesake, I’m sure he’ll come back when he’s ready. Made a start on Creer’s old logs. Strewth, he had his thumb in everything. Explains a lot.
Jallen? Looking over this dataslate, I don't think we're being given the full picture, and I don't like it. It’s a drop and run. No tanks, no transports. After they peg us down there, they're leaving for a month. Something nearby they need to attend to? I thought we would be done in a day, two tops.
If they've got to jet off, why is it so urgent that they throw us down there just to sort a broken comm set? Ahde could sort that out with his eyes closed. Probably will! 
Ah. Ours is not to question command. We'll do a good job and hopefully make use of the rest of the time. Get those new lads training out in the fresh air. It's a jungle planet they reckon, lot of mileage for learning a few things. Turning in for the night.

[Disconnect]



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [4 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41] *

Despite my mouth tasting like fermented crap, I woke up mostly unhindered by the expected hangover. Rubbing my eyes lazily, and checking my chrono, with a jolt I discovered that was likely because it was mid afternoon. Fething Hell. I rolled out of the bunk, scrambling to get dressed. Feth. I could find my shirt and coat but not my cap. Feth feth feth. Casting my eyes around, and under the bed, the tiny room held no clues. Not hide nor hair of whoever usually stayed here either, I suspected it was actually a spare room. Listening outside, I could hear a little foot traffic and general sounds of folk milling about their barracks. Ah feth.
My head pulsed slightly as I held it in my hands and swore. Yesterday’s Yorke was a self-destructive cretin, I decided. He isn’t getting any more input on things.
Flicking open my timepiece again, I used the reflective surface to check myself over. Relaxing slightly, as I could still pass for tidy, I flattened my hair best I could, for once banishing the curse of it being fluffy enough to stick up at odd angles. I rummaged in my coat, beneath my smokes and found mint gum, grateful for the one small foresight of a chain-smoker. After a few moments of clearing my breath, I stuck my expended gum on the headboard in defiance.

There was only really one way to play this, smiling pleasantly as I could, I braced myself and stepped out of the room. In doing so, I think I frightened the crap out of the young trooper strolling in the other direction, not looking ahead, and colliding with my chest. I helped him back to his feet, and he stared at me in startled confusion. A Charlen trooper, in pale grey uniform. Not a Holly, I realised with some building horror. I’m in another part of the ship.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Er. Y-yes sir.”
“Piss off, then.” I kept my smile up and tilted my head in the direction he was heading, he scarpered.
Immediately after, I realised that I should have asked the poor lad how to get back to my own deck. The corridor was mostly bunks, thankfully now empty. There were no signs fitted on the grim walls, and I was woefully lost.

Nobody else around, I decided to try my luck. I pulled my earpiece out of a pocket, “Ahde, can you hear me?” I stood still, hoping he was available.
After a moment, my ear buzzed, “Cat? Where are you? This signal’s awful.”
“I know! I mean, I don’t. In all honesty Ahde, I’m lost, and I need y- I need you to not make a big thing of this and help me get back.” I put my hand to my head and hoped for once I’d not made a mistake in trusting his discretion.
The earpiece fizzed briefly, “Alright. What can you see?” Ahde replied calmly.
I silently thanked my luck, “I’m lost in another barrack, I went up to G deck’s common room last night-“
“Ah, no wonder you’re so fuzzy! Okay let me find a map.”
I leaned patiently against the wall, fervently willing nobody else to come down the corridor.

After a few minutes, I started to hear footsteps behind me, just as the tiny earpiece crackled again, “Okay, it’s easier if I come up to find you. Can you get out of there and wait near the exit?”
I started walking, “I’ll do my best.”
A voice behind me asked, “Looking for someone, Commissar?”
Turning, and maintaining my smile, “I think I’ve been sent up here on a wild goose chase, actually.” I found myself looking down a foot or so at a young male officer, dressed in pale cream fatigues. His red-blonde hair and pleasantly bright eyes giving him the overall the effect of a very small candle.
He cocked his head curiously, “Then can I be of assistance, sir?”
No point hiding it, “Truth be told, I’ve got lost trying to leave.” He raised his eyebrows, and I shrugged, “Corridors. I’m far happier outdoors, you know what it’s like.”
He nodded politely, and gestured down the way he’d come, starting to walk. I followed him, gently falling into step, hoping Ahde wouldn’t be too long. It only took a few minutes, we didn’t cross paths with anyone else, and reaching the end of the barracks, only a handful of troopers were loitering around, leaning on the walls and sharing smokes. I thanked the officer and shook his hand. Smiling, he departed sharply, off on his errand again.
I made for the door, glad to be on the home-stretch.

“Where’s your hat, Commissar?” I froze as I passed the group. Fu-
I made the mistake of stopping, barely covering the sensation of being both puzzled, and mortified, “Sorry, what?”
The trooper grinned, his face a picture of innocence, “Just askin’. It seems odd that’s all.” The men around him sniggered. If a chaos-driven missile had hit the ship right at this moment, sucking us into the vacuum of space, I’d have thanked the reaver that fired it with my last breath.
“You-“ I stopped, forcing myself to stay calm, I put my hand to my forehead and stared at the ceiling briefly, before striding to the door. As I passed through, wolf-whistles and cheering followed.
Somehow, Ahde was waiting outside, leaning against another wall. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see the bastard. If he heard the commotion, he pretended not to. He caught sight of my face, and said nothing.

“Thank you.” I murmured for more than one reason.
Ahde chuckled pleasantly, “Thank me later, we have to get past Gaz yet.” looking sideways, he asked, “Are you okay? I’m surprised you even voxed me, honestly. ”
“I think so.” we reached the lift, and I stopped, genuinely unsure.
He gently steered me through the entrance, “Maybe you just need sleep.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I smiled weakly and made very small-talk on the way back.
We returned to our own barracks without any interruption, and despite Captain Gaskell clearly seeing us both through his office doorway, avoided any questions. I didn’t meet his eye, but I was sure Gaz had just rolled them. I did hear him sigh disappointedly. Ahde departed without a word, and I nodded my thanks.

Kicking off my boots, I fell onto my bed, and lay flat on my back staring at the ceiling.
“Hope you don’t plan on sleeping like that.” Gaskell had followed me in.
“No, mother.” I growled, not looking at him.
“Oh don’t you dare. Don’t you fething dare, Cat. It’s not me you let down with this gak. You’re supposed to be setting an example.” He pushed the door shut, and sounded ready to have at out with me.
“I’m sorry… That, that was… That was a horrible thing to say. You didn’t deserve it.” feeling terrible, I apologised sincerely.
He stood there, totally disarmed, “Are you taking the piss?”
Still staring at the ceiling, I answered, “No.”
“What the Hell is going on with you, Cat? Is this depression? What?” I felt a weight on the bed as he sat heavily by my feet.
I shook my head, “No. I’m not depressed. I’m not losing faith, either. If I had doubts, I’d admit to them. I just have this… sensation of foreboding, and every damn day it intensifies. I don’t know what the cause is. I’ve felt like this for a week or more, almost like… Like living on borrowed time.”
I saw his eyebrows raise, and before he could speak, I continued, “Folks say that everyone has a set span on this plane. Perhaps if you skip your chance to check out - and Emperor knows we have scraped past so, so many times - you start to live on time that isn’t your own. If it’s the case, maybe I should be grateful, and view it as a gift. Enjoy it. But all I feel is this intense feeling of something terrible about to happen.”
After a long pause, Gaskell murmured, “Get some sleep, Cat.” He stood up and put his hand to the door, “Actually, have a shower and eat something first.”
I looked up, “Is that an order?”
“No, it’s advice.” he smiled sadly, “You look like death, and you smell like an ashtray emptied into a cologne bottle.” The door clicked shut gently as he left.
Cologne? I sniffed the front of what I’d assumed was my own shirt. Huh?

[Mouse's Journal Entry] [ ???? - 732.M41 ] *




[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [4 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41]

Astartes? I don't know if I can trust what I'm hearing. Some of the lads have word that the last lot went down with a fist full of Space Wolves. Space Wolves! What in the Emperor's name do they need us for if that's true? This stinks worse than I ever thought possible.
Cat, he came back with Ahde, mid-afternoon. Either he thought I wouldn't notice, or he didn't care if I did. Went to kick his arse over it. Couldn’t. He’s chewing himself up about something, even he’s not sure what it is. “Has a bad feeling.” he says.
He reeked of last night’s bad decisions. I had him take a shower and eat before crashing. Didn't ask where he spent the night, don't want to know.  Probably drank through and didn’t sleep.
Hoping something snaps him out of this fugue, I can't be having with it. Says he feels like he’s on borrowed time. He is if he doesn’t buck his fething ideas up, and anyone notices. But he’s still good with the lads, they don't see it. That's what counts I suppose. That's what makes me worry. Nobody can wear two faces for long.

Tomorrow we’re getting a full briefing on what’s to happen down below. I’m getting a funny feeling about it. Ahde says the time on board is making folk restless and daft. Reckons we'll start hearing wilder tales the longer we're up here. Reckon he's right, but still. A month, something is-
[Outside noise] Okay, coming over. Give me a moment.

[Disconnect]



[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [ 3 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41]

Hell’s teeth. New info. They’ve shafted us right and proper. We're not going to mend a fething broken vox and hand out lunches. We're being thrown down to scout while those in charge fetch the real big guns. That's the urgency. Find out what they're dropping the next lot into so they can make informed decision from up here. I knew this stank. Half a dozen Astartes are down there, it's true. Nothing from them either.
I've not told the lads yet. Need to work out how to put a positive shine on this. We're walking into the gak, blind. 

[Pause]

Cat. Where's that bloody commissar? He's supposed to raise morale, see if he can't fething spin this to look half decent. I don’t care if he’s got a hangover the size of a Chimera, he’s pulling his weight, or else.

[Disconnect]



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [3 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41] *

Feth from above, yesterday's hangover wasn't missing at all, I was just still fairly drunk when I'd woken up. This however, is the real deal. Gaz made me attend the meeting this morning regardless. I had to grin and bear it, but I'm fairly sure I looked like death warmed up. I’m also fairly sure most everybody noticed.
Those that were there, anyway. It was mandatory attendance, yet we were still missing a good half dozen. Ahde and I couldn’t find them, no idea what’s going on there. Suppose I better try to find out before anything occurs.
Still can't find my hat. Have a horrifying suspicion that my host from the night before has taken it. And not by accident either.
I can't go back to that bar now! I don't know what to do about the whole thing. Add in the sense of underlying dread, and it's a magnificent way to sweat years off your life.

Had to babysit the new recruits. We've got a new psyker too. Athenia. Funny one, but I think she'll fit in. We're supposed to pin multiple armed troops on the poor bastards, but I find they get along much better if you just set them one dedicated companion and leave them to it. Lowers the tension dramatically and certainly allows the troops to view them more as a person than a walking weapon.

She's got a strange choice in companions, I’ll say that. Randolph, heavy weapons specialist. He seems solid. From the get-go, he volunteered to look after her. Nobody’s going to argue with the pair of them, I’ll imagine. Good to see.

*

I knew they’d notice. Randolph and Athenia came up to me this evening. Turns out they’d been talking to Ahde, wondering what was up with me, and why half a squad were missing from the briefing. These sort of questions would be liable to get you shot anywhere else. Part of me felt like playing that card to convey they should leave me alone, but my heart really wasn’t in it. Besides which, Athenia really is quite charming once she starts talking.
They wanted me to go back to the other deck and check out the bar with them in tow. They were fairly certain that something off is occurring up there. I told them, well, I didn’t tell them what happened. I told them that I couldn’t go back there. That someone played a prank on me and it would be potentially very embarrassing and damaging to our regiment’s reputation.
But they kept on at me until I agreed to accompany them tomorrow night. I warned them to go out of uniform. They went alone tonight to catch the lie of the land. Hopefully by tomorrow I can think of a good excuse to avoid going. They’ve roped Ahde in for tomorrow as well.

Caught up with Ahde and restrained myself from strangling him for his indiscretion.
“I just wanted to help, Cat.” he looked at me sadly, “Besides I trust Athenia’s intuition. She reckons that there’s something amiss. I still haven’t seen Stevenson or Patricks around since yesterday.”
Crap. I should have picked up on that too, “You think they’re missing?”
He nodded, “I do. I tried telling Gaz about it but he says he doesn’t want any part of, “…your fething tomfoolery right now.”” Ahde did a startlingly accurate impression of our friend.
“gak. I let Athenia and Morn go up there alone.” I hung my head, “It’s too late to catch up now, damnit.”
My friend chuckled, “You’re so soft on the psykers, Cat, that you forget they can handle themselves in a pinch. They’ll be fine. Besides they’re both new, nobody will link them back here.”
“I hope you’re right.” I rubbed my neck.

The odd pair returned a little worse for wear, but intact. I was relieved, but stuck to asking what they’d uncovered. Randolph had managed to infiltrate a card game, and learn a few things about his gracious hosts. Unfortunately he’d also managed to completely blow his cover to half a dozen Charlen, and had to spend the rest of the evening buying drinks to ease tensions.
Athenia on the other hand had sat quietly and listened. I can admire that skill, it’s not often seen around here. She’d managed to pick up a time for some kind of meeting tomorrow night at the bar. And there went any valid reason I had for getting out of going. My only consolation was Ahde was coming too, and Sergeant Ronson.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [2 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41] *
Randolph nudged me, "See if you can talk them down before we open up."
It was always worth a try. Nestled behind a palette of crates, Ahde and Randolph lined up their shots carefully, and Athenia started mumbling quietly to herself.
Stepping up the crates, into the open of the cargo storage area, I called out in the voice I usually reserve for motivating troops above the roar of tank engines and cannon, hoping to scare the bastards crapless, "You are surrounded!  Surrender now and face your punishment like men, or-"
Unfortunately the shock of my outburst caused one of the colonists we’d been watching to twitch, loosing a bolt from the lasgun he was inspecting. Searing heat flashed past my face. I could smell singed hair as a steel crate only a few metres behind us neatly exploded. It somewhat diminished the effect I was aiming for, despite me being too stunned to flinch.
In seconds the Charlen thieves had readied their guns, and I dropped immediately back behind the scant cover the cargo had afforded us.
"You tried." Ahde grinned as I scrambled to my feet and took aim myself.
Beside us there was a building high-pitched scream, culminating in a cracking boom, as the psyker opened her mouth, rising past the cover. The effect was dramatic, a swirling vortex of searing flame channeled out of her, catching two of the nearest troopers before it ended. One was reduced to just greasy ash in merciful seconds, too brief to scream. The second fell to the floor, writhing as his clothing and flesh burned, flames still spreading, his arms and face already lost.
Dropping my aim from the lead thief, I span and put a shot through the poor wretch's skull, blasting his brains in a sad, dark patten across the metal decking, ending his torment. Randolph shot me a curious look over his raised pistol. I pretended not to notice.
Whilst it could have given us a psychological advantage against the remaining thieves, nobody deserves to burn to death in such a way.

That left half a dozen troopers with lasguns, facing three of us with our previously concealed pistols. And Athenia, who was mumbling to herself again. Ahde was firing almost blind, crouched safely behind cover, but he managed to clip one of the troopers, causing the man to spin and fumble his own weapon to the decking. Randolph was in his element, and quickly tore through another of the men, sending him crashing to the floor with the top of his skull simply missing, scattered across the trooper behind him.
Above all duties and eventualities in life, I hated shooting guard, but they seemed to have no concerns about returning the favour.
Randolph at least had the foresight to wear some flak under his head coat, but the rest of us weren’t so lucky.
Athenia let loose with a further blast of hideous flames, incinerating another of the thieves and boiling the lasgun he had reclaimed from the colonist buyer. it exploded in his arms, sending his charred remains everywhere.
Nothing about this fight was dignified or clean.

In the end we rounded up three surviving troopers, and the eight colonists who had been cut off at the exit by Sergeant Ronson.
The disgraced Charlens been selling their weaponry to the civilians, and claiming them lost.
We handed the whole lot over to the Charlen captain, Sibley. I was glad to be free of having to deal with that crap.

I sat in his office, along with Randolph and Athena. Ahde and Ronson had headed back to explain our absence to Gaskell. I was grateful that I’d have less to worry about upon returning.
Despite clearly having woken him up, Sibley was incredibly gracious, “I appreciate your discretion in dealing with these reprobates, Commissar.”
I nodded, “It does nobody any good taking it further, I feel. These men were a minority amongst your ranks.”
“Exactly.” a hint of fear underlined his smile. I wasn’t sure if it was me, or the attentive look that Athenia was giving him.
“Goodnight Captain, I should be going.” I stood, and gestured for my two companions to accompany me.
Athenia coughed quietly, “Commissar, I think the Captain has something further to say.”
Puzzled, I turned back. Sibley met my gaze with similar bafflement, but that soon turned to alarm when he realised she was staring fixedly at his nearby storage cabinet. I pretended not to notice.
“Ah, I almost forgot to ask,” he pulled open a door, “one of our men… found this… on our deck. I believe it may be yours?” turning back around, he was holding my hat.
We locked eyes, and a brief moment of understanding passed between us. I nodded silently, and he held the battered thing out to me. I slung it under my arm, “Thank you, Captain.”
“Goodnight, Commissar.” he smiled politely.

We bid him farewell and headed to our respective beds. Found this. Suspicion prickled in my mind, and I was wondering if handing his own men back to him had been such a good idea. Yet the man seemed sincere enough.
Athenia seemed similarly troubled.
“He’s full of crap, isn’t he.” I whispered as we left the Charlen barracks.
“Yes, sir.” she replied quietly, “I think he knew all along.”
“Well, at least it can’t continue now.” Randolph said, simply.
“Yes,“ I sighed, rubbing my head, “we really need to focus on the next few days, not this gak.”
“Yes sir.”
“Cat.” I smiled tiredly, “I don’t much like formalities.”


[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [ 2 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41]

Ahde came to me with this story about arms-dealing and Charlen and psykers, and bars, and quite honestly I don’t want to know right now.
He said it’s over, Cat sorted it, and I’m happy with that. As much grief as I give him, he is good at his job.

[Disconnect]



[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [ 1 day before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41]

Tomorrow’s the drop. Emperor watch over us. Ahde has cottoned on. Ronson and his mates, too I think. The rest of them are bouncing to get down there. Cat? I can't even tell. He did a great job at spinning this to the lads, made it sound far better than I imagined. Even had me feeling we can get through it. Maybe we can. No point even trying if we don’t believe we can make a difference. But they don't see his face after. There’s something not right. Something to deal with when we're done playing hide and seek in the woods. 
For what it's worth, these recording logs haven't been as awful to do as I thought. Been keeping me from whittering on in front of anyone, even if I do feel like an idiot talking to myself. If I start enjoying this and spouting poetry, I might get my head examined, though.



[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

Watching the commissar's body language, I noticed that his leg was twitching, along with one of his lower eyelids. He didn't seem to have realised, nor had either of my colleagues. I started to pay more careful attention. The nervous tics were par for the course for the drug, but I hadn't expected them to be prevalent this early on.
Boorman handed the beaker over again, and Yorke swigged from it amicably. Celena held up her fingers to me. Two doses, now. From the scant data I had, Yorke really shouldn't have been showing visible side effects after just one. Something was amiss, and I leafed through the paperwork we had on the commissar whilst keeping an eye on his progress.

Don't feel bad about that. Take some time off if you need to. I feel lucky getting what I did out of this, it makes me feel bad that I haven't been working necessarily as hard on my own story as I could.

I especially like the extra bits of accent and wording the characters use, it gives them a lot more life than they would have speaking normally.

Wow, impressive work. Any story on my phone starts to lag up while scrolling through it all, and none have passed the 20k word mark. 110k words is beyond my comprehension, I wonder how many pages you'll fill up on this thread.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: First Meetings

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [732.M41] •

I remember as a child, that my home world was cold. Before the great Imperium intervened, after prolonged xeno attack, it was also dying. A world filled with children, academics, those too old or infirm to have fought and died. We had no real industry left to offer. Our towns were crumbling, with nobody left to repair them. Our factories stood silent most of the time. During the day, the only prevailing sound came from the school houses and orphanages. Of an evening the world lay silent, as though in mourning.
I remember the day the great Imperial recruitment came to our town. Recruitment. As if we had any choice in the matter. Our loyalty to the Imperium was paid out in the only currency we still had.
I remember a single silent Astartes warrior, his icy plate shining under the white sky, striding alongside half a dozen uniformed Imperial officers dressed in white and cold blue. A grand show, to remind us of our debt. They fielded no weapons, any they had, small and holstered by their sides, but people scattered in fear just the same. I remember how my class was lined up in the yard to meet them, how we bowed low and averted our eyes, adults and children alike.

I was ten, maybe eleven. That I can’t remember. What I can I remember, is my anger.

These soldiers existed to protect their fellow man, and fellow man was cowed to them. I understood respect, but this terror was wrong on such a level my young mind couldn't articulate.
As the lead officer started to read aloud from a data-slate, the others stood alongside, inspecting us. My anger pushed me upright and I glared at these men descended from above, deigning to stand amongst us. Around me, the other boys stiffened at my sudden movement. Our poor tutor hissed at me to back down, barely raising her head to do so.
"You." a junior officer pointed to me, "Show your respect."
I shook my head, staring at him fiercely, "This is not respect, sir." I pointed to those around me. They ducked from my hand as though it were loaded gun, "This is fear."
The man stepped quickly, to close the distance between us, pulled me from the line, and threw me down to the dirt in one motion.
Shaking with anger, I stood up again and turned to face him, keeping my hands low by my sides, meeting his furious face with my own barely concealed disdain.
"Enough." the lead officer motioned and his man stepped back, "Assess the rest, we will take this one. See if we can temper that anger to something useful." he gestured to me. His men moved past us and started their work, "Your name."
"No." I spoke quietly as I turned to face him.
“Look, lad. Do you not understand why we are here? What this is?" the officer frowned as he regarded me. He was a young man, I guessed in his mid twenties, but I had little point of reference. His uniform was sharp and fitted him well, but he himself looked worn. His grey eyes, shaded under a peaked cap gave him an especially tired appearance. Above one eye was a long, raised scar, marring what would probably have been a handsome face but for the expression he wore.
"I understand exactly, and that is why I refuse." I replied, expecting another sharp knock to the ground.
He sighed, "You have no say in the matter, lad. Do not make this more difficult than it need be. Do as you are requested."
"No, sir." We stared at each other, the stubborn-ness of youth versus tired, well-contained irritation.

"Why?" a voice from behind us broke the silence. I span, the towering Astartes regarded me, his expressionless helmet very slightly cocked to indicate he was listening.
"Sir, the boy is-" started the officer.
A raised gauntlet dismissed him gently, “Gaskell, I was asking the boy." the arm lowered, "Why, child?"
I considered my reply carefully, "Well sir," I tried my best to explain, "You take the best of us away. Then others drag down the worst of us, and in time we remove them. Who remains here?"
"The forgotten."
"Yes." I swallowed, "If I am found to be good, I would be good around the people who need me. I would hope to make those around me good, help them be better. Raise them up in turn."
A strange noise came from the faceless warrior, and his shoulders shook slightly. It dawned on me slowly that he was laughing. I bristled, not understanding. Sensing my frustration, he raised his giant hand again, palm outward, signalling for pause.
With surprisingly delicate motions, he unclasped and removed his helmet. I found myself scowling up into the calm, brown eyes of an elder Astartes. His face was lightly lined from age, his grey, short-cropped hair framing a broad, similarly scarred brow. He winked at me, and for the first time since my outburst I felt both reassured, and ashamed.
"Such straight views, child. Did your parents teach you this way?" he asked, his voice now natural, deep and worn with age like its owner.
I shook my head again, "They fell when I was just born. Barely-trained militia, lost in the defence of our city. When the xeno attacked, the people here held them off for three days, while nobody came." I pointed to the sky, "The Astartes, the guard, just waited up there, making decisions. By the time they came, we’d lost almost a generation of our people."
"You feel that we failed you." the warrior frowned, "Understandable."
"No! I feel that if there were better-trained men down here to begin with, they could have held the line longer." I kicked the ground, impetuous, "If we'd had good men amongst us, good leaders."
"From the mouths of infants.” half-smiled the giant, looking upwards as he considered something. I didn't understand him, but he didn't seem angry with me. He gently rested his hand on my shoulder and spoke past me, "Not this one, Gaskell."
"Sir?"
"I will make a recommendation, from there it's up to him." the warrior lifted his hand from my arm, "If he has the aptitude." Looking down to me again, his face solemn, he spoke quietly, “I will put in a word with the Schola on your behalf.” He made to replace his helmet, and I understood that I had been granted a favour.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank me by proving I was not mistaken.” he nodded a last time before those patient eyes disappeared beneath the unreadable helm.
I bowed my head, feeling a surge of pride and worry in my gut, and stepped away, back to my classmates. They parted around me as though I was on fire. Even our teacher would not look at me. I rested against the scrubby wall as the officers worked through the class. I mulled over what had just happened. A chance to be of use! Not only to those around me, but through the Imperium many more. I felt true fear for the first time since the men had arrived, but also a yearning to do the best that I could.

As the group made to leave, the officer named Gaskell paused, "What is your name, lad?"
"Yorke, sir."
Gaskell sighed and rubbed his hand through his short pale hair, “I should have known. Any relation to Ramirez Yorke?"
My heart sank, my namesake, "My Grandfather. You've heard of him?"
"Heard of him! The rat-bastard still owes me a drink and cost me this." he pointed to the deep line across his eyebrow.
"I'm sorry." of all the luck.
"Don't be, it would be the entire eye if he'd not been there. Ask him about it some time, if you can pin him down long enough." he laughed, I was surprised to see the change in expression.
"I- I think he's dead, sir." I slowly shrugged, "Last I heard, he was running with a Rogue Trader vessel, answering a suicidal planetary defence call."
Gaskell grinned, "I'm not surprised. Though I would be if he didn't make it out of there alive. It's hard to keep some folks down."
"You mean, 'scum floats', sir?" I couldn't stop myself.
He laughed again, shaking his head, "You're sharp one. If you could just keep a handle on that mouth, you'd go far. Learn to distinguish truth and tact, Yorke."
"I'll try." I nodded. For the first time in my life, I wasn't entirely sure if I was being slighted or praised.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [3 days before regimental deployment to Jallen - 732M41] *

Gaskell sighed, “Feels a long time ago.” he took a drag on his roll-up and leaned back on the scrubby rail of the bar’s balcony, “You’re still a mouthy pain in the arse.” Smoke and the dim lamps of the balcony emphasised the lines in his face. He hadn’t visibly changed much in the intervening decades, if anything he just looked slightly more worn.
“And you’re still a grim-faced feth.” I grinned as he mimed taking a wound to the heart at my comment.
Over twenty years had passed since that day. Having served alongside him for the past five of them, I counted Gaskell amongst one of the few close friends I had. We spoke openly and without reservation, but there was still quiet respect between us. He had saved my hide at least once, and in return I did my best for him and the men in our charge.
It had been mere chance that reunited us. Their own commissar had gone missing in action, and as Sergeant, Gaskell had advised Captain Creer to put in a request upon seeing my name listed for reassignment. He had been obliged without question. I’d never asked what had happened, filling a dead man’s boots was hard enough already. He made a point in turn to never to ask about why I’d been on the shelf.

“Your luck is still uncanny, Cat.” Gaskell looked away, smiling.
I held up the back of my hand, using his smoke to light my own, “Luck, Gaz? How many years, and we’re still kicking? Younger, better men lost. We raised them, and we watched them passing through this grinder. You call this luck? Ask yourself how- why we’re still here. It’s our punishment for something. feth knows what.”
“Lighten up.” He said sternly, concern in his cold eyes, “I don’t like it when you get maudlin. You’re supposed to be raising morale.”
“Mm.” I bent and leaned my arms against the rail, looking outwards. Not that there was anything much to see in the dark. A few lights waved in the distance on the deck far below us.
“You’re wearing that coat.” Gaskell poked me in the ribs through the ragged hole in the back, “I told you to get it mended.”
“Gettoff.” I waved my arm ineffectively, “Wasn’t thinking.”
He snorted, “My arse you weren’t. That thing’s as good as a bullet for motivating the men. I just worry when I see you wear it.” he lowered his head, and his voice, “You are okay, Cat?”
I exhaled into the black, watching the smoke vanish on the edge of the light, “Yeh, fella. As okay as –“

The door behind us opened, letting out a wave of hot air as Vox Officer Ahde stepped through, “Sorry sir! I didn’t realise you were out here with your girlfriend.” I couldn’t see him, but knowing Ahde, he was miming something obscene.
“Feth off, bollock-brain.” as eloquent as ever, Gaskell.
“Now-now.” jabbed Ahde, “Such language in front of a delicate lady.”
I straightened and turned to face the nuisance. Ahde’s dark complexion and the glow of light behind him masked his face too well for me to read him, but the half-pace back he took tickled me. He hadn’t realised who Gaskell was out here with. I smiled and waved a hand, dismissing his mistake, “What is it, Ahde?”
“Well. We’ve been given our marching orders, Cat. We’re headed to some bog planet, it seems nobody can raise the first men sent there.” A sliver of concern crept under his calm voice, “There’s word that it was more than just guard gone missing.”
Gaskell ran his hand through his hair, a movement I’d become used seeing over the years, as he considered things, “I suppose any more context isn’t forthcoming?” Ahde shook his head, “Marvellous.”
“So, hide and seek? I’m game.” I caught Gaskell’s eye and grinned. He returned it.
“There’s the Cat I’m used to.” he laughed and slapped my shoulder, following Ahde back inside and flicked away his smoke, “See you inside, then.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, leaning back on the rail again, watching the door close behind them.

Scum floats.

[Only Heresy - Chapter II - Deployment]

[Mouse's Journal Entry] [ ???? - 732.M41 ] *


[Click the small image to make it a bigger image]

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 1 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

Emperor preserve us. You hear me, fella?
We do this in His name, and I’ve never worked with better lads… But I’ll be damned if I don’t feel like we’re being thrown away to buy time.
Best foot forward. We just have to last a month. We’ve done that before under much worse conditions. At least this time we know it’s coming.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 1 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

I hate flying. It’s not fething natural. it’s falling, sideways, at ridiculous speed. Falling downwards makes sense. Falling sideways is nonsense, and I hate it. How do they train people for this? “How good are you at falling, mate? Want to try falling really fething fast?”
Gaz calls me a giant daft besom for it, but he’s one to talk. Bloody Mordians. It’s always the same, we’re going to spend the day walking into the back of the new recruits whilst they stare upwards wondering what the sky is. It’s a little better now that they wear those caps, and can’t see up there all the time.
I was supposed to be taking this as an opportunity to reflect upon today. feth today, I hate flying.



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 1 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

So, day one. Nearly over. We got down fine. Always do, I suppose I wouldn’t be here to say this if we didn’t. Ha! Dropped us on a plateaux, they called it. Big feth off rock, to the rest of us.
The lads took the ride down pretty well, I was impressed. Took the best part of the day, but went without a hitch. They didn’t even mind how hot it is down here. They’re bouncing to get going.
Though I wish command would let me sedate Cat for the drop. He never says anything, but he sits there looking like a startled furry animal the entire time we’re in the shuttle. If you talk to him he looks at you like you’re cracked, and goes back to staring into space. Daft as a brush that one. Can never get a fix on how his head works. Seen him stare down green skins, yet flying terrifies him. We took him on a mag lev train once, he liked that. Made everyone else nearly vomit and fall over, and he’s just stood there grinning like it’s the best thing he’s ever done.

We’re heaving towards the nearest guard camp. Can't get there in one day though. Ahde’s tried to make contact but there’s no response. He says there’s an active vox set down there, but nobody is picking up. That’s never a good thing. I told him to stop trying. it might be a mistake, or it might be a way to track down incoming fools like us.

Weird place this. It’s hot, like I said, but it’s also claggy. There’s so much greenery down below us. I’ll be glad when we’re down into it. Call it my roots speaking to me, but I hate being out in the open for long. Self preservation, more like.

We’re having to camp up here overnight, and the first guard camp is up here too, about half a day’s trek away. That’s not reassuring right now though.

[Sighs] Day one. That’s one down…

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 1 - Jallen - 732.M41 ]

Alright, I’ll admit it… It’s not so bad seeing the lads experience the outdoors for the first time. it’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to seeing kids excited by something. it’s nearly as difficult to get any sense out of them on the first day, but it’s sort of endearing. They keep stopping to look at clouds and trees. Perhaps that’s one of the things life is about, still being able to find wonder out here. Despite the circumstances and impending uncertain death.
Warms my blackened heart to see someone smiling at wind and birdsong.

Of course I can’t say that. I still take the piss out of them mercilessly. Patricks threw a rock at me when I wasn’t looking. Made him pick up another thirty and carry them all afternoon. It’s nice to see them getting in touch with nature.

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

Rain. Should have seen it coming, the rising humidity and plain old luck.
It's absolutely hammering down, a real wall of water. Leaves us in an awful position; we're blind up here. Have had to haul at least two new recruits back by their packs to stop them going over an unseen drop.
Going off the map, it's not far to the first camp, but we're slowing the approach until this eases off.

At least on bare rock, it's not so muddy. Just red dust and loose stone to contend with. Plus the downfall is easily masking any sound we're making on approach.

[Disconnect]


[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41 ]

We found the camp quite soon after the weather died down. We're readying an approach from two sides, just to be careful. I've got Ahde, the new psyker lass, Talsen, half the squad. Ronson's around the other side with Cat, Morn and the others. One medic with each of us.

Can't see anyone posted outside. Haven't come across anyone on perimeter. Bloody weird. Not a sound from the entire area. Over a dozen tents laid out and not a sign of life.
Time to stop mithering and get in there, I suppose.
Protect us, fella. Protect them, too.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41 ]

I prepped my Hellpistol, feeling the weight of the ancient weapon, physically and mentally. Ahead I could see Morn readying his las carbine rifle with a fluid expertise. I suspected he spent a lot of time practising the motion. Around us, the gathered Hollies were shouldering their lasguns and quietly murmuring litanies of true-aim, protection and haste. The quiet pause in the afternoon daylight was almost free of concern. A strange contrast against the mounting tension.

In my ear, and many more, Gaz's voice crackled through the vox, "In position?"
"Yes sir." Ronson responded neatly.
"In." Gaz was never one for mincing words.
"Emperor be with you all." I murmured.
"You too, fella." and then the vox was dead, leaving us to the task at hand.

With as little sound and movement to betray us as possible, we approached the camp. The dark, weathered tents stood silent, the damp ground had no prints or signs of disturbance. Carefully we swept the outer tents, finding nothing. No signs of struggle. No signs of life. Everything lay untouched by human or wildlife. As though as one, the camp had just up and left.
Crates were still sealed or undisturbed, bunks were neatly made, ready for the day.

We exchanged puzzled glances with the squad, and Ronson broke vox silence, "Ghost town, Captain?"
"Aye," came the reply, "move to the centre. Keep checking each."
Continuing, we cleared another half dozen, careful to not allow for complacency in the face of apparent abandonment.
"I don't understand, Cat." whispered Ronson, "No sign of a fight? No raid?"
I put my hand up signalling for pause, "We need to think why this could have happened. What it means."
Morn looked across, "Either everyone is still here, somewhere, or they left as an entire unit," he scanned around us, uneasily, "and not recently."
"Excursions aren't impossible to rule out. What could cause them to fail to return entirely though?" I mused aloud, "And how often do you hear of a guard camp emptying entirely?"
"Never." murmured Ronson, his young face betraying his concern.

I could start to feel the unease of troops around us, their eyes flicking back and forth, the grips on their lasguns visibly tighter, and their shoulders tensing. They were becoming spooked. Deep down I could also feel that something wasn't sitting right. I nudged the sergeant, unseen.
He took the signal, "Onwards."

As Morn and two men checked the next tent, expecting yet more deserted facilities, I followed warily.  I found myself suddenly colliding with trooper Warrick as he backed out again rapidly. Inside I heard the distinctive sound of someone losing his lunch, and Morn burst out, his rifle stowed, dragging a blanched Luthar by his shoulder. We exchanged glances, and Morn shook his head.
I carefully leaned inside, and then withdrew back into the daylight. The stench had hit me in the eyes before it reached my nose and mouth. The symbols-
"Seal it; burn it." I choked back the urge to vomit myself, my eyes streaming as I stepped away.
"Now?" Morn gently released the pale guard to the care of his comrades. His own eyes red-raw from the sight and smell.

As I nodded, Gaz came through on the vox. His voice was unusually shaken, "Cat! We've found-"
"I know, we did here as well. Put it to flames." I winced, this wasn't how we'd expected it to go.
"No Cat, we found the guard. We need both medics."

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: Tea & Cushion

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [725.M41] •

I held it in my hands, and turned it over a few times. It was mostly blue with areas of red. My brains scattered across the earth would no doubt compliment it very well, some day. Today? I stared at the hat, suddenly deeply uncertain.
Many commissars, priests and even soldiers speak of the Emperor’s righteous fury. How His spirit pushes us onwards and protects us from doubt. Nothing is absolute. You show me a man who claims to be completely free from fear and doubt, that man is either cracked or a complete idiot. At this point I was neither.
I felt the white heat of fear start to burn the back of my neck and flood across my senses, I swallowed, fighting to flush it away. Casting my eyes around me, I saw similarly concealed nerves paling the faces of the men stood alongside, and realised that they dearly needed a rallying point. And that was where I drew my strength from that day. Where I still do, if ever I am uncertain - the requirement of others.

That isn't to say I have no faith, I simply put most of my faith into those men that need me. That if I do my best, as will they. It may well not be a direct translation of what we are taught, but we are a long way from school rooms and shrines now. A very, very long way.
I replaced my hat, pulled up my posture and grinned fiercely, turning to the squad, “Right! We can do this. Let's show those pricks what we're capable of."
A small chorus of agreement passed through the men, and they similarly straightened up.
I sighed theatrically and raised one hand, "Don't waste my fething time. I said: We can do this! Remember those we leave behind! Remember who we fight for!”
The resounding cheer was markedly more enthusiastic, and I saw some colour return to their faces.
"Unless that is, you want to stay in here with me and hold hands. In which case, tea is at nine. Wear a tie.” I growled, as the transport rocked to a halt.  I'm not sure how often troops hit the ground laughing, but this was one of those times.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [726.M41] •

The wind whipped around, stealing all other sound from the battlefield. But thankfully I saw the crude stick grenade as it hit the earth beside me. Saw the red painted markings.
I had seconds, half a minute at best. Sprinting full tilt and diving clear into a nearby trench, I landed on my arse in the mud. Or I would have, but there was already a man cowering in there, and I landed instead on him.
“Hello-” I looked down, as I rolled away, “-Alexys. Should you be out there doing something?” I asked rather pointedly as I righted myself.
He looked up at me, stammering and horrified at his discovery, “C-Commissar Yorke? Please, don’t shoot. I- I don’t-“
“Relax, I’m not going to shoot you.” I hauled him up to his feet, and dusted him down. his uniform was caked in drying mud, he’d evidently been hiding here quite a while.
Alexys looked at me, fear, confusion and flaking mud coating his face in equal measure.
“I am however, going to kick your arse seven ways till Sunday unless you get back out there.” I slapped him hard around the back of his head, knocking his helmet slightly askew.
“Yes sir.” he scaled the side of the ditch in split seconds, and ran hell for leather in the direction I’d arrived from.
“Fething idiot.” shaking my head, I crouched in the dry groove that he had left, taking shelter from the wind and impending mess. I flicked a crumpled smoke into my mouth and lit it, staring at the sky, as the ground shook and debris scattered past, “Waste of a bolt-shell.”

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

By all my reckoning, this camp was totally empty. Across the way, Ronson's lot had come to the same idea. We were about to call it and pack in for the day, when Athenia sensed life in one of the tents. Fading she said, but there.

Strewth, when we found them... About two dozen guard just chained up to a hammered metal post and left. Men and women. One long chain through all of their restraints so not one of them could run. No supplies left, even though there were plenty in other tents.
A couple had died, poor bastards. Fatigue and dehydration I can only guess. Maybe head wounds, medics will check later, our first thought were for the living. The rest were left chained to their dead squad mates, for days. I can't imagine what they went through. I really can't.

Michelle did her best for them, mostly advanced dehydration and heat stroke. They were very quiet, as you'd imagine. All troopers and one female sergeant. She were familiar and I couldn't place why.
A couple of our lads recognised the odd face or name amongst them, what're the odds? Hopefully that means we can help them get over what's happened. Familiar faces and that.

I voxed Cat, should have really voxed Ronson as he's sergeant, but sometimes he does come across as so terribly young. This was so damned dark I just wanted to hear from Cat that they hadn't found more of the same. They'd found worse, some kind of shrine or sacrifice! Strewth.

[Disconnect]



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

The guard we rescued are just about talking, they clam up whenever Athenia comes near, which is a mite unfair on the lass. She found them after all.
They said that the majority of the platoon just went missing one day whilst out travelling between camps. When they came back, days later, they'd changed. Insane. Fallen.
They took the majority of those who were left, killed those who resisted hardest. Some of the men who fought back were sacrificed back over in the hellhole Ronson's group found. It had been the chapel. Desecrated. Made a point.

Then the bastards up and left, saying they'd return for this lot. But that were just over a week ago, and nothing. I can't picture how that must have been. Waiting here.
They've survived mostly because there was a tear in the roof of the tent, they could get water of a sort from the condensation at night. There were a few supplies in there as well, but there's only so far things can stretch.
All things considered, they're in good shape. For folk who've done a week on next to nothing, they look well. I can't imagine that they're prone to exaggeration given the circumstances, but I'm surprised how healthy a couple are. The sergeant, West, she looks tired but in decent condition, the others are a mix.
Just waiting on Ronson and Cat to come across with their lot. We'll be able to contact the Nubila for one more day at most before its out of range, so Ahde is setting that up for this evening when the air is coolest.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

We picked up the pace as soon as Captain Gaskell voxed across. It took us half an hour to clear the remaining tents, and we found no more unpleasant surprises. We couldn't rush too much however.
The medic who had accompanied the other squad, Michelle, had set up the survivors an impromptu medical tent, not too hard as the camp was only deserted, not trashed. Beds laid out and hydration set up for the worst affected. Timothy rushed to assist, and soon they were a blur, caring for the quiet rescued guard. They were kitted out in spare Holly uniforms, we didn’t have anything else to give them, and their own had been beyond redemption.

Gaskell filled me in on their ordeal, his voice low, and I felt sick for them. The tent was almost silent, like a mortuary. I understood why, the mood was fairly somber.
"You said some of the lads recognised a couple of them?” I thought aloud.
"Aye." Gaz replied.
"Call them in." I nodded.
He gave me a curious look, “Sure. What’s your game, fella?”

After a short while, three troopers came in, as well as some of their friends. They sat down amongst the recovering guard, and shortly the tent was filled with quiet conversation, and a healthier atmosphere. A couple more wandered in and produced a deck of cards. Eventually the mood was almost cheerful.
"You're an odd one." smiled Gaskell.
"As good as medicine." I shrugged.
"I'll give you that."

As we crossed the tent to leave, a hand caught my sleeve.
"Cat?" the voice cut through the years and had far more of a stopping effect than the hand.
I froze, unable to turn.
"Cat, I thought you were dead. We thought- Well we thought that they’d executed you."

I'm sorry to hear about the sickness. Take a couple days off if you need to, we understand. Also, I couldn't agree more with the silence the Fiction section gets. Pretty much, the first installations get comments, then they go silent for indefinite amounts of time, which cam be pretty annoying for writers.

Hope you feel better soon

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cat space out like that. It was astounding. He just froze and his eyes went blank for a moment. I’ve seen it happen to servitors occasionally, but I never knew it could happen to a person.
He knew her, he knew the sergeant, Siobhan. I’m not pressed him about it, there’s not been a great time to bring it up. She said they’d assumed he was dead… Of all things, executed?

I’ve never asked Cat about his history, but it makes me seriously wonder if I should have. There’s only so many things a commissar could have done to earn that kind of reckoning, if she’s right. Days like this make me question if we should have taken him on at all.
Cat… He still thinks we requested him... Truth is we were sent him by the Commissariat as our captain’s track were not exactly stellar, and at a guess, neither were Cat’s. Makes me ache now to think that they had just thrown someone so … I don’t know… friendly? …to bait such a bastard, but back then I didn’t know. I’d have tried harder to keep him safe. I should have noticed what was going on, and I blame myself.

What’s done is done, tomorrow we need to find out where the rest of this regiment vanished to. We’ve posted lookouts around the camp, and some further out. there’s nothing going to get in here unseen. Hopefully that means those poor bastards can get some sleep. I’m ready for it as well, when this shift ends.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

“Shev?” I turned in a daze.
I was nearly taken off my feet as she stood up and threw her arms around me. Which is saying something, considering that she only came up to my collar bone.
“It is you!” she exclaimed into my chest.
“If it weren’t, you’d be in some considerable gak right now.” I looked down. I gingerly put an arm around her shoulders, and stared down into the top of the fair-haired head, buried in the front of my coat.
"Don't be stupid," the voice by my chest replied, "they don't mass-produce people like you."
Through the fog, I wondered if I'd just been praised or half-damned yet again.
My brain finally caught up with what was currently happening, "I can't believe you're here." I mumbled.

She drew back, and I was able to see Siobhan for the first time in many years. Soft brown eyes framed by a grinning, tanned face and hair that despite her recent mistreatment was pale and shining in the light afforded by the makeshift medical tent. Despite the years, she looked no different to when we last parted ways, except she was smiling. Something inside me felt at peace, soothed to finally see that smile, after the conditions we’d parted under. A weight had lifted that I’d not even been aware of.
I smiled back, almost sheepish.

Beside me, Gaskell coughed, "I can assume you two have met before? Or is this how you greet all women, Cat?" he winked and I couldn't muster up enough annoyance to jab back at him.
I grinned, "Gaz, I served with Shev in my last regiment. She was- she is, one of very few people who spoke to me like a person."
Gaz looked at us both, and chuckled softly, “What’re the odds? It's an honour to meet you, Sergeant. Any guard who has earned Cat's respect must be doing a fine job." He extended his hand, and she shook it, beaming broadly. He winked, "So tell me, was he always this sweet young lady we know and love?"
I shot him a look, but he ignored it entirely.
Siobhan snorted, "Emperor on Terra, no. He was a total bastard. Nobody could stand him outside of command. I was astounded he never got shot at night in the dark."
Gaz stared back and forth between us, trying to suss if we were pulling some kind of prank.
"Of course a couple of us knew," she patted my arm gently, "it's hard to keep the act up all the time."
I tilted my head, Siobhan was looking quite drained after only the short conversation. I steered her by the shoulder, back towards her bed, “You should rest, Shev. There'll be plenty time for catch-ups later. Get some sleep, it's not like you get that offer very often."
She laughed, "True! I haven't had so little responsibility in months." waving, she cheerfully stepped back to her bunk and relaxed.

I stepped out of the tent, and Gaz stared at me, "So, lover-boy. Spill." he nudged my side.
"We were just friends, Gaz." I rubbed my eyes in the fading light.
"Oh?" he looked unconvinced.
Shaking my head, I sighed, "Seriously. She was involved with our captain. As his friend, I was never in the running, and-"
"You'd never act on it if you were." Gaz smiled, "I know, Cat. I just like winding your key some days. You want to talk?" he looked up at me, concern riding his features.
"Not right now. It's... well, it's a large reminder of a part of my life I moved away from." I stared up at the sky, watching as clouds scuttered past.
He nodded, "Sounds like it."



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

We woke to screams in the night, and gunshots. Cat's tent were the nearest, I heard the first shots from in there, half a dozen I think. By the time I made it out of bed and over there, he were outside, bringing his guts up.
Didn't try and ask him, in the tent was most of a guard, and Randolph, plus the psyker. They'd just arrived to find Cat had blown the guard’s chest apart with that old hell pistol, but he’d kept firing long past the point of death. Very unlike him, don't know what went on, and he won't tell me. Kept mumbling something about memories. Better keep an eye on him.
Checked the corpse, wasn’t a guard. Cultist.
gak. Sent those two to help with the disturbance, tried to get some sense out of Cat.

He were of no use. I gave up and ran to help Morn and Athenia. Turns out the captives we rescued were planted. They were all guard, sure. At one point even loyal, I imagine. But they were traitors, cultists, mostly in disguise. Several had snuck into various tents to try and... Either kill or coerce the men there. Some even used the faces of people they'd known, respected or loved. Like some sort of illusion to throw off their defenses. None had succeeded much after Cat started firing, it seemed to break the trance. I'm bloody glad none got as far as my tent. Like to think I'd be strong, but seeing someone take on the face of my family, my wife? I couldn't bear that, even knowing it were false.

We rounded up the survivors and executed them. Some were protesting their innocence to the end. Those that had stayed in the medical tent, sleeping, especially. I have my doubts they were all traitor. We all do.
Ahde, Cat? Their faces said the same. What were we to do, though? We couldn't post guard on them for the rest of the month, we couldn't trust them, and we couldn't leave them here. They're all at peace now, though some certainly aren't having a good time of it.
I'm not sure what happens when cultists die, but I reckon they have some dues to pay wherever they end up.

See if we all can get a few hours sleep before the morning. I doubt anyone will sleep easy though. Cat's dragged his bed in here with me now, rather than spend all night scouring gore out of that other tent. He's fast-on, but the man could sleep through a hurricane. They say commissars don't sleep easy. They haven't tried to get between this one and his kip.

I wish we could take tomorrow lightly, but we've got work to do. Repair the comms, scout the start of the track from here, make sure the areas clear - doubly so now that this happened.
Morn reckons he saw a grot in the trees, but it vanished before he could get a shot off. Doesn't sound right. Greenskins don't usually care for stealth.
Time to try and get some rest myself, I suppose. Don't imagine I will.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 2 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

Sleeping. With some hope I won’t wake up again soon.



[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

I looked up. How could we all have missed this? Internal injuries from assault. Liver compromised. Refusal to take a bionic replacement organ. That'd do it.
Yorke had started to shake visibly, it was not yet affecting his speech, but it was alarming. Even the two acolytes had now noticed. He was entirely calm about it, as was the nature of the drug he'd taken. He regarded us quizzically as I expressed my concern to Celena quietly. Tremors were not unheard of, but I was starting to worry about long term effect on his heart, if it were indeed beating as fast as I suspected.
Boorman dismissed my concern and offered the beaker a third time to the drugged man, who accepted it, having no reason to distrust us. I gritted my teeth and felt torn. We had to find out the truth, and efficiently. But likewise harming someone who had offered only cooperation and faithful service was going against the grain.

*

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

I don't have anything to say about last night. Even Ahde is leaving me be about it, and I was left to wake up by my own devices. Mid morning, they’d already disposed of the dead. Asked me to take a cursory look over it to ensure the job was done right. I declined. I trust them.

The one thing to remember is that none of it was real. None of them were who they pretended to be. That I can ever sleep again, I have to keep telling myself that.

Gaz says we are to proceed as planned today.
Can't say I'm surprised. There's very little will change course of upper command once they're in motion. The loss of a few guard and abandonment of a camp is nothing to them. Not even a footnote. Keeping us in the dark is par for the course, now that they know there's ruinous power at work down here.
I thought losing the Astartes might have got them to pay attention, though.

Walking past the medical tent feels strange. It's silent again. I've been walking the long way around camp to avoid it.



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

Before dawn, we burned and buried the bodies, nobody were up to it last night. With what kicked off, Ahde didn't manage to contact the Nubilea.

He tried earlier this morning before the heat rose, and got a brief message across.
Chaos: First camp compromised. No signs of original guard or Astartes.

We got the single-word reply:
Proceed

One word, accountable for all the men in my charge. Words are dangerous things.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

“Sir. There’s something wrong with Talsen.” Sergeant Ronson had sidled up to me during a perimeter check. Alright, it was a smoke-break. I was deliberately finding reasons to avoid going back to the middle of the camp.
I shrugged, “Can’t Michelle check him over? Or is it’s a gentleman’s problem? You know that’s not part of my job either, despite what Captain Gaskell keeps saying.” Despite me telling him not to.
“No Cat, it’s your area. He’s, you know… He won’t get up.” Ronson murmured without meeting my eye, “Last night he was one of the lads that the traitors targeted. He’s shaken.”
Nodding, I sighed, “Okay. Give me ten minutes.”
Watching Ronson retreat back to the centre, I leaned on a tent wall and stared out into the distance. We were incredibly isolated up here, I could see for miles, down into the valleys below. The forest canopy prevented us seeing down into it, like a thick layer of protection for whatever lurked down there. whatever it was hiding, I wanted to be down there as well, as soon as possible.

Poking my head into Talsen’s shared tent, I found him alone, and unresponsive, curled on his bunk. gak.
Sergeant Ronson, Ahde and his squadmate were waiting outside, nearby.
"He's in some distress with his stomach. We should give him some space." I waved them away from the door way, “…Plus it might be transferable."
“Should I call for the medic, Cat?" Ahde caught my eye with a knowing expression.
"I'll see to it. Go on, bugger off." I nodded, and stepped back into the tent. I listened for their footsteps to die away before sitting down on Talsen's bunk beside him.
He remained curled in a ball, his eyes open but unfocused.

"Fella," I put my hand to his shoulder, gently, "Talsen. I need you to sit up for me." Starting small, I hoped.
The young man's eyes finally moved at the sound of my voice. He blinked, and slowly turned his head, "You're going to have me shot."
It was my turn to blink, "Hm? Why for?"
"For this. For being weak." he whispered. Ah.
"Can you sit up?" I asked again, calmly.
He nodded, and did so, shakily righting himself.
I smiled, "See, there's a start." I patted his shoulder.
He watched me with dull eyes.
"I'm not going to execute you, Talsen,” I sighed, “but you need to tell me what's going on up here." I pointed to his forehead.
"You're not? But I can’t face this!” he gripped his head in his hands, frustrated at himself. It was his first deployment, I recalled. Before this, he’d neither seen nature in close proximity, and despite his home-world being Mordian, had no combat experience.

I closed my eyes, "We all get scared, Talsen. You think I didn't near crap myself last night? I put more holes in that corpse than there are in one of Ahdes stories.” I opened my eyes again, "We just learn to deal. Find something that gives us strength."
Talsen half rolled his eyes, "The Emperor, glory to Terra." he said, his voice dull.
I flicked his ear hard, causing him to flinch and swear.
"Not necessarily. I do find strength in that, but I find more in those around me."
He raised his head, "In us?"
I nodded, "In you, in the folks we protect. In those who went before."
"It's different for you." Talsen muttered.
"How?"
He raised his gaze, "You're a commissar. You're supposed to be better at this than us. I'm just a guardsman."
I tilted my head, considering what was to me, a strange thought, “Just a guardsman? I’m not above any of you; I just have to shout louder. I have to watch for everyone at once. There’s no magic wand comes with the hat, fella. I was born nothing; I will die nothing. What we achieve in between as a combined effort… I have to believe that in time it’ll make enough of a difference. That some day folk like us won't be needed."
Talsen regarded me curiously, "You think so? There could be a future without war?"
"There will be." One way or the other.
"You know, I think that's the first thing you've said that I actually understood. I can get behind that." Talsen smiled. A familiar sensation of being half-damned floated past, but I ignored it.
"Did it help?" I watched him.
He looked up, considering the idea, "I think so. It may take a little getting used to."

We sat for a short while, just talking. He told me about his life before the guard. I told him a bit about what it’d been like growing up in the Schola. He missed his home life. It goes without saying how I felt about mine.
Noticing the time, I stood up, "I should get going. You try and stay positive, okay?"
Talsen nodded, "Thank you."
"Oh, right." as I remembered, I rubbed my neck, "I said that you have the gaks. You may want to play along. It’ll give you the afternoon to yourself anyway.
He laughed, "You couldn't have thought of something more, I don't know, glamorous?"
I grinned, "Probably could’ve. Gotta get my giggles somewhere." and exited the tent.

As I strolled back towards the command tent, Ahde caught up to me, "How's he coping?"
I mused, "Better than most of us."



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

"What you reading?"
I jumped, I had no idea how long Gaskell had been in the tent. I looked up, from my bunk slightly embarrassed, "Story. It's a short one about a detective. He's got to try and catch an art thief."
He sat down and stretched on his own bed, "You mind reading it aloud for a bit?"
"Sure. Or I could lend it to you?"
"Life's too short for that, Cat. Besides, your reading voice is better than my reading eyes." he smiled tiredly.

It was true, I respected Gaskell greatly, and I knew full well he was very intelligent, but under it all he struggled greatly with his reading and writing. For all his ability to plan, visualise and coordinate, that small area was his one pitfall. I'd trust him to get us out of the tightest mess in battle, but I wouldn't trust him to write a legible account of it afterward.
In quieter times, I had wondered if we were civilians and the war had ceased to be, quite what his profession would have been. Something like an architect or a designer, I thought. Creating and organising. The idea of anyone finding him stupid often made me quite aggravated.

"Where from? Want me to start over?" I thumbed the pages.
Gaz tilted his head, "How far did you get?"
"Not far, the detective, Aaron, he's just been assigned the case. The art thief has started planning a heist of a very valuable sculpture from a cathedral. They want to lay a trap for her."
"That sounds good a place as any," my friend smiled and leaned back, closing his eyes, "go for it."


From then on, if I was reading and he was around, I'd ask if Gaz wanted to listen. Quite often he did. Sometimes others would sit in on it if they were passing. We did so without comment, and I suppose it just became one of those habits we got into.
 Looking back at it, it was a strange reversal, a younger man reading to his senior, but it never felt strange. He’d saved our hides so many times, that offering him a small amount of help with his literacy hardly seemed an unfair trade.
Gaskell often jokingly claimed it was a time saver, that two of us could enjoy a story at once.
"Life's just too short for short stories."

This weeks listening: ♬ The book of love is long and boring. No one can lift the damn thing. It's full of charts and facts, some figures, and instructions for dancing.
But I, I love it when you read to me. And you, you can read me anything.

I've taken a while to finally get caught up with this but I'm enjoying every entry. I'm already quite fond of Gaz and Cat and even Ahde has a certain dependable charm.

I wonder could we get more from Ahde? Excerpts from his vox blackbox recorder. Morning camp announcments or whatever he happens to be recording... the Dudes a lone agent sometimes, he has a unique take on things. Just another angle to tell the story from.

Anyway. Loving this. Thanks for sharing.

Also loving the crayon drawing, which might not be quite as off peste as you think. I once did a wee junior guards first Reading book called "See Rex Run" it was all drawn in crayon. I'll see if I can dig it out for you and post it. My illustrations are rubbish though compared to your wax rendered wonders.

Gotta say, this is some excellent character-driven story that you have going on here. These characters have the kind of depth that I've always wanted to see in the worlds that GW has made, because I think the whole brainwashed "FOR THE EMPEROR" can only go so far before someone begins to develop doubts and fears. Nobody wants to die for a cause, even those that are dedicated to that point. Everyone wants to keep living, enjoying new experiences and learning new things. These are great characters with some truly human aspects to them. I say bravo, good sir, keep it coming!

Gender bending medics might well be a common facet of the grimdark far future, but fix the names by all means.

Also, I hadn't meant that Ahde would be recording a diary, more that his vox recordings may be scrutinised by the investigation and yield some interesting excerpts. It'd maybe be hard to write up, but it's a thought for another option if you're finding any part of the story tricky to approach. Totally objective, devoid of internal personal feelings or comments. Just a raw transcript of voices and sound on tape. Ok I'll stop going on about it now, it's not like I feel your story lacks Ahde's POV or anything. I totally agree on your point about less transparent characters.

Still keeping an eye out for Commissar Doyle.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: Early Warnings

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Creer ] [ 727.M41] *

Thought we’d got away with it and they’d forgotten us, but we’re getting a new commissar today. His name’s Yorke, he’s quite a young one. Don’t know if that’ll make him easier or harder to deal with. The last one was a cantankerous old bastard, but he played it straight. Never nitpicked or lectured us on banal gak.
I could’ve respected that if he hadn’t been a bloody commissar. He was sharp though. Too sharp. Started noticing things toward the end, I’m sure he was keeping tabs on me, if he hadn’t been all along.
Going to keep this one at arm’s length. Sending Ahde and Gaskell to introduce themselves, and he’ll meet me later.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [727.M41] •

“…How’s about this? I treat you all like human beings,” I held out one gloved hand, “and you don’t shoot me in the back when I go for a piss in the night?” I held out the other and smiled warmly.
After a brief pause, here was a loud murmuring of consensus and confusion amongst the troops. Some nodded, some stared at me as though I’d just grown a second head. At the back of the room, Vox Officer Ahde grasped both hands over his mouth, shoulders shaking, and beside me Captain Creer’s lower eyelid flickered, his face a mask of calm. Sticking one hand back in my pocket, I patted his shoulder politely, nodded to the assembled men, and strode off in search of a drink.

“I think that went well.” I sipped my caffeine, sitting back in my office chair, one leg across the other.
“Look, I don’t know what your game is. If this is some kind of joke, or you’re genuinely-“ Creer abruptly stopped himself from actually insulting me at the last moment. Ahde and Gaskell stood behind him, watching in silence.
“Joke?” I looked up from the mug, “On what level?”
“This soft-hearted crap. You’re a Commissar! Where’s the fire and brimstone? The rousing Imperial dogma?” he asked, his expression tired.
I laughed pleasantly, “You’d prefer I behave like that?”
“I would understand that.” he said in a low tone, his brow still furrowed.
Considering the reactions, I wondered if I’d shown my hand too early, and whether I was shortly facing a one-way trip back to the Commissariat, or worse. Searching for common ground, I tried a different approach. Carefully, I placed my mug down and sat up straight, “I don’t need to dehumanise men to convince them what they do is of importance. I’m here to motivate, improve, encourage. And I don’t have to bully or grind anyone down to do so.” I paused for a moment, considering my words, “Before I started out, years ago, a Lord Captain said to me, “Terrible things happen to men who stop viewing all lives as important.” Do you disagree, Captain?”
“Of course not.” Creer replied warily.
I smiled, “Me neither. ”
Creer stared hard at me for a moment, before saying, “We’ll see.” He then excused himself, shooting Gaskell a strange look on the way out of the door.

I turned my attention back to my cup, “You fellows wish to weigh in as well?” I asked, lifting it halfway to my mouth.
“No sir.” Ahde stepped forward, extending his hand, “I don’t rightly understand your methods, but you’ve got the Cap all on edge and that’s interesting to see.” I shook it happily, putting my drink down again.
“I don’t think our good captain likes me.” I grinned.
“Well. He doesn’t like anybody, sir. You’re just the first person he can’t actually abuse for it.” laughed Ahde. He in turn left us, waving on the way out.

I reached for my caffeine, and stopped mid-motion as Gaskell dropped into the chair opposite, “Well, you certainly know how to make a first impression, Commissar Yorke.” He studied my face, running his hand through his short cropped hair uneasily. I could see stray strands flitting loose in the lamplight. Creer must have forced everybody to clean up for my arrival, I mused. I wondered how much of a fuss he had made, and in turn how much my arrival had thrown that to the wind, “You look the spit of him, you know. Younger, but I can see it.” Gaskell waved his hand up and down, referring to my grandfather.
“Thank you. It’s good to see you again, sir.” I said, nodding.
“It’s not “sir”, Commissar. Just Sergeant Gaskell.” he shook his head.
I tilted my own, considering the ceiling, “It’s been a long time. Ten, fifteen years? You’re looking good though. You’ve barely changed, sir.” I tagged the end of my ramble, baiting him.
“You really shouldn’t call me “sir”, sir.” Gaskell sighed.
“You gonna stop me, sir sir?” I asked, my face a picture of innocence.
He rolled his eyes, “I can’t, no.”
“No sir, sir sir?” I teased.
He cracked and put his head in his hands, “I yield. Please stop.”
I leaned across and patted him on the shoulder, “I’ll try. I’m sorry Sergeant Gaskell, but you’ll always be “sir” to me, in my head.”
“Your head needs examining!” he exclaimed from his view of the floor.
I tutted, “I could write you up for that.” I could have written him up for the resulting expletives, too. Calling an end to the teasing, I said, “Ray.” quietly and held out my hand.
Looking up, he shook it, “Alright, Ray.” He allowed himself to smile, “So just why are you being so… I mean you were an upright lad when I met you, but I don’t believe the Commissariat gives out lessons in hugging these days.”
“It’s like I said. I tried blood and thunder, I really did. I even might’ve bought into it for a while, I suppose. But the more time I spent with people, the more I realised that there are so many other ways to push folk, to better them than fear alone. There’s no single magic bullet you can apply to everyone.” He caught my eye, “It’s just an expression.” I chuckled at my inappropriate use of it.
“You’re alright, Ray.” he raised his hand, and ran it through his hair again, an expression that I’d learn over time meant that he was considering the situation, “Why did you leave your last regiment though?”
I defended with a question of my own, “What happened to your last commissar?”
Gaskell looked away, “Alright, yeah. I better get going.” he straightened up and looked at me again, “Look, be serious. And be careful around Creer. Don’t try this mucking about with him.” He frowned.
“Why’s that, then?” I sat up attentively.
“He’s a sinister bastard, and I don’t mean like your lot.” I let the half-insult wash past, “People he dislikes, those that don’t toe his line, well, they don’t last especially long.”
I wondered more about the fate of their last Commissar, but said nothing, instead thinking aloud, “You and Ahde seem to have survived.”
“We’re useful. Ahde’s one of the best Vox operators around. Goes well with his mouth. And I’m able to get the lads to toe the line, even when Creer’s lost it. Watch yourself, Ray. Make sure he sees you as useful.”

Taking Gaskell’s advice, I did. For well over a year, I pushed, inspired and raised up the men in our charge. I didn’t much like Creer’s attitudes towards the troops, or his foul temper, but I made an early effort to ensure I was indispensable. He never really warmed to me, but Ahde was right, he never really warmed to anyone. There was however a begrudging respect between us. I got the job done damn well, and didn’t make his any harder. He didn’t see someone leave me for dead in a ditch when the fancy took him. It was as about as good as I could have asked for.
I found good companionship in Gaskell and Ahde, plus learning to read them especially well was a barometer for Creer’s moods. This proved crucial in ensuring I didn’t frustrate him in my occasional attempts to temper his decisions.



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Creer ] [ 727.M41] *

Is this a joke? There aren’t words. He’s either insane or taking the piss.
For starters he’s got a face like he went five rounds with an ork. I’m sure he can barely see out of one eye at the moment. His nose is broken, both eyes are completely black. I’ll find out from his record what that’s about. No point asking him until I get him sussed.
On top of that he insists that he’s not going to scream and yell about Imperial Creed to rouse everyone, he’s going to motivate us by finding personal strength. Bloody hellfire. We’ll be singing around the campfire next.

Oddly he seems less sane the more rationally he acts. Bloody Commissariat, messes with your head that way. Makes you suspicious of someone being nice.

[Disconnect]



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Creer ] [ 727.M41] *

I found him sweeping the mess tent this afternoon. Nobody else in there, he was just doing it by himself. Hat off, sleeves rolled up, just cleaning.
"What the actual feth are you doing?" I asked.
He looked at me and just said, "I dropped a tray. Then I figured the rest of the floor in here could use a brush up."
I were confused to say the least, "You're a commissar. Get someone else to do it."
"Nah, it's my mess." and he just went back to it, "You need me for anything, Captain?"
"Nay, not right now."
"Have a good one, then."
Funny bugger. Not sure if he's doing this to confuse me, or he's actually a decent person. Either way, he bears watching.

Singleton was easy to deal with, black and white enough. This guy's... Well he's hard to get the measure of. No wonder Commissariat sent him over in a hurry. Probably didn't know what to do with him either.
He hasn't told anyone why he left the previous regiment, and my sources turned up nothing. At a guess he was either sent over to keep an eye on me after Singleton... Or he's disposable enough that they sent him here knowing our track record.
From his behaviour I'm feeling it's the latter. That makes things a lot easier if he gets funny. Funnier, he's already a strange excuse for an officer.

[Disconnect]

Yorke came off a bit like Ciaphis Cain, but isn't just faking his niceness towards soldiers. Of course, being like Cain isn't a bad thing, and it's always nice to see a different turn of events for a commisar than "if you won't serve on the field you will serve on the firing line" shtick. Of course, this personality has already been established but its nice to see the first intrductions.

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

It’d been another hellishly hot day. Thankfully it faded as the sun set. Ahde and I stood breathing in the cool evening air. Well, one of us did.
Ahde nudged me, "You shouldn't smoke, Cat. It's not good for you."
"Neither is being shot at, launched into orbit and dropped on the enemy. At least I get a choice about this."
He sighed, "I see now how you got your position as a motivational speaker."
I chuckled, "You got me; it's a bad habit. If I ever find something I want to live for, I'll stop. Happy?"
He grinned, "Or someone?"
"Let's not get fantastical." I snorted.

The camp was calmer, a little of the energy was starting to return after the horrors of the previous night. Reconnaissance during the day had turned up nothing. Ahde had tried again to contact the next came further across the peak, but had no reply. We were cagey about the horrors that could be there, and didn’t press it by trying again. Tomorrow, early, we’d move on, before the sun reached its highest point. Gaz had decided that trying to travel in the midday heat would only serve to make us sick, and slow down progress. Some might call it soft, but we were headed into the unknown, arriving there barely able to function was suicidal over-thought.
We’d posted guard around the camp, but it was bare enough up here that very little could get the drop on us. Still, as we’d learned in only the short time here, this planet had plenty surprises.

I shivered slightly, “You feel that? It’s chill.”
Ahde looked at me curiously, “Just the air, fella.”
“Suppose.” I frowned and stubbed out my smoke, “I’m going to get some kip. Don’t stay out too long listening to the static, okay?”
He chuckled, “I’m doing it for a reason you berk. It’s much easier to hear any stray frequencies at night when the air is thinner.”
“Just so long as it doesn’t start listening back.” I raised my hands and mimed the movements of a spectre.
“Cretin.” he sighed, smiling.
“Commissar Cretin.” I raised my chin indignantly.
“Piss off, go on.”
“Night, Ahde.”



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 3- Jallen - 732.M41] *

It were my fault. I didn’t tell anyone to guard the cliffs. They were so high and barren that we hadn’t thought anyone could scale them. Or that anyone would try. Who could get up there, and certainly not in numbers that could cause any bother.
We’ve never been so wrong.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

Still evening. I woke to the sound of yelling, gunshots, and a guttural roar that shook the walls of the tent. Spinning out of bed, I threw on my coat, and in the confusion strapped my weapon belt around it. Neatness is no use if you’re dead. I crammed my hat on my head and ran out of the tent.
And then I found one of the missing Astartes. Or what had once been one. I nearly ran straight into the back of him, but threw myself behind cover and huddled there briefly while I gathered my thoughts. I reached to my ear, but in my rush I’d left my vox piece somewhere else. Now there was a raging marine between me and the rest of the regiment, and I had no comms. Feth. Well done.

I was hiding behind a pile of dry palettes we’d been preparing to axe for firewood, around three metres from the edge of the cliff. Another three or so metres further, the marine was making its presence known. The plate was distinctive, but had been gouged and defaced. Some of the symbols were familiar, others horrible and unclear. Mercifully he didn’t seem to have a gun. However one huge fist was clearly sporting a vicious set of lightning claws. They were sparking and active, the comparably tiny noise lost.
By his feet lay the torn remains for at least three of our men. caught as they ran out into the clearing. I felt a burn of anger at the senseless loss. This man would once have been a warrior with honour, one of the Emperor’s own.
What was far more alarming was the bestial screaming. I couldn’t make out words amongst the howling, rolling sound. I knew there were some there, I felt them. I also felt how foaming mad the creature that had once been a man was. Head thrown back at the night sky, he was roaring. It echoed in the valley below, it could probably be heard for miles. I realised the point was to terrify us. It wasn’t affecting me, but the newer lads were likely crapping themselves. Without seeing them, I knew they were in danger of losing their nerve without support.

Drawing my powersword, I rose unsteadily, the noise was disorientating. But what was the very point of a commissar if not to assist and rally? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Morn behind another stack of palettes. His tent ad been nearby as well, but he’d had the forethought to come out prepared. He signalled to me that he was laying charges. We needed to buy him time. Nearby I could just about hear Gaz and Ronson calling out orders, the men were rallying from all around the camp, they’d be there in a moment. Well disciplined lines stood a chance on stunning the marine if they could focus fire. I got ready to run past, the thing hadn’t seen me yet, too caught up in its own fury.

To my horror, a three troopers burst out of a tent right in front of the monster. I felt my jaw drop involuntarily at the gak luck. Talsen, Patricks and a third I could barely make out in the dark. Andrews? For a split second I thought that they could get away with it, that the raving giant would let them pass unseen. In that split second, those claws proved me wrong in the most hideous way possible.
In one snaking, unnaturally agile movement, the marine bore down on Patricks and Andrews, it’s hooked claws tearing through both of their torsos without slowing down, killing them where they stood. Time slowed as the arc of the lightning claws continued, trailing flesh, blood and fragmented bone alike as it swept along. Then, taking what felt like an eternity, the two men collapsed, dead before they could know what hit them.

Talsen was stood frozen, coated in his friends’ dark gore, and staring blankly up at their killer. His lasgun was unsteady in his hands, and the lad was silently mouthing something that I couldn't make out. The huge creature turned fully toward him, and self-preservation deserted the young trooper as he stood his ground and fired up at it instead of running.
Shrugging off the hits, the marine raised the massive fist again and took a slow but steady step in his direction. I broke cover, unable to watch another man die pointlessly, and bolted toward Talsen.
I shoved him hard, startling him from the dazed state, "Go! Get further back!"
He ran, regaining his senses, and moments later I barely dodged the clawed gauntlet that swept down as we scattered, slamming into the earth, sending up a blinding column of dust and debris. The blades crackled and sparked against the rocky ground, leaving after images in my vision.
I remembered where I'd last seen the arm itself, and struck as best I could into where I thought the joint of the inner elbow to be. My power sword skidded along plate, but I'd struck close enough and felt it jam home in the less protected area, carving away the thinner lining, cutting flash slightly. The howling scream told me that I'd partly succeeded. The depth didn't matter. The cut itself had not been my objective.
Using my sword as reference, I  quickly whipped it back and fired into the point of the arm I'd connected with, the blinding shot leaving my vision further dazzled. Staying my hand, I fired again, twice, feeling the burning heat of the hellpistol's shot in close proximity. The resulting bellow of pain and rage near deafened me.

As the hellish figure straightened up, it's forearm remained on the ground, nearby separated from its master. Charred flesh and smoking armour circuitry protruded from the stump. The scream of anger that filled the air rendered me almost senseless, I struggled to form coherent thought, as it filled my world. Whatever possessed the marine was beyond furious, and the sense of anger was permeating the world around it. I staggered back a pace, and through the dust, through the world-enveloping bellow, I was faintly aware of Morn several short yards away. It could have been miles, for all I was capable of in close proximity to that terrible sound. Morn was frantically signalling for me to get clear as he ran. I couldn't hear what he was calling out. He must have placed the charges, I realised.

I turned fully, attempting to stagger back to the camp, still disoriented by the thick noise. Had it ended? Was it merely in ringing my head at this point?
Caught off guard, I choked as a gauntlet tightly gripped the back of my collar, hauling me off my feet. Dropping my weapons, I tried frantically to free myself from my coat before he could slam me to the ground, or worse, into the ravine beneath us. The pressure on my throat increased as the beast raised me to eye height and I could no longer breathe.
Through the haze, I saw two eyes blackened with pure madness, and feral teeth in a face so consumed by anger that it no longer passed for human. It slowly mouthed something that I couldn't hear for the blood pounding in my ears. I focused groggily.
-you too, will understand. You will-

The world around us erupted. Lasgun fire rained upon the marine, concentrating enough to blast a fist sized hole in his plated torso, causing him to stagger back toward the edge. The shots continued, punching yet more holes in several places, pushing us further back. Thankfully the Hollies were well trained and their shots were in slim danger of hitting anything else, I remained unharmed. But the giant still gripped my collar. Still struggling to free myself, I had no purchase to relieve the choking, and had now run out of air.

There was a brief break in the incoming fire. Looking past my captor, I could see Ahde amongst the front line, calling orders into his headset as they began to fall back. Our eyes met, horrified. As both of us realised what was about to happen, we couldn’t look away. It must have been seconds at most, but it felt like an hour.

Then, I could hear nothing, see nothing, as the charges detonated around and beneath the tainted marine. The ground rose to meet the pair of us, throwing us sideways and outward. The pressure on my throat lessened, and I was able to seize enough air to scream as we went over the cliff together.



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 3- Jallen - 732.M41] *

We killed it. I can’t say it feels like an achievement. Worth it? We lost seven men tonight. Our medic Timothy. Patricks, his squad-mate Andrews, three more troopers. And Cat.
Can’t even bury him; that thing took him with it, into the night when it fell. We could hear him screaming all the way down. Then it stopped and we heard them hit. Must be two, three hundred feet of sheer cliff, I don’t think there’s a way we can get down there safely. What would be do if we could? There’s no earth up here, just more blasted stone.
Those dead we could find, we walled up in a cave. We’re supposed to burn anyone touched by chaos, but nobody could face it, and I don’t think cut to pieces counts as touched anyway.
Ronson has been carving a stone for them, we’ll put it up before we leave. Cat, he deserved better. They all did.

Ahde's taken it hard, of course he has. He was nearest when Cat and the others were thrown down. Tried to get there in time, saw his face up close.
He wouldn't leave the edge until I asked him to, "There's people here need you, lad. Come away."
He actually stopped smiling and making funny for the night. I were dumbfounded.

[Disconnect]



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 4- Jallen - 732.M41] *

Woke up hopeful, with an idea. But Cat’s vox piece is still by his bedside. None of the lads we lost are responding either. Too much to hope for.
We lowered Dennis down, it took forever, our initial assessment was right - a three hundred foot drop, through trees, bushes, Den was a real mess by the time he got down, never mind back up. I don’t know what we expected. Found nothing down there, a smoking pile where the marine must have landed, a few more nearby. One of them… One of them must have been Cat. Dennis asked what to do, we didn’t have him move anything.

We moved out this morning. Sergeant Ronson and the lads put the stone up. Ahde said a few words, I were, well I were glad for him doing it. I know I couldn't.

He knew the lads we lost, had remembered something personal about all of them. When we get out of here, I'll never bad mouth his endless questions again. I see now that they're important.
He spoke of Cat briefly, too. How he was a bloody maverick, dangerous, but always on our side. “Kind.” he said. I never considered it that way.
I would've struggled to be concise, and Ahde usually never shuts up, but he somehow got it right with only a few words.

We all were very quiet this morning, understandable.

And now we’re to carry on. Find the next post, report back. The next. Report back. And so on. At the end then, we wait for assistance.

I keep turning to speak to him about the route, and the bastard’s not here.

[Disconnect]



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 4- Jallen - 732.M41] *

We gathered up Cat's things as we left, such as they were. A small satchel with very little in it, and his vox piece.

I had a look through this evening. There's a small folder with his Commissariat info, a few photos and his old medical data. Other than that, a few packs of smokes he pre-rolled, a dead lighter and a small mail packet with a torn address label on the side, in his handwriting. There's four small regimental flags folded up in that, one for each of the groups we've served alongside in the past four years, and one of ours with that stupid bee motif.

I don't know why he had those, or who they're even for. I thought that there was precious little left he could do to surprise me, but there's always one last puzzle, it seems.

[Pause]

Feth. Closest thing I ever had to a son, that... That utter cretin.
We all die out here sooner or later, but the older you get, the harder it is to see the young ones taken down. I still think of him as young. feth’s sake. I can remember the day we met, strewth he was young then. Twelve? Angry and wanting to do his best. Now he’s cold, laid out next to a monster in an unnamed crater, and we’re here. Still here.

Cat, he once said this was some kind of punishment, outliving others, watching the young die. I said we were lucky to survive so long. Cat, well, he didn't see it that way, “You call this luck, Gaz? Ask yourself how- why we’re still here. It’s our punishment for something. feth knows what.” Maudlin bastard.

If my punishment was watching him die as well, then what are we being punished for?

[Disconnect]

♬ You can certainly see how fulfilling a life,
From the cost and size of stone, of our final resting home.

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

I don't know why I didn't die. I fell, screaming, for what felt like hours, the giant hand still clasped my collar. Unseeing and terrified for the first time, in moments I expected the final impact with the earth below.
But then we both collided with a massive tree, in an explosion of noise, debris and splintering, I was shaken loose from his gauntlet. Thrown aside, I hung on, winded, my arms frantically gripping a branch.

I hung there in the dark, shaking and confused as terrible crashing continued below. The broken marine continued to fall, howling and screaming as his weight damned him to plummet to his death. With a sickening crack I heard his last moments, and then silence from below.
I had no idea where the ground was, or how high above I’d stopped. Hearing distant yells from human voices, I tried to call up to the camp above, but still winded and coughing, couldn't catch my breath enough to make the sound. Clinging there like a stranded cat, I inched towards the trunk of the tree that held me up. With an awful lurch, an echoing snap, the branch holding me finally gave way, and I offered up a silent expletive before following the marine downwards.

There's an expression about falling out of the ugly tree and hitting every branch on the way down. I was testing it physically as I pin-balled to the ground. branches and foliage breaking my fall every few feet, before the final drop that left me upended in a large, thick bush. Landing hard on my back, cushioned by curling greenery, but not terribly well.

I lay still, the world above span, my personal world of pain catching up with me as I gasped and hacked. Gradually able to breathe, I tested each limb gently, starting at my fingers, and finally sitting up shakily. Bruised and probably badly sprained in a few places, I'd survived somehow. The temptation to lie back down was immense, but I had a job to do down there, remembering the dead men who had been cast down along with me, and the corrupted Astartes.

Coughing, I staggered across the small clearing and looked for signs of life. The marine lay still, around him pieces of carnage and men that I recognised. We must have fallen two to three hundred metres, I couldn't see much light amongst the trees if I peered up. Perhaps my name-sake was holding true, or perhaps it was an extension of the curse of survival.
The air was cooling, evening paling to night, and I could hear nothing from above. I set about the task of finding the poor bastards who'd been torn apart by the chaos warrior, and putting them to flame, preventing them from rising again or being scavenged by whatever lurked nearby. Where I could, I gathered their dog tags and placed them into an inside pocket.
Feeling briefly like a grave-robber, I also collected a satchel from one headless corpse, finding a basic supplies kit, two canteens and some ammunition within. With time, I even found my hat, weapons and the Astartes’ severed arm. I set the limb atop one of the pyres, knowing it could likely do nothing, but feeling it necessary anyway.

My work was nearly done. I turned finally to the fallen Astartes. "Who were you, soldier?" I whispered, as I gazed up to the ruined form. I took a pace back involuntarily when he answered. 



[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

His eyes flickered shut, and Yorke slid off the chair softly in a sideways heap.
Celena stepped over and laid him out carefully on his side. He'd fallen unconscious. Or deeply asleep. His body starting to slow his frantic heart-rate and effects of the drug in his system, demanding peace. Combined with the exhaustion of his recent mission, and previous physical trauma, I was surprised he'd lasted as long as he had.
We'd got enough recorded to go on for today, I shook my head and prevented Aaric from administering adrenaline to wake the poor man up again. We'd let him come round on his own terms. Kindness or diplomacy, even I’m unsure these days.

As they pulled him upright into the chair, the assassin remembered her errand, and reached into her robes, pulling out a small bolt-gun shaped device. Holding the barrel to the back of Yorke's neck, she squeezed the trigger and it let out a sharp clacking sound. He didn't react to either sound or impact. Upon withdrawing the stubby gun, there was barely a mark on his skin to indicate the tracker's insertion.

"I thought we were trusting him?" I asked, feeling uncertain at the invasion of his privacy.
"I trust him. It's for his own safety as well." she replied tiredly, "The bio report will alert us immediately if anything untoward should happen."
"Sharp." I murmured.
"Amongst other things. It's not uncommon for someone in custody to feel a little... desperate."
I tilted my head, feeling uncharitable, "And you would care if he did?"
"I would care if a source of information were closed to us." she shrugged.
I felt some revulsion to the callous disregard for life, but accepted that I'm often alone in that view. For the good of others, we continue.

We took the opportunity to review the information gathered, whilst waiting for the commissar to come round. Some of the recorded information was useless, the rest I earmarked for later.
After about half an hour, Yorke stirred and rubbed his face, "Wzzt?"
“You’re safe, Commissar. Take it slow. Aaric will take you back to your barracks. You are to remain there, understand?" I said slowly.
He watched me with tired, bleary eyes and nodded, standing up shakily after a fashion, leaning heavily on the chair back.
The judge supported him under one arm, and led the groggy man away. I went back to processing the recordings and marking out pertinent areas.

My assassin colleague was watching with some interest, "So do you think he's one of them?" she gestured to her head, making a circle, a sign for tainted cultists.
"No. Whatever issues that man has, he's certainly no agent of chaos. Not willingly anyway." I paused, "Though his behaviour is deeply unusual; that bears closer inspection." I didn't voice my underlying problem with the commissar. As of yet it served no purpose, and would temper their approach unnecessarily.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: Meddles

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [732.M41] •

Soup. There’s always soup, and it’s not always great. Today it was grim and brown. But on the other hand, it’s honest. And doesn’t require a lot of attention to eat it. Which is just as well, considering that gobshite Ahde had been dogging my steps all morning. He was bored, and I was the current victim of his wandering mind.
“Cat?”
“Emperor’s throne, Ahde. What now?”
He picked up his meal tray and stepped after me, “How long have you been a full Commissar?”
“Long enough.” I sat down beside Gaskell and Halas on the bench, attempting to carefully place down my tray, without accidentally flinging soup across it.
“And you’re pretty good at it, otherwise you wouldn’t have lasted… So how come you’ve not got you know, medals like? Even Gaskell’s got brass and he keeps his head down. Hell, even I’ve got one.”
I squinted at his chest at a small circular brass disc with concentric rings sat, “Is that for shutting your mouth for half an hour? If you like we could try and I could put you in for another.”
Next to me, Gaskell choked on his soup.
Ahde rolled his eyes, “You know what it’s for! They even named a road after me when they rebuilt the city.”
“What, Bellend Lane?” I sniggered.
He ignored me, “My point is, why don’t you wear any?”
I chewed my bread roll, “Maybe I never had any. Why, do you think they’d suit me? Maybe they’d go with my purse?”
Gaskell leaned over, “Cat, stop winding him up. He did, Ahde. Stubborn bastard keeps sendin’ ‘em back. Commissariat thinks he’s making funny.”
Ahde looked bemusedly at the pair of us, “Ugh. Now I don’t know who to believe.” he grumbled.
Grinning to myself, I started on my soup.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: Schola Daze I - Making a name

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [M41] •

“Hey! What are you doing?” I came around the end of a ceiling-height bookcase in the library and to my surprise, found three students in their late teens pinning a far younger boy against a wall.
He must have been eight, if that. His dark uniform and pale hair askew from the struggle, and his face blotchy. I wasn’t sure if he was flushed from tears or being partly choked, but both were grounds to rile me greatly. The tallest of the boys was familiar to me. Warren, who was just under my height and a year or two older, perhaps seventeen. Pale haired and hard-faced, he was known across the schola for being an exceptional swordsman, but sadly not a modest one. His right cheek bore a long, slanted scar that he had earned from duelling without a mask. Such marks were considered a point of great pride amongst his peers. I thought he was an arse of the highest order, but I also appreciated that my view was perhaps ill-educated. The two lads with him, I also recognised but knew little of.

“Piss off, Yorke. This doesn’t concern you.” The leftmost boy growled over his shoulder. I thought that I remembered his name being Day.
I neatly shelved the book I was holding, “I am concerned. Three senior students taking an interest in a kid? Unless you are helping this lad with his homework, I would have you put him down.”
Warren half-turned to face me, scowling, and despite the low lights of the book-racks, I noticed a glint of metal by his hand, “It doesn’t concern you. Walk on.”
I narrowed my eyes, “What did he do?”
Warren fixed me with a grin, “This one were staring at me face. Thought I’d give him something of his own.” Idiot.
“He’s just a child; let him go.” I gestured to the boy who’s eyes were already welling up with tears.
The bully snarled, “Child? Even children must be taught respect.” He started to turn back.
“By those who deserve it, not lunatics like you!” I stepped closer. I am at times, not very smart. This was one of them.

He stiffened and faced me, raising an arm. The two lads behind him released the young boy who slid to the floor, pulling his hands over his face. Run, kid. Use some initiative…
“Yorke, was it? I can’t say I know anything about you.” He snaked out the still-raised arm and seized my lower jaw, slowly turning my head back and forth, examining my face, “No. Not memorable at all.”
Bristling, I took hold of his wrist firmly and pulled it away, releasing it at waist-height, “I do not aim to be memorable. I was sent here so that I could learn to better others, not make a name for myself!”
He laughed, sneering at my words, “You cannot hope to better others without yourself being great.” Looking back at his two friends, he grinned, facing me, “You, me, a piste, tomorrow evening. No masks. Let’s see if we can’t achieve both ends. I’ll give you something to be remembered by, and doing so will make me better.” 
Refusing to rise to his baiting, I shrugged, and replied calmly, “If you wish.” What are you doing? Inside, my heart was thudding in my chest, and my mind was screaming at me to back down.
“It’s settled, then.”  The three boys slunk off, and left me alone with the young lad, still curled up against the wall. 

Waiting until I could no longer hear their footfall, I sat down beside the huddled boy, my back against the same wall. He barely reached my shoulder, I leaned over towards him slightly, “I think that went well, don’t you?”
He raised his head and sniffed, whispering, “I d-didn’t mean to.”
“It wasn’t you, fella. Folk like him would find something to be angry about on a sunny day.” I patted his shoulder, “What’s your name?”
“Lewis. Lewis Cathery. You’re… Yorke?” He gazed at me with red, swollen eyes. They would have been a clear sky blue if he hadn’t rubbed them so much.
I smiled “Call me Ray. If they give you trouble again, you can let me know.” Not that I can do anything about it.
Lewis nodded, “Are you going to fight him?”
“Aye. I don’t look forward to it. Warren, big fella? He’s probably the best swordsman in the schola, outside of the coaches, and I reckon he could give some of them a short run for their money.” speaking it aloud brought home quite how screwed I was.
“What about you?” he asked.
I shook my head, “Adequate I believe is the word used most often. Mediocre, occasionally.” I saw the confusion in his face, remembering he was much younger, “No, I’m not great.” 
He was still visibly confused, “Then why?”
“I don’t like bullies.” I said simply, then considered, “We are here to learn how to set examples to others. Or so I thought. By allowing him to be cruel to you, I’m letting both of you down.”
Understanding dawned across Lewis’s face as he seized the idea, “Because you’d be letting him learn that being mean is okay?”
Glad that he grasped where I was headed, I smiled, “Exactly.”

[Only Heresy - Chapter III - A Sharp Interruption]

[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

Mere moments after Boorman and the commissar left the room, Yorke's bio-tracker went berserk, causing alarms to sound and the screen to flash alerts on the pad. His pulse had spiked indicating sudden shock, or possibly worse.
Looking at Celena, I leapt to my feet, and ran in the direction the pair had been headed, "Stay here, secure this room!"
She didn’t question the order and as I cleared the dooway he had already swept up all of the files on the desk.
I found the two men halted a little way up the corridor, Yorke still leaning unsteadily over Aaric's shoulder. Their progress had been impeded by two hooded figures in hooded robes, I recognised them as we approached. Acolytes working for another Ordos Malleus inquisitor. One we had just barely beaten to the punch…

I put myself quickly between the two acolytes and the unlikely pair accompanying me, "You have no right to impede our passage. Kindly remove yourselves." I kept my voice calm, but worked a low-level influence towards the pair. If receptive it would merely make them more amenable to my request.
“They do not; I however, do." the voice came from behind us, and I span to see the last man in the sector that any of us wished to encounter.
Inquisitor Sharp had arrived.

Hooded himself, he was of medium height, with hard steel eyes in a heavily scarred face. But the first thing most people noticed about the inquisitor wasn’t his face or height.
"Sharp. Ordos Malleus." he nodded to me curtly, "Renan, I have encountered before during your time with Inquisitor Cape. Judge Boorman I assume, and... I do not believe I have the pleasure of knowing this one." he gestured Yorke with one hand.
"Sparkly!" exclaimed the commissar.
I could only see Boorman's back, but he had clearly just closed his eyes and placed his spare hand over them.

"That would be Commissar Yorke," I said quietly, "he's just been through an interview, and is still under the influence."
Yorke turned his head to face me and grinned happily.
I nodded sympathetically and with one hand, pointed back to the inquisitor, indicating he should pay attention in that direction.
"I see." Sharp raised an eyebrow, "That certainly simplifies matters. You will hand him over to us now."
"With respect, Inquisitor, we will not. You indeed have rank on us, but our orders came directly from Inquisitor Cape, and he has issued an edict protecting the 183rd regiment from external investigation. To violate that would be both a transgression of their trust, and his."
Sharp's eyes narrowed at us, and I sensed he was about to speak again.
I continued, "However as fellow Ordos Malleus, there is no reason we cannot share our information, resources and findings directly with you, or that you cannot observe the investigation in person."

The inquisitor considered this for a moment, before replying, "I see why he sent you along with his new recruits. That is acceptable. And, as you say, there’s no reason to double up the amount of work or energy in investigating this matter." he gestured again, and behind us his two acolytes departed, "I will attend your further interviews."
I nodded, "Of course. I will prepare an unedited copy of today's recordings for you."
He turned to leave, and I remembered one of the conditions of Yorke's trust.
"Inquisitor Sharp-"
"Yes?"
"-the 183rd Mordian barracks are to be left undisturbed by the investigation, unless it is believed absolutely necessary, or that our sources are unreliable." I suspected this would not sit well.
A strange expression flickered across Sharp's face but was then gone, "As Inquisitor Cape would have it." he departed.

"Let's get you to bed." I sighed at Yorke.
"That man had shiny hands!" he whispered, his eyes wide in delight.
I nodded patiently, "Yes he did, shiny metal hands."
Yorke smiled, “Is he good people too? I liked him."
I glanced back down the corridor, "That... Remains to be seen."



[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

The judge brought Cat back hours later. I don't know what they'd done to him, but he could barely walk. His eyes were black and he looked pale as hell. Boorman, wanted to take him him towards his room, but I had to stop him. For one, the place were trashed. During the interview some of the ship's orderlies had stripped it down, by order of the Inquisition. Taken all his belongings. They were about as graceful as a bunch of people who really didn't want to do something, could be expected to be about it.
For two, I didn't want him taken back through the barracks where anyone could see him. We didn't know what he'd be coming back like, if at all.

To get him away from the lads and all that, Adhe had set up a hammock in the signal office. We just didn't expect Cat to be in such a state.
"What did you do?" I stopped Boorman before he left.
He were open about it, "The commissar has been drugged. He will sleep; it'll wear off soon. There will be no lasting effects. We'll collect him again tomorrow."
I weren't convinced, "He looks like gak." I said.
"He looked like that before we took him. You're just seeing it now he's not capable of putting on a front." and he just left.
Arse.

Ahde and I had to drag Cat pretty much. He could stand up, but he were out of it. He were smiling throughout, that in itself were really odd.
With the adept gone, I asked him, "Are you okay, fella? Did they hurt you?"
He just spun and hugged me, and mumbled some gibberish about there being nice people with sparkly hands while he hung there.

And then he fell asleep, then and there. If you've ever had a six foot tall officer fall dead asleep on you, whilst you’re both still standing up, you're part of a very limited club.
Thankfully Ahde were in the room. We managed to put the idiot in the hammock. We would’ve laughed but it was actually frightening to see him spark out like that. That bastard Judge should have warned us. Shouldn't have drugged him to begin with. I know he's awkward at times, but Cat's loyal to a fault, there’s nothing he wouldn’t have told them.

In the evening there's a meal and a sort of social party-thing to celebrate our victory down there, and the arrival of two Astartes. They've come to bear witness to the fall of their brothers, it's very important to them.

I'm staying out of the way, I hate formal do’s and with these Inquisition, I don't have a good feeling about any of it.

[Disconnect]



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

The air had the start of evening chill to it as I woke face down. One arm trailing inelegantly out of the hammock, the other as it turned out from flexing it, wrapped around my face. I enjoyed the stretch, feeling a little relieved, it had been the hard, thick kind of sleep, without dreams. I allowed my thoughts to roll around my head, celebrating the comparable ease and clarity that the rest had brought.
Shifting, I noticed a weight on my back, someone had done their best to throw a dark blanket over the hammock. It slid off as I righted, and I spotted the addition of an upturned bucket, sporting a mug of soup. I drank. It was cold filth, but someone had made the effort.

Unable to excuse sitting there any longer, I made way back to the the main barrack. My neck itched, and my clothes were still stuck to me. Acutely aware that I badly needed a wash, a shave and a conversation that didn't orbit around the last month.

After those mercies, I hoped for a few hours of distraction before the night's shindig and then after that, probably a fight between Cape’s’ group and Sharp over the first honour of scraping my brain tomorrow. I winced. In Renan’s case at least, it may not be literal. I wondered how many claws they were hiding inside the glove of their softly-softly approach. How long their patience would last.

I was unsure who was the more dangerous, the slighted Inquisitor or the acolytes straining to prove themselves.

~

The annoying part about fight scenes (for me anyway) is you can only go too far before it's the same descriptionsituation over and over. Of course, melee gets a bit easier for me because it's not just "the lasround bursts through his skull (x20)" but actual dodging swings and counter strikes. I guess that's part of the reason why I write for Kroot, they go for melee, and have a tendency to bite you, which I find morbidly entertaining.

Yeah, I have the same problem, but for a run of the mill traitor. Basically I cycle through heretic, cultist, and traitor sporadically enough so it sounds good. I would hate doing space marine. (I've got nothing besides space marine/just marine, and astartes)

I think you'll do fine, your conversations are the strong point of your stories, and you have strong characters. Just let them loose in the room and see where they go, because in the end, if it is just a soiree you can always just write it off later as them being too tipsy, on the other hand if something comes up and the wrong person gets insulted it could be a setup for some serious backstabbing in the future. Yorke has a snappy wit, let him get a few in him and start firing off some scathing zingers without his normal (albeit transparent) restraint that stops him from saying the wrong thing about the wrong people while the wrong ears are listening. Or let someone else do something along those lines, get somebody in hot water and then figure out how they're going to get out of it or watch them cook to death, so long as it furthers the story then it sounds like you've got some good material to work with. Also, you have some great established characters, let them do the talking.

While I'm no raging fanatic, I'm fine with having some Wolves turn rabid so to speak, just don't make them hush up about it like another certain chapter.

Oh, hello nice Dark Angel, that's a nice black bag, what are yo-

*is sent on a very nice, permanent, vacation*

As a Space wolf player, I don't see a problem with that at all, every chapter has corruption within their ranks (honestly, I wonder if there has ever been a member of the opposite team turn back from chaos...).

Also, why does there need to be a reason for a party? What if they just had a big fight that they narrowly escaped and just want to blow off some steam? What if they've just helped a colony that has a high female population concentration and the younger troops wanna have fun so some of the older ones simply get together to reminisce or have fun in their own way? Like I said, your characters should be able to carry themselves, trust that they'll do something interesting when you put them in a room together, even if it isn't for the best constructed reason.

[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

We managed to avoid the party. Well, I did. Cat and I were hanging around in the mess hall, talking over how today had gone. Why the mess hall? It has the most exists. An office only has one. Ahde were off sleeping now that Cat had recovered enough from the drug to not scare us both. Wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he worries.

Two posh nobs swept in while we were all talking. Aides or junior officers, dressed up like right tarts. They spied Cat and me. Bees to sugar, or flies to gak, I'm not sure.

I was not having it, and Cat wasn’t really in a fit state to deal with them either. He’d scrubbed up okay, sorted himself out, but he looked rough and dog tired still. The time on Jallen hadn’t treated him well, it were easy to forget, but to me he looked like he’d lost about a third of his original bodyweight. He were never exactly lardy to start with.
"Oh, you are not yet at the dinner either! You must join us, Captain! Commissar!" probably thinking that turning up with us would cover their tardy entrance.
"I'm afraid Captain Gaskell and I are… Still discussing something rather important." Cat is not a good liar, and I must admit I really had it on me tonight.
"Nonsense, Commissar Yorke! You must attend, after all, it would be shameful for one not to show up at our own celebration." I gave him the best gak-eating grin I could pull. He smiled back. His eye was twitching. I wanted to see what he’d do.
"So you'll be coming as well then." he tried, bless him.
"Ah no, these formal occasions are hardly my forte. You go with my blessings."

They dragged Cat away, nearly left his heel marks on the tiles. I'd feel bad, but it were hilarious to see him try and escape it. Lanky bugger shooting me looks over his shoulder, mix of frustration and fear.
He’ll be okay. Schola teaches them all about formality and social graces. I’d probably pick up the wrong glass, or pour my wine into the wrong fork. Besides, been to one of those ball-ache events, been to them all.

[Disconnect]



[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

I can’t say that I was greatly enthused by the party held this evening, but it was certainly a more light-hearted affair than those we usually attend. In one of the larger conference halls, many of the Nubila’s upper command and staff had come to greet two Astartes. Namely elder Space Wolves, Raoul Dromgoole and Brynjar Davis.
There were also a number of Charlen officers, and a scattering of the Mordian 183rd. Sharp and two of his acolytes were in attendance, though stayed silent throughout the introductions. I had suggested that Aaric, Celena and I attend in hope of making the acquaintance of the two Astartes, and keeping an eye on proceedings.
It also beat listening to giggly commissar recordings all night if I’m quite honest.

Speaking of which, whilst their sergeant was there, Captain Gaskell was noticeably missing, alongside his friend, Commissar Yorke. a little later into the evening, Yorke arrived, flagged by two of the Nubila’s crew.
He looked greatly uncomfortable to be there, and there were frost particles in the air when Inquisitor Sharp was introduced to him by a slightly inebriated Captain Sibley. From the looks of things, the accompanying handshake was deeply painful.
Yorke managed to neatly vanish into the crowd shortly after, leaving Sharp stuck in conversation with the Charlen captain.

However, I was watching Commissar Yorke. He stepped towards the two great Astartes, saluting and gesturing politely. When Raoul turned to greet him, Yorke took an involuntary step back, appearing suddenly terrified. He blanched as though seeing a ghost. Little did I know that it was actually the case.
I listened in carefully, wandering a little closer under the pretence of distractedly keying into my dataslate.

“You have seen my face before, Commissar?” Raoul asked him gently.
“Y- How?” Yorke was pale, and had lost much of his composure.
“Many of our brothers share a family resemblance.” the Space Wolf smiled, trying to put the man at ease.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that— he was-“ the commissar stared ahead, thousands of miles away, lost in troubled memory, “I- I was asked to return something of importance to you.”
The second Astartes, Brynjar, spoke quietly, “Then you were the man who encountered our fallen brothers on Jallen.”
“Yes.” Yorke spoke but his thoughts were still back on the planet. He shook his head slightly, as if to attempt to clear it, “The last time I saw your face, it was dying.” Realising, he clasped both of his hands to his mouth, horrified at his own words.

Raoul reached out carefully and put his hand on the commissar’s shoulder as if to reassure him. It seemed to have the opposite effect as Yorke tensed.
“Then you know what happened?” asked Brynjar.
The commissar answered, “Some of it, sir.”
“If we meet later, would you tell us of it?” Raoul asked the terrified man.
“I can certainly try.” Yorke caught sight of Inquisitor Sharp approaching out of the corner of his eye, and flinched again, “But I must go, sirs, I’m sorry. I will find you this evening if I’m allowed the time to myself. If not then, tomorrow.”
Without waiting for their reply, the commissar departed, vanishing into the crowd. I couldn’t follow his movement, as he disappeared. Inquisitor Sharp arrived shortly after, glancing around to see where his target escaped to, his visage calm, but his body language crackling with annoyance. He bowed his head curtly to the Space Wolves, and set off after Yorke into a side corridor.
I slipped back to where Boorman and Celena were stood, about to suggest that we perhaps follow the odd couple, when Celena’s bio tracker alarm started beeping frantically. Sharp had caught up with his prey, it seemed. I allowed them to scan the dataslate and locate Yorke by themselves, it seemed churlish to lead the way, as I in theory, am here to observe, not lead.

Yorke was puzzling to me.
Like staring at the sun, the longer I spent in his company, the harder it became to get a clear image. I still felt from him an over-riding sense of duty to assist others. But then, whole sections of his consciousness shifted before I could get my bearing on them, like spiralling flocks of birds. I don't think it was voluntary, or conscious, nor was he remotely gifted with psychic ability. Which made my difficulty all the more concerning. Something was gently obscuring him from me, and not necessarily to his own knowledge. It went well beyond any level of Commissariat training.

In comparison, Sharp had carefully constructed the walls around his own mind, training himself or tampering to block all but the most basic emotional readings. Staring toward him was as dangerous as standing on the edge of an abyss with no handrail. There was seemingly nothing, a deeply volatile trap to navigate. I was not prepared to even try.
Even the others in my company seemed to sense the devil in him, or some other level of danger. They spoke of him little, and didn’t look directly at him when he joined us for any length of time.



[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [Day 2 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

I should have gone with him. Throne knows what I was thinking letting them take him out of my sight. Getting Cape's inquisition bladdered. With the Astartes! Getting his arse chewed out by Sharp! Love notes and wine from the kitchen staff! 

Really could do without having to babysit the new lot as well. They're fractious, nowty and who could blame them. We're cooped up again after a month in the free air. I've had to break up two fights this past day, and it's only going to get worse. I'm only thankful that Cape is protecting us from Sharp's lot. I see them skulking around the place. I'd rather have gone to that nobby dinner than spend ten minutes with any of them. They can't touch us, but they're like dogs at the gate. Barely controlled and waiting for one of us to slip.

[Crashing noise] Again? Might not even have to wait too long. I'll end up starting it myself if things don't loosen up soon.

[Disconnect]



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 1 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

Measurably, the Inquisitor.
“Do you think you are being smart?" the Inquisitor spat, as my back hit the wall, "You think you have snatched something back from this?"
Evidently Sharp had found out more about the agreement with his fellow Inquisitor Cape, the rushed edict protecting the Hollies. They were not his target, but the move had rubbed him badly. It slighted him on a level he was seemingly unprepared to deal with.
"No, sir." I looked away, down the corridor hoping someone may come this way. No such luck. I was unsure who I was hoping for. Sharp had a facade to maintain, that much I knew. My best chance would be forcing him into raising it again.
His steel grip pinned my left arm above my head against the wall, the other arm at my side. He was hissing venom into my ear, causing my guts to chill. Vivid descriptions of methods that that I couldn't believe came from his mouth. I called on my ability to appear impassive, which was entirely the wrong response. I was causing him to rapidly lose his temper. His grip was turning my hands as cold as my innards.

My best chance arrived.
“Is there a problem, Inquisitor?” Emperor bless you, Boorman.
Sharp relaxed his grip long enough for me to slide free, not missing the chance to murmur behind my neck final time. Renan caught my eye as I failed to stop the last threat from affecting my expression.
"A... Personal matter." Sharp turned with a fixed smile, showing entirely too much teeth.
Celena stepped forward, her face shadowed, “Inquisitor Sharp, we had an agreement that you would not interfere with the 183rd regiment. That particularly includes their commissar!”
Sharp turned fully to face the trio, “I do not have to answer to you, nor your new recruits, Renan.”
“You do not, but if you wish to take the matter up personally with Inquisitor Cape himself, we can certainly arrange that, right now.” I felt something emanate from Renan. It was subtle, but the atmosphere had most definitely changed.

Sharp's back was up, and I seized the moment to slip away. Out of the corridor, across the hall, and into an empty function chamber, before I allowed the raw panic to take me over. One of the two groups would find me eventually, but Renan’s seemed to have the edge in this regard. As I dropped onto a cloth covered table and shook slightly, I considered this. Their timing, their uncanny timing.
My neck itched.
Removing a glove, I carefully examined the back of my neck with my fingertips. A tiny raised lump, barely noticeable. It prickled fiercely as I touched it, the centre small, but firm. Some kind of tracker?
Those bastards had me tagged like an animal. The further indignity of the situation hit me with equal measures anger and desperation.

Not allowing the despair to take hold, I decided it was time to make things a little more interesting for the Inquisition. I needed to buy time and consider how. As I looked around the room, the empty glasses on the sideboard gave me the seeds of an idea.

*

“Well. You owe me a drink, Raoul. I bet you if I held my breath they'd arrive!" I gestured as the Acolytes appeared in the doorway. The two lightly garbed Astartes filled the small chamber with their deep laughter.
Raoul slapped me on the back, rocking me forwards, "Their faces!"
It was the turn of the two Acolytes to be indignant as they slowed their pace entering the chamber.
"Perhaps I should have let you carry on with your perfect timing routine?" I teased gently.
“Commissar, I would have words with you.” Aaric gave me an exceptionally stern glare that probably would’ve worked quite well on anyone else.
I met it with a polite, and probably quite irritating, smile.
"No, not tonight!" announced Raoul, his face serious, "Tonight we mourn our fallen brothers, and celebrate their honour. You will join us, this Cat tells us you are likely good men. These names should be remembered by good men." he raised his arms wide before saluting the three Inquisition, who returned the gesture in kind.
Brynjar carefully cradled a small black cloth bundle in one hand, "Your friend here returned tokens of those who fell. He carried these and their names with him until he could return. We may pay respect to our brothers."

Boorman frowned, and gave me another exceptionally hard stare, “I thought that all of your belongings were confiscated.”
"I am not entirely without my methods." I answered Aaric’s raised eyebrow, "Whilst thorough, your searches are somewhat... Linear in thought." enjoying the brief frustration on their faces. Truth is, I had stashed the tokens in Gaskell’s satchel the moment the inquisition showed their faces, expecting a check on my own gear, the pieces were entirely overlooked.
"He has also," Raoul smiled broadly, a not entirely unpleasant view, "Remembered to indulge another tradition of ours."
Brynjar lifted the pale tablecloth of the nearest bench slightly, revealing a crate of glass bottles, "You will join us." he repeated, and gestured to the crate before leaving the room.
I tried to read the faces of the acolytes as they hauled up one of the tinkling crates. The scribe Renan looked quietly amused, as far as I could tell. He winked to me as they left the room, and slipped away in another direction. I returned it, he’d grasped what I was up to, and yet was prepared to let the acolytes learn this particular lesson on their own.

The second best advice I ever received: Always respect the folk who do things for you, aboard ships, in buildings, colleges, any establishment really. Doormen, security, maintenance, mailmen, and in this case, kitchen staff. For one, they have amazing stories, as they see everything, and scarce anyone truly notices them. For two, they remember those of us who take the time to give back, and don’t treat them like gak. Now and then, they can be trusted to return a favour when you most need it.

~

(Cat discovered his microchip far earlier than expected. Remember to spay and chip your commissars! Only you can prevent unwanted litters)

[Bonus Scene]

I very rarely comment on this aspect of my characters, but I was so-so about putting this entry in after a friend raised concerns in a pre-read. I hadn't cottoned on to it potentially reading like Cat slept with a space marine. That is not what happened. Whilst he's ambitious, he's not that ambitious. Or sturdy.


[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 2 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732.M41] *

Carrying on the recent tradition of waking up in unusual places, I jerked upright in the dark and cracked my head on the underneath of a hard metallic surface, inches above my face.
My skull was already rattling. I gripped it with both hands, "Fttthhh."
"He wakes!" a voice cried out, and I began to scramble out confusedly as the giant Brynjar dragged me out from under the table by the shoulders, and pulled me to my feet.
"Little less hands-on, please, sir." I mumbled. The man lifted me as easily as he would a child, despite my height.
"You weren’t saying that last night!" chided Raoul from across the room.
I jolted back in confusion, whilst Brynjar almost doubled over, failing to control his amusement, "You're easy to ruffle, Cat!"
"Ngh. You're outsmarting a man who just concussed himself. I hope you're proud." I shook my head, smiling. That smile dropped as I glanced down, "Where is my shirt?" realisation, and slight panic set in, “And my sash?” My headache pulsed, competing for attention.
Another laugh, "Do you need us to dress you, Kitten?"

“No. Now you're just being ridiculous." I sighed. I held up my hands and looked at the ceiling. There was no salvaging dignity; I sat down on the edge of the nearest chair and cupped my aching head. I felt strangely vulnerable without anything to hide the scar raking my back.
Brynjar’s eyes followed me as I moved, and recognition flickered across his face that the game had gone too far. He changed tack, "Well Cat. Let me show you something you'll enjoy."
I sighed, as he winked wickedly, expecting more jokes at my expense. However he held his finger to his lips and motioned for me to follow him outside.
"How- How did they manage to get up there?" I whispered. I couldn't help but tilt my head and marvel. From the looks of it, Celena and Boorman were going to have a far more eventful waking than I did.

*

Well, that bought me the morning away from their investigation efforts, at the very least. A fair exchange for the skull-splitting headache that was building.
I eventually located my shirt and sash, both hanging on chairs under the table I’d slept beneath. They were soaked through with water for some reason. The possibilities were endless, but the most likely that I’d either fallen victim to a prank and taken them off to dry, or I’d joined some kind of fully-clothed swim-team. It would have perhaps been easier to find them had i not awoken by slamming my head into the nearest available surface, Bidding pleasant farewells to the Wolves, I set off to try and catch up with my friends, and hopefully nip past Michelle’s station for some headache tablets.

I walked smack into Renan coming from the opposite direction.
"Oh please, no." I muttered, miserably.
Instead of any officious response, he regarded me with kind amusement, "You gave them the slip, then."
"You might very well think that, but I couldn't possibly comment." I examined the ceiling tiles.
He chuckled, "Quite."
Wordlessly, we parted ways.
“Ramirez?” Renan called quietly from down the corridor as I approached a split in the path.
I turned my head, and he indicated to the left silently, and gave me a small hand signal for all clear. For whatever reason, he was helping me to avoid Sharp, and I nodded, gratefully.

[Only Heresy - Chapter IV - Investigation Resumes]

[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 2 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732.M41] *

“Inquisitor Sharp, these are yesterday’s recordings in full.” I handed a dataslate and accompanying cable across his desk.
Sharp accepted them with a nod, “Thank you, Renan. Are you still allowing me to sit in on your little chat today?” he raised an eyebrow.
“If you indeed wish to attend,” I ignored his sarcasm, but answered with some of my own, “but if you would permit things to take their course naturally, that would be preferable. I doubt the commissar needs you to hold his hands again.”
He smiled, “Of course. When?”
“We have just sent Boorman to collect him.”
Sharp slid the pad into a drawer by his knee, “I’ll accompany you then, if that is agreeable.”

The office was quite spartan, which was no great surprise. The desk was standard, metal, blocky and produced in their thousands. What did bear inspection was the furniture that Sharp had brought with him.
In a secured, tall glass cabinet behind his desk, sat a few books, battered and highly worn, their covers most unreadable from age. A few were bound in materials that I had a rising suspicion would cause many people alarm or disgust. Celena had noticed them too, though she did not comment. 

What primarily caught my attention on the shelf was a small statue, casually placed up there, almost being used as a bookend. It was incredibly unpleasant, and the shape alone told me that it was a confiscated artefact. I would have trouble describing the form, esoteric and painful to consider for long. It was also unusually cold. I could feel from across the room that it drew warmth from its surroundings and tiny beads of water clung to the glass closest to it, as it chilled the surface from within.
Distracted from the task at hand, I wondered why a vigilant man such as Sharp would have brought these foul things with him. But I also supposed even when travelling the galaxy, investigation continues. Often the safest place to store the unknown is close by. Not a comforting thought for the rest of us.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 2 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732.M41] *

"You could save us all an awful lot of time and just have me shot." I murmured as I sat down.
Renan smiled, “Relax Ramirez, I very much doubt that is going to happen."
Inquisitor Sharp gave an unpleasant grin from across the room, “Absolutely. For one, tall, well conditioned servitors are hard to come by out here. No point in wasting a useful body."
I involuntarily froze, looking back and forth between the pair of them. I had absolutely no idea or not if Sharp had been joking. I also didn't know if he'd somehow gained information on what I'd thought was a well-buried phobia of the fething things.

"That was unkind." Renan sighed, “Inquisitor, if you're going to deliberately antagonise our charge, I'm going to have to request that you leave."
Sharp nodded and drew his hand across his mouth with an invisible zipping motion. He then winked at me and gave the grin again. It was somehow worse.
Renan clearly sensed my apprehension, "Nothing you've told us so far has raised suspicion of you as a traitor or a heretic, Ramirez. We are here to gather information, not put you on trial." he smiled and that was at least reassuring.
His two colleagues exchanged a glance beside him. I suspected that they didn't share his view. they at least, were partly cowed to Renan’s authority. Since Sharp’s arrival, they had taken a step back, and had been considerably less forthright. At a guess, his presence foxed them.

The judge handed me the beaker of drugs again, and I drank. It took considerably longer to relax with Sharp in the room. Perhaps I was less physically exhausted, perhaps an animal part of my brain was fighting against the drug with the predatory presence nearby. Either way, this time I felt markedly less safe, right until it took me completely.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 3 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

Something unknown to me drew me closer, and I climbed the heap of shale, pieces scattering by my clumsy ascent. I stood I looking over the giant Astartes. A broken sapling lay across his waist, the trunk smeared thick with his blood, the foliage mercifully shielding the view of his lower body from us both.
I looked at his face, and was surprised when this time, two entirely human eyes met my own. His skin was greyed, but with every second, gradually returning to a more healthy shade where it was visible beneath blood and matted hair. The fatal wounding had chased away the corruption. Abandoning him at the end, I thought bitterly. Else it was a trick, a last perversion of the chaos taint. 
My hand traced to my waist, for my hellpistol. We were to end those affected by chaos. To fail to do so, to sympathise with the enemy was traitorous at best. I was torn. It was also my duty to understand what had happened, and to respect the life around me. I relaxed my arm and sat down warily on a shattered rock by the head of the once proud warrior.

The damage would have killed a human, but the superior physiology of an Astartes was keeping the poor bastard alive, prolonging the end. His breathing was shallow and pained, but he was unmistakably conscious.
Unsure why, I reached out and gently cleared the mess of tangled hair and blood from his face, allowing him to see better and speak.
"Allfather forgive me." he whispered, "Forgive us all."
The words set a chill through my spine. More of them? I pushed away thought for the time being.
"Rest, sir." I tried not to look farther down to where the tree lay. I kept my eyes on his face. The distinctive features and dark brow wracked more with guilt than physical pain.
A movement flickered beside me as he tried to raise an arm. It would not cooperate, so much damage. The other lay far from us, burned and barely recognisable. Realisation hit and he stopped, "This is it."
I nodded, "Yes sir." Despite my misgivings, he deserved the truth.
"Thank you for the honesty." he gave a grim smile, "Appreciate it."
"I've been told I'm terrible at lying." I returned the smile, trying and likely failing, to mask the concern in my face.

"It will be night soon." he then murmured a phrase in a rough tongue, looking up toward the sky. It had been a long time since I'd heard it, an old Fenrisian expression about the night’s reflection. I nodded absentmindedly.
He spotted the movement, his tired eyes became curious and intense.
"I started my life in a system the wolves liberated, sir. Many of the tales we studied were of your history. I’m very rusty, but I remember a small amount.”
“Hah. How did we end up here, on this dry blighted rock?" he laughed, the movements juddering in his chest.
"Perhaps it is repayment for something we did." I grinned bitterly.

We spoke for a while, him speaking of old lands and ice, of winds, and of stars neither of us would likely ever see again. Some that doubtless no longer existed. I told him of some of the worlds I’d experienced, limited and humble in comparison, but as time drew on, he needed the breaks from speaking it provided.
As the dark began to fade, his voice was becoming quieter, and his skin was gradually losing its regained colour. I reached out instinctively and touched my hand to his brow, feeling it cold and sticky, as the final acts of his body pulled the blood to his core.
I leaned back and cursed.
He understood, and made to distract me, "There is something I would ask you do."
“Sir?” I sat up straight and attentive.
“If you make it off this world, I would have you return my name to my brothers. Let them know that I died as a man within my own mind, not as some ravening perversion of myself.” his words were slow and carefully chosen.
“I’ll do my best.” I wasn’t certain I’d even make it out of the jungle, but I could certainly try to honour the warrior’s last request.

*

I stayed with the wolf until he passed. The dust had long settled around us, and the stillness caused by his breath finally ceasing was a roaring silence in the dark. Strange stars gave faint light, along with a half-shaded moon I found myself staring at.
I felt deeply unsettled, a dead Astartes was not unheard of, but with them held up as small gods amongst us, if felt as though I should not have witnessed this. But the thought of leaving a man, even a proud man, alone in a strange world to die was more obscene. 
I looked at the broken figure, unsure if it would rise again, twisted further by forces no longer held at bay. Our instruction was to burn all tainted by the chaos, to prevent spread. In the night, the fire and smoke would be covered enough that I could get a good distance away before noticed. But burning an Astartes, even a fallen one, my gut twisted as I wrested with the decision.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41] *

In the cold morning light, I lay on my front, hidden in the dry ditch, listening intently to the crashing footfall nearby. I had failed to crack my dislocated shoulder back into place, my sword arm useless in combat for the time being. At least I still had my pistol, for all the use it would be against so many.
The vegetation by my hiding spot was thick along the ground, shielding me from view, but not tall enough to afford me the luxury of crouching. I’d stumbled this way in the night, mistaking the camp for Guard. It had been theirs at some point, but even from this distance I’d realised something was deeply wrong, and thrown myself down into the ditch. The smell alone had alerted me to what lay within. As the morning came, more horrors had become visible.

A one-armed, battered human in a jungle full of nightmares. I kept still, the urgency of strategic concealment allowing me to stave off feeling pathetic just yet. I just needed to wait for nightfall and I could move again. The stench of rot rose on the air, and travelled thick in the slow breeze. But the horror and flies paled against the pain across my shoulders.
After leaving the hasty pyre, I’d wandered in the dark, surmising that downhill would be roughly the right direction if I were to ever hope of meeting up with the squad. Exhaustion or poor judgement, I’d found another sheer drop, feet first, and fallen badly. Catching myself in a tree, I’d managed to break my fall, but in the process, neatly dislocated my arm at the shoulder. Climbing down had been extraordinarily foul.

Looking out across what had once been an Imperial Guard camp, I felt uneasy. Cultists? Warped minds now loyal to some screaming lunatic ideals, all of them once guard themselves. So many more dead. Then there as the potential for more corrupted Astartes. I shuddered involuntarily. If there was one, could others have fallen? On the way to the ditch, I'd come across scores of dead men, guard and cultist alike, torn apart, burned, mutilated, but no sign of the other Space Wolves sent down here. I pushed the thought away. There was nothing I could do about any of it for now. I settled down to wait.

A sudden howl of anger was thrown up from inside the camp, and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement. Turning my head slowly, I nearly swore aloud in disbelief as a small green and brown blur was sprinting erratically through the open spaces between tents. A tiny xenos. A greenskin, his path arcing past my chosen hiding spot. 

Feth.

The grot was an opportune thief, I guessed, disturbed by the camp’s movements. Maybe thirty metres behind him, someone unseen was shouting, and a second, human figure could be heard, giving chase. At this rate the fething grot was fast-tracking me to an even less dignified death than expected.
I felt something akin to pity for the small creature, and to this day I don't know why I did it. But as the tiny greenskin made his way past, I lunged forwards through the foliage, threw my good arm up and pulled him into the ditch by his ankle with a brief yelp. Releasing him just as quickly, I held a finger to my mouth as he span like a cat to right himself. Suspicion flooded his sharp features, but he mercifully understood, staying silent and still. The gamble paid off, as seconds later, his pursuer thumped straight past us. 
My sudden action caught up with me, pain lancing through my torso, causing me to convulse onto my side, shaking, and any moment of relief was stolen from me.
The small creature huddled up against the inner bank of the ditch, watching me intensely. 

~

I must say that I've been waiting for the next installment of Yorke's fall with an astartes, and I wasn't disappointed. I think you did fine with what you've written about the party, it didn't show that it wasn't your fondest part of the story at all.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: Schola Daze II - Saving Face

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [M41] •

“Truth be told, sir, I was wondering if it were possible to brush up on my sword work…” I shifted uneasily under his gaze.
The coach surveyed me with a critical eye, “What’s brought on this sudden interest, Yorke? You usually can’t get out of here fast enough and back to your books.”
Choosing to be honest, I replied, “Warren has demanded that I fight him. First blood. And I don’t much fancy the idea of him carving me a new nose.”
Sighing, he straightened up and refastened his jacket, “Warren? I see. Come then, let’s see if we can’t try and save your face, literally.”
We picked up rapiers and set off. After about half an hour, I hadn’t vastly improved, but he had at least stopped swearing at me quite so often, accepting that I was paying attention, and trying my best. It’s just that my best simply wasn’t very good. My strikes were steady enough, but lacked necessary conviction, and I was finding it hard to avoid incoming blows whilst focusing on my attacks.
The coach halted, his blade pressing lightly against my neck, “We need to try something else.”
I hung my head, “That bad?”
“Your defence is far stronger than your offence. Let’s focus on that.” the coach was being unusually kind. I suspected it was less for my benefit, and more in the hope of seeing someone upstage Warren.

Pulling back and relying entirely on reflex to parry and riposte, I fared far better. This time staying and deflecting perhaps two thirds of his incoming strikes. It was definitely an improvement. After another half hour, it was becoming more of a second nature. He started to employ techniques I recognised from watching Warren, and a good few I was capable of avoiding. It was exceptionally tiring, and I was near wrung-out, but muscle memory was starting to sink in. I felt brief hope that the evening’s bout might not be a total disaster after all.

Suddenly, the coach lunged at the shoulder of my sword-arm. Catching the movement at the last moment, I extended and locked my arm to defend. But instead of deflecting the blade aside, the full weight of his thrust struck the hand guard of my rapier, jamming hard against my straightened arm. Both of us turned to stare as time slowed down, and his blade bent almost double against the rigid defence. There was nothing we could do to stop the blade from shattering so close to both our faces. But instead of snapping, it suddenly sprung back into shape. Weighing considerably less than the coach, the metal elasticity fired me backwards several metres and sprawling onto the floor, knocking the air out of me.
“I’m screwed, aren’t I.” I coughed at the ceiling.
Pulling me back to my feet, the coach shook his head, “You’re never going to beat him. But you can at least wear him down to the point he starts to become sloppy. He’s a perfectionist, proud. Showing him up as human is your best possible outcome.”
Dusting myself down, I nodded. I could settle for that.

*

“Hold still and take your hits. Verfickt nochmal, Yorke!” Warren was losing his temper.
From his outburst, it seemed my only available tactic was paying off. Knowing I had no chance to break through his guard, instead I allowed myself to purely defend, throwing up parry after parry but never riposting, ignoring his openings. I was frustrating him deeply, causing him to strike slightly wild. It was exceptionally tiring, but adrenaline and mild terror buoyed me on. We had drawn a small, but silent crowd to the piste, behind a low wooden barrier. I could’t spare time to look up, but in my peripheral vision, from height alone I noted a mixture of students, and I suspected the coach. It only served to aggravate Warren further, his face a portrait of fury. I kept my own impassive, or at least tried to, as increasingly his strikes swung in past face height, it was hard to resist flinching.

Time had lost all meaning, I was only aware of the hideous ache in my sword arm, my sweat, and the increasing weight of my rapier. Consoling myself that I didn’t have to beat him, I only had to outlast his energy until he made real mistakes, I kept on deflecting his strikes. Occasional lunges to my arms made it through, but not cleanly enough. They skidded against the thin padding across my arms and chest.

Finally he snapped, I’d been half-watching his feet for some time, expecting the moment. He went for a vicious fleche, aiming for my head, throwing his full weight behind it. A furious yell went up from outside my vision as he pushed out, the coach screaming wordlessly at the dishonourable strike. Barely reacting in time, I threw myself to one side and instead he caught my shoulder and sliced along the top, piercing fabric, barely grazing skin, and overbalancing when his blade didn’t meet enough resistance.
Meeting his foulness with some of my own, I span and slammed the side of his skull with the guard of my sword. He staggered, surprised.
I struck with it again, harder, taking him off balance, and at the same time kicking the back of the leg he’d over-extended in his lunge. He fell hard to the floor, dropping his own weapon and landing hard on his side, stunned. I pushed my foot against his chest, knocking him onto his back, and held my blade to his throat. It was against all etiquette, but so was deliberately trying to give me an eyebrow piercing.

“I believe you said something about me not being memorable.” I growled, low enough that only he could hear. I flicked the tip of my rapier to his face, where the thin scar ran diagonally down his cheek, and with a tiny precision movement, I added a single cut of my own to it. He swore and spat, clutching his face as I stepped away. I’d no doubt pay for it later, but the cruel mischief was beyond my power to resist.
Crouching, I pulled Warren to his feet by his arm, and handed his sword back to him, carefully. Blood was starting to run down his face, and his stare could have ignited dry kindling at thirty feet. However, he begrudgingly shook my hand, and we parted ways. 

Shocked silence met us as we each stepped from the piste, I wasn’t about to break it. I sheathed my blade, returned it to the rack and shortly made for the exit, with a respectful salute to the coach. His expression was unreadable, one eyebrow raised. Returning to my shared room, thankfully it was still empty. I allowed the door to swing shut behind me before sliding down the wall, wrung out, exhausted and laughing quietly to myself.

*

The door swung open, noiselessly, “Explain yourself, Yorke”
Laying backwards on my bunk, I looked up from my book, closing it with a quizzical expression. I sat up attentively as our year’s drill abbot entered the room, his expression stormy.
“What’s this I hear about you carving your name in another student’s face?”
“Sir?” I knew full well, as did he, I expected.
He sighed, “Warren, all that I’ve been hearing all damn day, is how you showed him up as an ass in a duel.”
I examined my knees, “What does he say?”
“He, for some reason insists it was a training accident and that you aren’t to blame.”
“Huh.” without meaning to, I looked back up.
“I ought to have the pair of you dragged out and whipped for this tomfoolery.” he paused, staring into my eyes, “But, you may actually have done us all a favour, by finally lending him some humility. I trust this will be the end of it?”
I nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” he turned to leave, pausing, “And Yorke?”
“Sir?”
“Verdammt nochmal, do us all a favour, and practise so that you don’t have to resort to punching your opponent in the head.” I thought I caught the edge of a smile as he strode out of the door.

*

Even after years of training, my offensive sword work was still average at best. Reactionary defence was my sole saving grace; it was unlikely that anyone could break my guard or get past it. This combined with honed speed in dodging and wheeling meant that I was a thorough nuisance rather than an elegant flurry of lethal blades. I could live with that, as it indeed meant that I could live with that, rather than die in a storm of fury, impaled through a prideful chest.
On the other hand, my ballistics training? Led to jokes that there's a reason Commissars execute at close range. By the time I left the Schola, I was a passable steady shot, scoring nothing above average, which in the grand scheme of things meant nine tenths of feth all. I've never really managed to improve my accuracy greatly, much to my frustration. It's not for lack of practise, I'll say that!
The only part I have ever find instinctive or comfortable is drawing and snap-shooting pistols, which despite all odds, still yields best results. The longer I concentrate on aim, the markedly worse it all gets.
Suppose that means I very much doubt I'll be remembered for combat ability, in the unlikely event that I'm remembered by anyone. It hardly troubles me, I’d rather leave this life knowing I did some good, than be remembered for my ability to deal death to others…

Well. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.



Interlude: Office Duty

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [727.M41] •

A knock at the door caused me to I look up from the stack of new recruit slips I was slowly working my way through, “Come in."
A young trooper peered in around the door and then stepped inside, his face troubled.
"Hello-" I wracked my brain, he was relatively new amongst us, "Blake?"
He nodded. I gestured for him to sit down, but he remained standing uncomfortably.
Tired, and sensing impending tomfoolery, I asked, “How can I help you?"
"Sir, I uh… Um. I was told that we're supposed to come show the Commissar if there's an... uh, illness we don't understand."
I looked him up and down, "You seem fine to me, Blake. What's the problem?"
"Well, it's embarrassing." He made a gesture, "I get this terrible bur-"
"No." I pointed to the door, "Get out."
"But-"
Not lowering my arm, "No. Not in this lifetime. Have a shower, then see the medic for discretionary treatment. See if you can get Richard, he’s on afternoons this week. Poor Michelle doesn't need to see this.”
The man blushed impressively, "See that's what I thought, but Sergeant Gaskell said I should see you about it." I bet he fething did.

All became clear, “Blake, I believe that Sergeant Gaskell was winding your key." I said as kindly as I could.
It suddenly dawned on Blake as well, and he swore loudly. He shuffled out, and putting my head in my hands, I tried to avoid laughing out loud. As the door swung slowly closed, I could see a short queue of troops outside, all quietly avoiding making eye contact with another, and I wondered to what degree I was going to have to kick Gaskell later.

Quite hard, as it happened.

~

Oops, this should have been in one of the previous posts.
Mouse takes some artistic liberties on "thick foliage" there, but let's be honest, it wouldn't be much of a picture if he hadn't.

I love these additional bits, they certainly got a laugh out of me. I was considering doing something similar or like a distant version of this with the Kroot characters when my story was all over, but I'm not sure how well it would go.

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 4- Jallen - 732.M41] *

Heat. It's getting to the point where we can't operate during the day. We certainly can't march. I won't make them.
We're now moving only at night. It's slow as we can only see so far ahead, but not as slow as if we would do it in daylight. Sucks the energy right out of you, this heat.
And the humidity. Getting closer to the jungle, it's foul.

Ahde were nearly back to his usual self by afternoon. I've had him keep an eye on Talsen. Lad seems to be bearing up well, considering.

[Pause]

This deployment is easily in the top few for worst we've ever experienced. I don't think most of the lads here served during the siege on Ullrek, mind. By the Emperor that was easily the worst. Cat were new then, and Ronson, he weren't even around. Ahde, Cat and me, we barely held it together.

No point navel gazing about that at the moment, I suppose. We'll make it through. If that marine had friends, we'll be ready. Should reach the next camp in one more day's travel.
After that it's literally down hill from there. We'll break into the tree level in the next few days. Be glad to get away for a change of scene... Stop seeing reminders everywhere on this bare plateau.

Not sure what awaits us at the next camp. Didn't have Ahde vox. He's listening though. Hasn't caught a signal yet.

[Disconnect]



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell ] [ Day 4- Jallen - 732.M41] *

Looked through Cat's folder in the afternoon. A life summed up in four or five sheets of paper. That's all we are to anyone else. A tool, a small resource.

There's an envelope and we know what's in there. I haven't brought myself to read it. I probably should, but it's like accepting he's gone, I don't... I can't do that just yet.
Ahde read it. I watched. Never seen someone chuckle that much at one before.
"He says I'm for t'read it to you, Gaz. So you can't hide."
"Tomorrow, fella."
"Aye."

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Day 4- Jallen - 732.M41] *

After a few hours, I could no longer hear the movements of the enemy, perhaps they had swept through the camp, or were focused elsewhere. There was no way of telling, and nowhere to move until nightfall.
The gretchen broke the silence, "Why?" he asked in a low voice. For the first time I looked at him properly. He wore a pale, loose fitting overshirt, and rough trousers, his skin sharply contrasting against the fabrics. Though his face was pointed, the look of curiosity softened it; somehow he appeared less feral than those I'd encountered. I realised I'd never seen a Gretchen up close that was not wracked with fury, or dead. His eyes, red and intense couldn't fail to remind me that he was anything but a Xeno. His legs tucked to his chest, his back against the bank, he was short enough to easily sit upright in the ditch.

"Why what?" I bought time to consider the question that I wasn't rightly sure how to answer.
"Why'd you save me from them?" he tilted his head, perhaps assuming me too stupid to understand his query.
I gestured one handed, "You'd have blown my hiding spot with your idiot panic."
"Nar, but you could have done me in at any point since." he was right, even in this state, I likely could have ended his life without much effort.
 I considered, "Maybe I just hit my head falling into this ditch, eh?" I rolled my eyes, keeping my face straight. 
It broke the tension and I found myself sharing a short laugh with the creature. I allowed myself to relax slightly, the grot watched me with a small bright expression, rather like a bird watches a cat.

I thought aloud, "Do you know the saying, 'The enemy of the enemy is my friend.'?"
He shook his head, his eyes wide, curious, "Nah. Wit' Orks, da enemy of da enemy is anudda one we can fight.” he imitated the deeper tone of an ork, blinking slowly as he recanted.
I realised he'd been playing down the natural inflections in his speech, likely trying to remind me as little as possible that he was Xeno. A smart grot. My turn to feel curious, but even more wary of the situation I’d invited. Watch this one. Be ready to do what's necessary.
He shifted, raising up to look above the level of the ditch.
"Not yet,” I warned, despite myself, “wait for dark."
He nodded, lowering himself again.

I decided to make use of the unusual scenario, "Are there more camps like this?"
“Humans?”
"Not just humans,” I struggled to find the right words, “humans with the symbols and shrines and and prisoners.”
The grot shot me a tired look, "Sounds like all humans." Fair point. Desperate to appear useful, he gazed up, thinking. "I think this one, one by the bottom of the tall rock, one in the valley. Small posts in between, but they don't stay in those long."
I nodded, "Have you seen any space marines in the camps?"
He visibly stiffened at the question, "I seen a few. They went into the tall rock camp, for a long long time. Then when they came out, they went to the one in the valley, and they killed and killed anyone who wouldn't join them." He swallowed, “Not fast, they killed them. We heard the screams for days."

That doesn't sound like Astartes method, I pondered. But more worryingly, the grot had said, "we". It hadn't occurred to me that as there's no smoke without fire, there's no grots without Orks. The thought chilled me in the midst of the hot day. We hadn't known. The Hollies could be facing their own, corrupted by chaos, and then Orks, from another direction. Feth.
I needed to get around to the other side of the mountain, through the unknown, to hopefully reunite with them. I needed to know more about what lay in between so I wasn't going in blind as well. The thought disgusted me, but perhaps using this Xeno as far as he'd allow could prove useful. Like one would use a tool or a trained animal. Associating with a xeno. I winced, and pushed the disgust down. Needs must.
I remembered tales of my grandfather when he travelled with the Rogue Trader vessel, they had occasionally had dealings with Xenos, quite literally. I pondered where the line was. if I’d already hurtled over it.

"What do they call you, little ork?" I changed the subject, hoping to lower his suspicion.
"We're grotz.” he looked at me again, as though considering if I were being simple.
"I meant, your name." I replied, considering the same of myself.
He shook his head and shrugged, "ent never had one. They gave the names to useful grotz an' guns an' that. Rest of us is just grotz.”
"And you're not "useful"?" I wondered at the concept.
"Not yet. Do you 'ave a name?" he looked eager to learn something new.
"Yes, I'm called Commissar Yorke." 
I watched him roll the words around his mouth, "Com-assar?"
“It’s my rank. It means I help to make the guardsmen work better.” I decided against explaining our command structure to the Xeno.
"Like a herder?" he grinned and made an arm motion I didn't recognise at first, but then realised with mild horror that he was miming a whip.

I contained my shudder, "I very much doubt it. You may just call me Yorke if you wish." my tensing sent a spasm of pain through my shoulder, which gave me an idea, "Fancy being useful, then?"
He looked up sharply, hoping to make himself less dispensable.
As we cracked my arm back into its socket, I bit hard into the cuff of my sleeve, and stayed mostly silent.
"Thank you." riding the adrenaline, the world felt strange and distant. Even more peculiar, considering who I addressed. I chuckled, "Now we could look at giving you a name, eh?"
His eyes lit up. I felt deeply strange, partly the rush from replacing my arm, combined with exhaustion from lack of sleep. Partly concerned I was near to enjoying the company of an alien, beginning to even regard him as acceptable company, like a smart dog, or small child.

*

"How about Mouse?" I broke the silence of the afternoon. 
"You makin fun?" The grot pulled a face, “Mouses are little runt things."
"No, no. I just remembered a story." I scratched my chin, “An old story from ancient Terra." At the word "story", he had turned his full attention to me, like a beam of focused light. I was surprised, thinking the green-skins a race uninterested in the whimsical.
"Tell us?" he cocked his head.

I flexed and settled back down, it was a way to fill some time, I supposed. And whilst I had his attention, I was likely safer. "You have to imagine a world much simpler than this one. No buildings, no people; just open spaces and forests like this. In this story, a desert. One day in that desert, small mouse was creeping past a sleeping lion, thinking itself beneath his notice. The huge lion awoke and caught the mouse with one giant paw." I mimed, feeling slightly ridiculous.
"Stupid mouse."
"Aye, wait. The mouse spoke up, to try and save its life, "Oh, Lion. You don't want to eat me. I am very small, and barely worth your time. If you let me go, someday I will pay you back ten-fold for your kind actions." The lion was so amused by the tenacity of the tiny creature, that he roared with laughter and let the mouse go."
"So it tricked th' lion?" the grot smiled, showing sharp teeth, "Clever of it."
"The mouse was sincere, I believe. Weeks later, this lion was roaming through the same area when he triggered a hunter's trap. A net bound him, and for all his strength and teeth and claws, he could do nothing. The beast fought to break free but couldn't. He roared in despair, he was tiring and the hunter would return to claim him. But then the lion heard a small voice, "hold still." The tiny mouse he had spared had heard his struggle, and come to his side."
I looked up, expecting further interruption, but the grot was entranced, his crimson eyes shining. Somehow it felt right to be making him so happy.
"The mouse ran to the ropes of the trap and with tiny sharp teeth, gnawed them apart. Within moments that tiny mouse had freed the lion… It’s a tale told as a lesson: We should not discount anyone, we are all capable of small gestures that can mean huge differences to the right people."
The grot was quiet, contemplative. Eventually he looked up, "I liked that story,” he pointed to my shoulder, "and don't think I don't unnastand you."
"Mm."

*

"Mouse." my unlikely associate shifted onto his back, looking through the leaves to the red sky, "I could live wit' that. Do you know more stories?"
I was uncertain about sharing more, “None so old. Most stories I know are true. Ones about the glory of the Imperium, great wars, the Emperor of Mankind and his warriors."
Mouse looked over at me, eager for another tale, like a child before bedtime, "Who's the Emprah then?”
Wincing instinctively at hearing the name from the harsh mouth of a xeno, "He's our glorious leader. How do Orks decide who's in charge?" I answered with a question of my own, hesitant at making the connection.
"That's easy, who's da biggest. Some times the cleverest and biggest." Mouse looked happy to be providing information.
"Well then, the Emperor is the biggest and the cleverest of us all. He has billions upon billions of us out here, unified and working in his name." 

This clearly impressed Mouse, “Big! What’s he look like, then?"
“Well, truth be told, I don't know. Very few are ever graced by seeing Him.” I felt my answer woefully inadequate. Gently, I reached info my coat and pulled out a worn book from under my side, flicking carefully through until I found an etching, "Here." I held up the open book to show him. A printed image of the Emperor in his ornate armour, his sword held upright in defiance, surrounded by rays of light and his warrior Astartes.
Mouse craned to see, "Very pretty." he nodded, smiling.
Feeling blood rush to my face, "The Emperor of Mankind is not 'pretty'!" I snapped, then realised I was being teased. Too clever, this one.
“What else is in that book?” Mouse tilted his head, inquisitive.
“I’m not sure you’d understand.” I flipped it shut, about to slip it back into my coat, wondering if even showing him the etching was too far.
“I’ve got time.”

*

“Comma- Commars-ar?” Mouse looked to me, troubled.
“Hm?”
“What happens when we get out of this?” he pointed outward towards the forest.
I hesitated, having ignored the concern until now, “What do you think should happen?”
“Well orks and ‘umies, we don’t zactly get on.” he sounded almost apologetic.
“You would try and kill me, Mouse?” casting a glance to him. I’d turned onto my back, so I could gaze through the leaves into the dimming sky.
Mouse grinned, “Maybe for yer fancy hat.”
“Be serious.” I chipped down to the issue.
“Well, if your ‘umies were to see us, wouldn’t they would try an’ kill us both? Because of your teachings?” he pointed to my chest where I’d stashed my book.
“They very well might. What about you Orks?” I mimed angry claws and stuck out my jaw, trying to raise a smile.

Mouse looked down at his knees, his thin hands clasped over them, “I don’t think there’s enough of us.” he said quietly, “There’s only a few left.” The raging horde of xeno threat in my mind diminished, I was confused.
He went on to explain that his group was made up of only a few dozen gretchen. Workers, mechanics, all that remained from a small scout ship. The few orks who’d survived had perished in their furious charge when the first imperial guard came. More gretchen had been killed sneaking into the camps to steal supplies, and then some by the less than hospitable wildlife.
An idea started to form, and I scratched at it a bit, thinking it over carefully. It may not have been a great idea, but in my scrambled exhaustion, it seemed a viable one.
"Maybe, Mouse, we could help each other." I would have to be damn careful.

The gretchin turned his gaze back to me, “Whatcha mean?"
"I need to get back to my squad, I have a meeting point and a timescale, but I don't know this jungle at all. You and your kinfolk know this jungle, but you don't know how to survive in it. Between us we could solve both problems." I could barely believe what I was proposing. But adapting was crucial.
Mouse stared at me intensely, "So yer saying you would Com-massar us, teach us to cope. Make it a safe place to live. And for that, we help you find the rest of your umies?"
I nodded, curious as to whether he would find the offer acceptable.
"Sounds fair. Though our biggest problems is these camps." he pointed towards the settlement, "They've been destroying 'uge parts of the forest and that makes it hard for us to stay in one place. We reckon they’re searching for something. Haven’t found it yet.”
I scratched my chin and considered the issue. There was no way we could directly take down several Chaos camps alone. That would be something to address when I rejoined the Hollies. The primary concern was making some kind of safe-place for the green skins and earning their trust enough to get back in the first place.

*

How interesting to see a commisar finding company with a xenos. And, judging by mentions of his writing skill being impoverished with the help of Yorke, Mouse is here to stay. I'm curious how this actually happens. (Perhaps something like ALF, but even more complicated?)

I certainly would be more than surprised if they allowed a Gretchen into the regiment. How would Yorke even explain this. "It's ok guys, he's just my, er, seeing grot?" Although Yorke could BS his way a bit further than that. You've certainly got a way with making people excited for the next part, I'll give you that.

[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 2 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

"Oh, Ramirez. No.” I whispered to myself, and put my hand to my mouth as he finished describing his xeno companion.
Celena and Boorman were watching with horrified fascination as the commissar explained further and dug himself a more impressive hole. They were entranced, partly by his story telling, partly by the abstract picture he was painting.

Across the room, Sharp looked up at me. I expected a look of triumph or a sneer at the strange story. Instead he furrowed his brow in confusion and flicked his eyes silently towards Yorke, and back to me, questioningly, his thoughts on the matter plainly similar to my own. Neither of us had expected this. This was not what we'd come to investigate, nor had he, it appeared.

"Commissar?" Sharp waited for a pause in the account.
Yorke turned his head to face him cheerfully, "Sir?"
"Commissar, why did you not execute the xeno?"
"Because he was less of a threat to the Imperium than the corrupted men and cultists that we both sought to destroy." Yorke answered simply, "Together we stood a chance of removing the taint and destroying their camps. Alone, I would have got lost and died in that jungle, my companions would have suffered for it, and our regiment would have been lost."
Sharp nodded, "So you considered him a tool."
Nodding in return, Yorke replied, "Somewhat."

I spoke quietly, "Ramirez, what you did goes against all imperial teachings."
He shook his head, "No, we are taught to make use of our surroundings to defeat the enemies of mankind. I prioritised; Mouse was not the current enemy. He may have been an abomination, but not one that could have actually harmed us."
His answer seemed reasonable on the surface.
I nodded, “I’ll let you continue. One last thing, Ramirez?" I could do nothing to stop the mess in which he had found himself. The bio tracker reported no issues, Sharp was in the room observing as well as the two new recruits I had brought here. There was no way to physically extricate the commissar from the situation. In a last ditch attempt to buy him some leniency, I asked quietly, already knowing the answer, “Would you have told us about doing this had we not given you this drug?"

It was Yorke's turn to be confused, "Of course. I haven't hidden this from anyone."
Sharp looked at me again, and silently put one of his steel hands to his face in despair, as a thought occurred to him, "Commissar, did your squad know about your dealings with this xeno?"
"Only afterwards," Yorke frowned, “I would never put them in a position like that if it wasn’t absolutely desperate.
"I think Ramirez, you should continue telling us what happened." I smiled as reassuringly as I could.
He smiled at me, and concentrated again on the past.
Before continuing, Boorman gave him a small top-up of the drug. The adepts were much more careful administering it today. There were barely ant twitches coming from Yorke, and he seemed far less agitated.

I looked across to Sharp, and gave a small hand gesture expressing my surprise, he returned it with a shrug, and raised his eyebrows signalling uncertainty himself. Technically Yorke had done something both exceptionally naive, and exceptionally clever in using one enemy of Mankind against another. It was not unknown for even Inquisition to call upon xeno to get a job done.
In my time I had personally been witness to these actions on occasion. They were never undertaken lightly, and despite his upbeat and permissive nature, I suspected the commissar had similarly wrested with such a decision.
I also suspected that his nature would ultimately be his undoing. Unwillingness to see the faults in people, human or xeno alike, was a most dangerous character flaw.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

The evening began chilling the thick air, and the shadows became much cooler refuge. I welcomed it. At this point I had lost track of how long I'd been without sleep. My eyes burned and the rest of me was crying out for rest, but fear of what lay a short distance from us kept me awake. I knew it couldn't last, even Mouse beside me had dozed off in the late afternoon warmth.
As lights went up in the nearby camp, and the shadows became longer and deeper, I raised my small companion with a whisper, careful not to startle him into making noise. He stirred and rubbed his eyes, blinking tiredly.
"Time to move, Mouse." I stretched out also. As I did so, my stomach growled loudly and I realised how much my other basic needs were calling out as well.
Mouse chuckled at my gut's protest, "Maybe you should be the one thieving from the camps."
"Maybe, but not in this state." The thought had also occurred to me. Thankfully, the bag I'd rescued had contained some basic rations and water, but it was not the time or place to make use of them. Not yet.

Careful to listen for any movement from the camp, and to take slow, quiet movement ourselves, we crept out from the ditch. I crouched low, my tiny new associate led the way to his refuge, at least I hoped he did. It had not even occurred to me that he could be leading me to a planned demise or ambush. Both because I was exceptionally tired, and as you may conclude with time, I'm not nearly cynical enough about the folk I surround myself with. We padded noiselessly through the undergrowth, I had drawn my power sword in case any local fauna felt like investigating our progress. Mouse was unarmed, but alert, his pale green skin blending almost perfectly at times with the surroundings. My only clue to his whereabouts in the fading light were his tattered clothes and crimson eyes moving against the dense foliage.
At a safe distance we stopped, finally free to speak and make a little noise without fear of being discovered. Before going further, I made note of the camp on my map.

"Are you sure you want to go ahead with this?" I took the opportunity to pause for a drink as well, taking it slowly. At least with so much vegetation nearby I was fairly sure water could be easily sourced.
Nodding his small head, the gretchin replied, "Yer. It seems a good idea. You'll have to let me speak with ‘em first though. We ‘ent exactly used to seeing ‘umies just walk up, calm, like."
"Fair enough, lead on." Trusting to his sense of direction, I followed Mouse out into the unknown.
As the daylight faded further, the moon crept out, providing a pale clear light through increasing gaps in the forest canopy. We made reasonably fast progress, despite Mouse being able to easily pass through areas I had to scramble over, or hack my way through with my blade. Keeping quiet as possible, listening for signs of any other activity, we travelled into the night. The journey was starting to cause my energy to flag further, but I steeled myself knowing that I at least had a purpose. Admittedly an odd one, that only yesterday I would have considered abhorrent.

We reached a small area where the trees and undergrowth were less dense, and as we began to pass through it, I felt very exposed. Suddenly Mouse stopped dead, and I halted shortly behind him. He was listening intently, and held up his small clawed hand, signalling that he had heard something. I concentrated hard, similarly listening for any faint sound, and then I heard it too. Footsteps. All around us.
Without saying a word, I unholstered my pistol and passed it down to Mouse. My sword would have been ridiculously big in his hands, and arming him gave us a small fighting chance if we were to be closed upon by an enemy.

"Your friends?" I whispered.
"I don't think so. Too big." he replied, drawing closer to me. His face was frightened and I could offer scant reassurance.
"Show yourselves, then." I called out. I was already far too tired for mind games and subtlety.
From the surrounding undergrowth stepped roughly half a dozen human figures, forming a crude semi-circle around us. I lowered my sword. Guard. From their Imperial uniforms, the 57th we were sent to relieve.
"You're a sight for sore eyes." relaxing, I smiled at the nearest men stepping towards us.
Beside me, Mouse clung to my leg, like a shy child to a parent. I'd have felt embarrassed but he was probably well within his rights to be scared.

None of the approaching guardsmen spoke, regarding me with stern faces as they drew close. In the fading light I could see that they were all somewhat the worse for wear. Their grey uniforms tattered, and instead of standard weaponry, they carried a variety of tools. Shovels, pick axes and what looked suspiciously like a metal tent pole.
They all stopped three metres or so short of us, still watching silently.
I decided to try and break the ice, "I'm Commissar Yorke, I was sent down with the Mordian 183rd to relieve you. We heard you were having some difficulties. I became separated from them, but I can take you to the arranged meeting point.” and then remembering, "This is Mouse, he is, I suppose, a local conscript or mercenary of sorts. He's under my protection." I added for clarity.
The hand on my shin tightened as the men I addressed turned their attention to my tiny companion.

Finally one of the men in front if us spoke, "You can't fool us again." What?
A man to my left growled, “Look at the state of him. He's one of them."
"One of who?" I looked back and forth between the men for some sign or explanation.
They ignored me entirely. A voice from behind me protested, “He’s a commissar, don't be stupid!”
"He's with a fething greenskin, he's one of them!" snapped the first trooper.

I raised my hands, signing for peace, “Okay. Just calm down a moment. I'm not part of whatever's going on here. Look, I know it's somewhat unusual but-"
"Don't listen to him! That's how they got us before."
"I'm not going back there! No fear." the group started to tighten, several of them stepping closer to argue with one another.
I started to back away from the cluster of guard, hoping to put some distance between us before they noticed. I was no psyker but I could see something had broken deep within several of them. They were terrified, but not of me. Mouse stayed by my side, silent and increasingly frightened.



[Audio Log: Captain Gaskell] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

Getting ready to move in an hour. The air is finally cooling.

This letter. Ahde asked for me to read the damn thing. I suppose I have to, eventually.

This feels odd. I've never done this before, I've never felt the need. No, that's unfair. I've never had people before who would care to read it.
Say what you will, and you’ll no doubt make fun of me for it, but you guys gave me a home. I don't feel like such an outsider any more, I actually feel part of something. Thank you for that, sincerely.

Oh Cat. Fella. [Sighing] I’m done for the night. Sorry. Ahde can bust my ears about all he wants. I can hardly go out and lead anyone if I’m all sooky.

[Pause]

I forget sometimes what a gak lot the commissars are dealt. We think we have it bad as guard. they have it- [Pause] Not worse. Different. Having to make themselves the villain and build up on fear, I can’t imagine it. It can’t be good for a man’s soul, long term.
Maybe that’s why Cat did what he did, and stopped. I know he used to be like that, on the outside, anyway. Before us. There’s a photo in his folder of him with the previous regiment. It’s grim.

Haven’t brought myself to think about it, but when we’re out of here, they’ll assign us someone new. That? I’m not sure how any of us will deal with it.
Luckily the lads are trained enough that we’ve never really had any issues with butting heads with our commissars in the past, but things like Talsen the other day? He’d have been dead by now, or left behind.

[Disconnect]



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

"I am not your damned enemy. Please! Just listen." It did me no good, and six of the troopers, wielding their improvised weapons began to close on us, fanning out again, forming a rough circle. My heart sank as they approached, injuring the folk I'd been sent to assist was deeply against the grain.
They did not seem to have the same concerns, however. Whatever had occurred down here, it seemed, had entirely cracked their minds.
I drew my fine bladed powersword but didn't activate the energy field, "Mouse! Run!" I shoved him with the side of my foot. His last chance to get away, while the guard were focused on me.
He looked up, confused.
"There's no point them seizing us both. Go!" I hissed and pushed him again gently but urgently.
This time he understood, and nodded. In a dirty emerald blur, he was gone. As was my pistol, I realised seconds later. I'd forgotten to reclaim it. Fething marvellous. At least he would be safe, a small comfort in thus far a very confusing day.

Throwing out any attempt at reasoning with the men individually, I called out, “Guardsmen of the Imperium. Stop! This is treason!"
It caused one of them to falter, I suspected the same man who had voiced his concerns earlier. He stepped back, resting the end of his shovel handle on the ground, and looking highly uncertain. Unfortunately the act of solidarity went unseen and a moment later, the first of his companions swung his own makeshift club toward my chest. I leaped back, avoiding the blow, but nearly colliding with the two men behind me.
In the confusion, I struck out hard toward his outstretched arm with my powersword, frustrated and running out of options. I hit home against his wrist, finding little resistance, and with an unpleasant sound his hand came away. Well, mostly. It hung messily by a thick scrap of flesh, he drew his arm back to his chest in horror, coating himself with his own blood as it sputtered forth. His face blanched, and he was too shocked to scream.
"I said, enough." I growled loudly, hoping to have had enough of an effect.
Sadly, no dice.

Immediately I found myself spinning and dodging, parrying their clumsy tools with my sword's field still inactive. I had barely any time to strike outwards, purely defending as the blows swung in, reeling from the force of those I failed to avoid. Battered and exhausted, I concentrated on the strikes coming in high, shielding my head with my free arm, all the time calling for them to see sense.
Realising it a lost cause, I activated my sword, the energy coursing along it, singing in the air. In one movement I tore through the raised pick axe handle of the nearest guard, and as he stumbled in surprise, plunged my blade through his calf muscle. I was still not expressly aiming to kill unless I had to; these men were frightened, not true traitors. He screamed as it carved through his muscle and bone, spraying the surroundings with his blood. The poor bugger fell to the ground, curled up in agony and out of the fight. I didn't have time to pause and contemplate, as his companions were still hell-bent on introducing me to their various tools.

Having seen the misery I'd inflicted on his comrades, the man who had at first paused, had since fled. I was now only facing three men, which evened the odds considerably. As the nearest swung low with his tent pole, I met it with my sword and simply sliced the shaft away, leaving him with a short length in his hands. I expected him to back off, but at this point I should have known better.
He dropped it but didn't shy away. Whatever madness was keeping the men from giving up, it was hellish strong.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement, and wondering if perhaps Mouse had returned, I turned my head. My gut sank. The man that I had thought smart enough to flee, had instead returned, with three more bedraggled guards. I barely had time to process this when a vicious blow across the back of my knees sent me stumbling down to earth. I caught the ground hard and snarling, swept my blade around at shin height, scattering the small group.

I used the moment to regain my footing, starting to stand when one of the men shouted, "Give it up, heretic! You're outnumbered!"
Heretic? The world made even less sense as I tried to understand his exclamation. My confusion bought the group the time they needed to close.
Regaining some sense, I struck out but the nearest man barely dodged my blade, dropped his shovel and instead made a grab for my sword arm, seizing me by the wrist with both hands.
"Hey! feth off!" surprised and struggling, I tried to punch him in the face left handed, and failed to cause very much of an inconvenience to him.
Unfortunately my the nice man declined my kind invitation, and his friend took the opportunity to seize my left arm, whilst a third grabbed me around the neck from behind, kicking at the back of my knees.
Yelling, I kicked and pulled away as hard as I could manage, but found myself dragged slowly down and backwards towards the dirt.

"Get off me, you bloody idiots! This is insane!" I coughed and swore at them as we scuffled, prolonging the inevitable. It goes without saying that dignity had entirely flown the coop at this point.
A fourth trooper stamped on my hand until I was forced to release my sword. Nobody picked it up. Choking, I was bewildered, and even worse, now at the mercy of lunatics who apparently thought me corrupted. A more ironic demise, I’d have had trouble naming. Ahead of me a trooper approached with his shovel handle raised, and despite my struggles there was very little I could do about it.
"At least tell me what I'm supposed to have done!" I braced for the impact.
The man paused, staring coldly down at me, and shook his head.

Frantic to buy more time to escape, I wrenched free my right arm from the men pinning me. I then punched my approaching assailant somewhere very uncivil. He doubled over, cursing.
The trooper who had kicked my sword free from my hand, now unburdened by this task, found time in his schedule to kick me hard in the back of the head.
I saw stars across my vision, and swore involuntarily, barely able to hear myself over the buzzing in my ears. It also hurt quite a lot. A big lot. Many lots.
And that was the tipping point. All I had tried to do thus far was fulfil my duty to assist, I’d given them so many chances to stand down. I was angry. Furious, and now literally seeing red. I let rip with an ear splitting, barely coherent stream of obscenity, threats and Imperial fury, that could have reduced sane men to tears.
These were not sane men.

NB: Sook / Sooky - Sulky, miserable, sullen (Northern slang).

♬ If you're gonna go down, then you're going down fighting.

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

"Shut up over there!" Something heavy impacted on the side of the truck trailer. I growled and cursed in a muffled manner, but couldn't manage much more. After I'd failed to pass out, one of the bedraggled guard had gagged me to stop me from keeping up my loud stream of furious invective. Whilst I didn't care to think about the origin of the rag crammed in my jaw, it tasted quite a lot like engine oil. That really could have been worse, but my gratitude was hardly forthcoming.

I was laying on my side. One of my ankles was roped to the rail at the end of the truck bed, and my arms were crudely but effectively rigged behind my back. It’d taken several men a while to secure, due to my polite aversion to their activity. At first they'd not done a very good job, but I'd made the mistake of slipping free whilst they were still nearby. It'd earned me a thick ear and new restraints.
My hat and more importantly my powersword lay slung at the other end of the truck bed, frustratingly just out of reach. I'd tried. None of the men had taken a shine to it. I suspected that if they thought that I was chaos tainted, then they viewed using my weapon therefore dangerous or corrupting. It hadn't stopped them from stealing my food and supplies, however.
Despite my exhaustion, the building anger and quite honestly wild apprehension at what lay ahead, had kept me wide awake.

Resigned, I listened to the conversation of the group nearby.
"I still don't think he's one of them." a quiet voice murmured.
Someone snapped back, “He is. We can use him as leverage to get past the camp. They get him back, and we get to pass by. We dump him there, let him loose  and use the distraction."
A third, tired voice replied, “But why would they go for that?"
The snappy man replied, “Look, it's all we've got. They're going to come after all of us eventually."
"What if he was telling the truth?"
"It doesn't matter either way now. We're just as screwed if he was."
"Bollocks. He was with a fething grot, either he's one of that lot, or he's insane. We're not going to catch hell for this."
Their voices were tired and frightened. I'd have felt pity for the group if they hadn't just beaten me senseless as a bargaining chip for entirely unclear reasons.
Something in the jungle scared them more than I did. Whilst I usually pride myself on being quite a mild mannered people-person, the idea was still not comforting.

I closed my burning eyes and resigned myself to at least waiting until morning. Sleep would at least restore a small amount of energy, and I was already running on fumes. Even a minute amount of rest would give me a better chance.

My guess? Mouse gets a grot gang and they overrun these deranged men, wielding rocks and sticks, with Mouse at the lead gun blazing. How's that for a revamped version of the Mouse & the Lion?

 2BlackJack1 wrote:
My guess? Mouse gets a grot gang and they overrun these deranged men, wielding rocks and sticks, with Mouse at the lead gun blazing. How's that for a revamped version of the Mouse & the Lion?

You actually think that Mouse could hurt someone? We'll see how it pans out.

And I'd actually missed out on the second parallel to the fable. Good spot. Embarrassing spot.

In fact I also missed out on "Cat & Mouse" until I signed the physical journal and showed it to a friend. The scanned version on Page 1 is photoshopped, in real life it says:

- Mouse x
- Cat x

But my handwriting on Cat's signature was so incredibly girly that I removed it. It looked like a 15 year old girl did it. Considering he's supposedly capaable of grammar-school copperplate (when not doing "teacher writing" for mouse to copy) I removed it.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: On Leave

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [732.M41] *

Ahde plonked himself down next to me on the canteen bench, “Cat?”
Without looking up, I answered, “No.”
"Come on…” he leaned on my shoulder and titled his head up at mine.
I shoved him away exasperatedly, “Fine, what?"
"How come-" oh here it comes, "-you use a laspistol rather than a bolt pistol?"
Not what I'd expected, I corrected him gently, "It's a hellpistol, Ahde. It fires a lot hotter than a laspistol." I passed it over for him to inspect, hoping it may earn me a pause from his talking.

Ahde whistled, “Hell’s teeth Cat, this is nearly archeotech!"
"Shut it. It's not that old." I muttered tiredly.
"No, I mean- this isn't standard." Ahde peered at it and held it with some degree of reverence, "You're certainly not moneyed enough or renowned enough to be awarded one of these, where'd you blag it from?"
Before I could answer, Gaz cut in from across the table, "Slept with a noble."
"Ah right." Ahde nodded, unsurprised.
"Feth off Gaz, you know where it's from!" I felt my patience start to slip.

I held out my hand and Ahde returned the worn pistol. I flipped it over, and showed the stock to him, and the distinctive crest on the base.
"Ahh!" he murmured, "Your grandfather? Didn't you say he was a seneschal of a Rogue Trader vessel?"
I nodded, “The same."
"This is his then?"
"By a route." I examined the ceiling, not greatly wanting to get into that.
"Makes sense… That thing is probably worth more than our squad."
I holstered it carefully, "Don't I know it. I didn't used to have a secure gun belt."
Ahde tiled his head, “What changed?”



[ Audio Transcript: Captain Creer ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

Good night, last night. Cards and sorted a few good trades out. They’ll be completed by the time we’re off Valse. Slipped the bar a little extra to send a lass over, keep Yorke out of our hair. I don't know if it worked, I don't know if the soft hearted numpty even knows what a girl is good for. All I know is we were able to play a good few games, and sort out a few acquisitions under his radar.
Left old Gaz out if it, he's a bit squeamish and I'm not sure he'd have approved. He's alright though, Gaz. Does a lot of my work for me in keeping the lads on track. And to be fair to Yorke, I can't believe I'm saying this, he's not bad at his job either. I just wish he and the rest of his lot were doing it somewhere else. Like a live minefield. Or the middle of an ocean.

Wish we'd paid off the bouncer as well though, after we had settled up, some childish sod played a fething prank on us and trapped us in the room. If I catch them, I'll have their hands off at the wrists.

[Disconnect]



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

The young woman ran her fingers down my arm, brushing herself against me as she leaned over the bar, in an effort to seem accidental.
I examined my drink, and spoke softly, "Miss, I'm flattered, but I'm afraid even with this in my gut, I can spot when someone charming is trying to distract me."
She paused in her movement, "Why would you think that?"
Deciding to be honest, I replied, “I just know there's slim chance that out of all these bright eyed lads here, a lass such as yourself would single out such a bitter old bastard." 
The lass nodded slightly, having the decency not to deny my words, "I'm just supposed to turn your head whilst some of your lads have it up to the top floor." she murmured quietly.
I leaned back into my seat, glad to hear it was nothing worse. I winked, "Well, so long as we're on the same page. I didn't say you should stop."
She laughed lightly, and smiled. I returned it, relieved nothing more serious was afoot.

We spent a good couple of hours talking, the lady was fair company, and had the nouse to her to avoid asking about the war, a decision which will quickly enamour me to anyone. Instead she asked about the worlds we had seen, and our time traversing the stars. I learned  that her name was Gatchi, and she had ambitions to move from the small settlement and travel on a great starship, hoping to find a new life aboard one, or settle in a new colony. Her savings thus far had been slim, and she doubted her dream would ever truly come to fruition, but the tales from people passing through allowed her to travel vicariously.
As the night drew on, I warmed to her a great deal, her sense of humour was incredibly sharp, revealing a mind quick on the uptake. I paced my drinking carefully, well aware that she was possibly still there as a distraction, albeit amicable and attractive.

Groups came and went, gradually the bar became quieter as midnight approached, and I made to excuse myself. Gatchi leaned close in to my ear, whispering, "You don't have to leave. You could come up with me instead, Ray.”
I blinked, “I don’t know how much you were paid lass, but you certainly don’t have to do that.”
She rolled her eyes, and murmured, “What they paid for expired several hours ago, you berk. I like you.”
“Oh!” I considered her offer, "You go ahead. Give me a few minutes to think about it." 
“Upstairs. Third door." she slipped away, smiling.
Stretching, I turned on my seat to the corner where Gaskell and Ahde had been sat with Captain Creer. Ahde was sprawled back in the booth fast asleep, and Gaskell was finishing his drink, Creer nowhere to be seen.
I caught Gaz's eye and made a small quizzical gesture towards the retreating Gatchi, what's her deal?
He replied with a wry smile and a shrug, you think too much.

Taking five minutes and a smoke to clear my head, I padded through the bar and upstairs myself, finding a small landing with four doors; three bedrooms and then a supply closet from the looks of things. Walking silently, I could hear a familiar deep voice in the first room, Creer? I couldn't work out what he was saying, the voice answering his was male. No, two more voices, all sounded quite low and decidedly serious. The second door was ajar, the room empty. The third must have been Gatchi’s, I concluded. Mischief overtook me, and I first ventured to the supply closet.
Inside, I found what I was looking for. I stepped back out, closed the middle door and securely tied one end of my pilfered extension cable to its handle, then as silently as I could, tied the other to the first door’s handle. Standing back briefly to admire my handiwork, I then rapped neatly on the first door, and bolted noiselessly to Gatchi's room, pushing the door shut quietly behind me as confusion reined further along the corridor. As shouting and banging erupted, I covered my mouth to stifle a childish urge to giggle. That ought to keep them occupied for a while.

The thought quickly faded, as I turned around into the bedroom. Gatchi was perched on the end of her bed, watching me with curiosity, "What have you been up to?" inclining her head slightly as the banging and invective from next door significantly increased in volume.
"I don't know what you mean." I put on a face of wide-eyed innocence and shrugged theatrically.
She sighed, shaking her head with exasperation, "It's not exactly setting the mood."
Mood? Oh. She wore a pale blue robe of some shimmering fabric, that draped elegantly across her slight form, tied loosely at the waist with a cord. She had let down her dark hair, and It hung freely about her, reflecting soft light in a different way entirely. I was more fascinated by the intensity of her eyes than anything else. Deep brown. They were both soft and piercing, inviting but confident. Men have written rambling poetry over less. I won’t.

Barely noticing the crashing sounds from the landing behind me as the men freed themselves from the room, I was taking in the rest of the scene through a slight haze of alcohol and fatigue. The room was basic, but had a definite soft touch of home to it, Gatchi had taken great care in decorating with the means she had. The bed was neatly made, with deep patterned fabrics, beside it a battered vanity table of a kind, and a small delicate chair that clearly didn't match it. A few small chests and trunks were piled neatly in the back corner by what I assumed was her bathroom door. What took my attention most were the walls, however.
On those walls and ceiling, bright cloth was pinned up, small flags from dozens of worlds and regions far away. I recognised a couple, but many were unfamiliar. It made the room into a patchwork rainbow, but instead of feeling cluttered, it somehow gave more depth.
Gatchi caught me gazing up, "I trade for them. A bottle here, a good meal there. Nothing major, but they make my world feel less small." She smiled. The innocence of the idea was charming to me, I made a mental note to see about possibly sourcing her something from one of the troops during our stay. 
I sat lightly on the bed beside her, gazing up still at the decorations. Her head barely reached my shoulder. I realised quite how petite she was, and felt a little awkward, too formal and too tall, still fully dressed in my uniform. She did her level best to put me at ease.

*

Waking, Gatchi was laying across me, looking down with a smile. Her warm body covering my bare chest in a most comfortable way. The moment was calm, and could carry on forever. I barely cared to move, in case the delicate strands holding it in place broke from slight disturbance.
She looked down into my eyes, “I’m surprised. You are awfully... considerate... for an officer.”
"Is that a complaint?" I asked her drowsily, “I could give you a form to fill out.”
"Not at all. A compliment."
"S'just manners." I murmured, my eyes closing, "The way I was raised..."
The young lady tilted her head, her soft hair drifting down from her shoulder onto mine, "So these are your good manners?"
Starting to fall asleep again, I grinned.
She leaned forward and whispered into my ear, her breath tickling my neck, “You could try being rude."
I woke up considerably. If I really must...

*

Pale daylight was slicing through the warmth of the room as I awoke and stretched lazily. Gatchi was curled up beside me, still elegant in sleep, like a small feline. I smiled and drew the sheets up over her shoulders.
She stirred, blinking, “…Time is it?” she asked, mumbling.
“I don’t know; morning.” I replied. I started to roll out of bed, and she caught my arm in her hand. I fended her off gently, “Nah kitten, I need to get up. There’ll be murder if anyone sees me coming back.” Besides which, having fully woken, I was acutely aware that I needed to piss like a racehorse.
She mumbled something and withdrew under the warm blankets. I chuckled, leaving her to it. After making use of her tiny bathroom to freshen up slightly, I started to get dressed. Doing so tiredly, dumping the clothes I could find on the edge of the bed, and working from the bottom up.
I’d got as far as my boots and trousers, slinging my belt around my waist and buckling it, as she snaked out a hand and took my sash from the pile. I continued with amusement, pretending not to have seen.

“You don’t have to go.” I felt the bed shift, and the heat of her body pressing against my back as Gatchi placed the sash over my eyes, tying it behind my head as an impromptu blindfold. She kissed the side of my neck as her hands withdrew, and I had a hard time disagreeing with her.
“This… really isn't my thing." I laughed as she pulled me backwards, slowly.
Gatchi murmured softly, "Relax."
I fell slowly backwards onto the bed, feeling faintly ridiculous, my feet still touching the floor. Feeling movement on the mattress again, I heard her lightly pad around to my side of the bed. I wondered what she was up to, but patiently stayed where I was, as she had asked.
"Ah." the unmistakeable sensation of cold metal pressed against my gut. We were getting along so well, too.
"Hands where I can see them." the girl said without a hint of irony.
I raised them, slowly to my head level, "Why?"
"You're my ticket out of here. Or more accurately, that antique pistol you have is. It’ll easily cover my trip out off this rock and a good way farther out.”
I balked, "You did this for money?"
Her knife pressed painfully into my flesh, the accusation not my smartest move in a history of fairly extensive stupidity.
"No, I did all this because it suited me. You weren't to blame. You are, for your naivety, a damn sight better person than the usual drek who come through here."
The ubiquitous sensation of being half complimented would have surfaced, had I not been so distracted by the literally pressing matter at hand.

Taking a gamble, I pulled off the improvised blindfold with one hand, not moving the other. I looked at her, sadly. She was standing to one side of me, still undressed. Still fiercely beautiful. The blade in her hand the only thing touching her skin. She watched my movement, her expression cold. She didn't move. 
"What stops me from returning here with half the regiment?" I asked quietly.
She laughed, no lightness to the sound this time, "You would admit to this? To being beaten by a woman nearly half your size?"
I looked away, she was right. As a trooper, it would be foolhardy at best. As a commissar? Possibly suicidal. I suspected Creer already viewed me as a major liability.
Gatchi pressed the knife further to regain my attention, and I winced as my blood began to bead against the edge in tiny droplets. She pointed with her free hand, "One hand. Your belt. Slowly."
Nodding, I lowered a hand and uncoupled the clasp, then pulled it free. I carefully passed the holster to her, a sickness rising in my core as I did so. The gun was the one thing remaining of my family. My sole tie to a life outside of the guard. She seized it and slung it over her free arm with one movement, pulling the pistol free into her spare hand. My only real option was to play along, and wait until she was distracted to try and seize it back.
Finally she slackened the knife before removing it, and I inhaled freely. 

"You could come with me." her wistful words echoed the carefree ones of the night before.
"No. You're cracked, Gatchi. There’s nowhere to go.” I shook my head.
"So now your true colours come out. Cracked?" she growled, narrowing her eyes, “You think yourself better than people like me?”
I was surprised into being honest, "What? No, I would never. I started with nothing, I can never forget that. But you're not being... This is fantasy! Where will you even go to?"
She wheeled on me, holding the cold barrel of my own gun to my cheek. Her finger wasn't on the trigger pad, and the way she held the grip was clumsy, uncomfortable. I surmised she had never handled a firearm before. The thought was no more comforting as it pressed against me. I stared at the ceiling, not hiding the panic in my face, considering it a small leverage against her conscience.
"I thought-” she waved the hand still holding the knife, towards the door, "I thought you might actually understand. What it's like to be trapped in a life you hate. The need to be better; to be free."
“Better I can understand. But nobody's free, lass. Not truly." I closed my eyes, "Those who think they are? They're still caged. They just paid their way to another cage so big that they can no longer see the bars."
I felt the metal shift against my cheek, tracing up to my brow, and my eyes snapped open, I'd gone too far, arrogant cleverness rather than trying to assist her.
Cold fury in her face, her finger shifted to the trigger pad.

I had barely seconds as the high pitched whine of the coil warming up sounded against my temple. I grabbed her wrist with both hands, and wrenched it away. A split second later, her nightstand loudly erupted into splinters and molten glass. Smoke and embers filled the air. Gatchi stared at the wreckage in horrified fascination, and I took the opportunity to wrest the gun from her grip. 
"No!" she swung wild for my chest with her knife, and I blocked her wrist with my spare hand. Working on reactions alone, I brought up my knee hard as I jammed her arm downwards and there was a terrible sound of impact, followed by Gatchi's scream.
She dropped the blade and fell to her knees, cradling her forearm, starting to sob from the pain and frustration. Her beautiful figure crumpled on the floor like a fragile, broken bird.
Despite everything, I felt deeply conflicted. I holstered my gun and slung the belt back around my waist, before bending on one knee to her level and taking her hands in my own, “Gatchi, I’m sorry, l-" 
A fearsome banging against the door ceased my idiocy and I leapt to my feet.
"Gatchi?!" a male voice called out, "Open the door!"
"Before we kick it down on ye!” a second yelled. I remembered the two substantial men working in the bar last night, and felt a reasonable lurch of panic. 

Realising it was over, Gatchi looked up at me, her eyes full of tears, but her face no longer cold, "Go! I’ll handle this.” she whispered.
I nodded, throwing on my shirt and coat, forgoing fastening the buttons, scrambling for my hat. I ran to the sliding door by the windows, thankfully left unlocked. It opened onto a small railed balcony, and on the wall beside that, hung a fire escape ladder.
Looking back one last time, I saw Gatchi shakily donning her own robe, and composing herself before stepping to the door. I leapt for the ladder, and slid down it inelegantly. I descended far too fast, hitting the ground hard, off balance, and careering off into a side street. An angry yell went up from the balcony, followed by the sound of someone else’s boots clanging onto the ladder. I didn't stop to look back. Coat trailing behind me and shirt still hanging open, I bolted, and didn't stop running hard until I reached the edge of the barracks a good mile later.

*

Leaning on the side of a parked truck, I panted heavily and tried to regain some composure of my own. It was still early morning, the air was crisp and the base seemed quiet. I hoped to sort myself out and get back to my office for a nap without interruption. The morning air was cooling my sweat, sticking shirt cloth to my back, my temples also beginning to chill beneath the hair now stuck to them.
"Morning Cat." Ahde poked his head out of the cab above me, and I jolted backwards, further startled. He looked down at me and grinned. His dark face was shaded against the hard rising sunlight, but I could see his eyes twinkling with glee at my disturbance.
Silently cursing him, I still couldn't speak, and leaned back against the vehicle, gasping for air.
He swung out of the door, and looked me up and down, eyebrows raised at my open shirt and dishevelled appearance, "Busy night?" 
"Something like." I managed.
Ahde rubbed the back of his neck examining the clouds, and displaying remarkable restraint for once, he said "I can see. Where's your sash though?”
He stepped back in alarm whilst I clasped both hands to my forehead and swore profusely. 

*

That night I didn't join the lads in town, thinking it best to stay back at the barracks and avoid any further misadventures for at least one day. I pawed through a few old books I had with me, napped, and sipped the rough whiskey I had not-so-secretly stashed a flask of in my lower desk. The only reason it was still plentiful, was due to most finding it absolutely vile. Suited me fine.
Later, the troops returned in high spirits, in small groups. It was a warm sound, I smiled, looking across the compound through the window as I took a break from my book. Small lights tracked men heading to bed, others starting their shifts.
The office door opened with a click, and Gaskell stuck his head in, "Alreet? You missed a good night, Cat!" he grinned.
I smiled apologetically,  "Needed one off. Overdid it last night." 
"Oh aye? Oh! Fellow behind the bar had this for you. Said you must have left it under a table.” He tossed me a small paper packet, about the size of a sandwich. 
"Cheers." I nodded.
Gaskell waved goodnight, "Don't stay up too late with your adventure books, our kid." he laughed.
"Night, Gaz." I couldn’t help but laugh back.

I opened the small packet as the door swung shut. Inside was my sash, immaculately clean and pressed. I unrolled it, and a small slip of paper fluttered out. I caught the note before it hit the floor. Reading the elegant cursive, I allowed a small smile. 

Our kid: Affectionate Northern English form of address for one younger than the speaker. Actual relation not strictly necessary, but more common than not.
"Kid" may be replaced with the name of the person, "Our Jason." for example.
It would appear that Captain Gaskell has come to regard the regiment as a form of extended family.

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Creer ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

Apparently we missed a bit of a show last night, should have stayed later. One of the bar staff, Gatchi, had some lucky sod up in her sleeping quarters overnight, which is rare enough. But then a weapon discharged. Took out a small stand, or something. I bet that killed the mood!
All cleared up by lunchtime, but the lads working there are right hacked off. The nutter made a run for it down the fire escape before they could get their hands on him.
I'm just glad the girl is okay. She claimed it was an accident and is sticking to that, but if it were one of our lot and he hurt her, heads would roll. No way to treat a venue that looks after us so well, and it would have fethed up all we worked on last night.
I sort of wondered if it were Yorke, but I saw him and Ahde wandering around this morning, all seemed fine. Knew he was a boring bastard, that commissar.

[Disconnect]

Didn't seem smutty at all, rather classy actually in many ways, giving just enough to give the emotion of what was happening without crossing the line into too much detail to land it in the smutty area that you were concerned with. Well done!

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: On Leave II

[ Audio Transcript: Captain Creer ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

I'm going to kill that lanky streak of piss with my bare hands. Knew he wasn't one of us, should have done it when he first came. fething prick with his softly-softly bs, and then he betrays me like this. In front of my own men! We'll have him, and anyone that steps in to stop us.

Gaz and Ahde are good mates with him, but they'll come round again once he's gone. Can't lose a good vox operator, we need Ahde on side at the very least. When I next speak to Hantel, I'll get him to spend bit more time with him, try and win him over. Gaz will be harder, but he at least understands honour. And if he doesn't? He's hardly indispensable. He knows what happened to the last fething hatter who got too close.

[Disconnect]



[Commissariat performance assessment] [Interview: Captain Gaskell, Mordian 183rd] [Subject: Commissar Yorke] *

[Commissar Koath]: For the use of the recording, please identify yourself.
[Captain Gaskell]: Sir. Gaskell, Francis Gaskell. Captain, Mordian 183rd Regiment.
[Koath]: You serve alongside Commissar Ramirez Yorke?
[C.G]: Yes.
[Koath]: Please recall the incident concerning Commissar Yorke that you witnessed in Valse.
[C.G]: Last year? With Cat- ah, Commissar Yorke? When he shot Creer- Captain Creer?
[Koath]: Yes.
[C.G]: Well. We'd spent the last months clearing out the hills, outposts, sniper nests. The call came that we’d finally done enough, so we'd been moved to a base on Valse, for rest and a little local security work while we waited for the Nubila to return. We hadn't been there long when it happened. The third night there. Three of us lads and Creer were headed out across town for the night, when [Creer] heard all this fuss in a side street. Turns out there were a bunch of locals standing around this girl. She were screaming and howling. He took off down there before we knew. We went after him and the locals legged it in all directions. The girl were on the ground, still screaming. She were thrashing around down there, Creer ran over, he got her up. She were flailing around, screaming, using these words-
[Koath]: Local tongue?
[C.G]: I suppose so. We saw Creer tense up as he grabbed her. He were gripping her shoulders trying to calm her down. Her eyes, they were all strange.
[Koath]: Strange?
[C.G]: White. They must have been rolled back but I suppose he didn't know. We just didn't know. He struck her face and she didn't stop. It made her worse if anything. She just carried on screaming, these sounds. And words we didn't understand. She were struggling and trying to push him away. We went to catch up with him.
[Koath]: And then Commissar Yorke shot Captain Creer?
[C.G]: Yes. No- Not then. Cat weren’t with us. When she didn't stop screaming, it were like [Creer], something snapped. He drew his weapon- his pistol. We heard this shout, Cat's running down the other end of the street towards us. He's yelling, "Stop! Stop now!" but the Captain isn't listening. Maybe he couldn't hear over the screaming. [Creer] put the gun to the girl, ready to fire, but then he was on the ground, his arm gone from the elbow. Blood all over us, the wall, the girl. Cat'd shot him.
[Koath]: I see.
[C.G]: [Yorke] ran straight past us, and he ever-so-gently pulls up the girl's arm, pulls back her sleeve. feth, there's this band, a medic's band. He holds it up to us. He's steaming angry, spitting fire at us. She's not tainted- she's sick. Come from the hospital in town. Cat, he turns her away, covers her eyes with his hand. Tells us to sort out Creer. She's still cryiing and shaking but he gets her to walk slowly. She started to calm down. She eventually stops screaming and is just shaking, Cat took her away back up the street to town. I think to her family, the hospital. We picked up Creer and his arm, but too much of it was burned away. We took him to the hospital too, but around the other way.
[Koath]: How did Commissar Yorke know where you were?
[C.G]: When the locals ran. He were coming past to town the other way. These locals, one runs to him, begs for his help. Her sister's sick, and the soldier men will take her. We didn't know. We- We wouldn't have.

[Koath]: Thank you. Before the incident how well did Commissar Yorke get along with the men of the regiment?
[C.G]: Get along? Well, Cat gets on with everybody mostly. Even people who don't like him, sort of like him. You can find yourself talking to him even when you don't mean to. I suppose that's why the name stuck; he gets in without you noticing and suddenly he's just, there. You don't know rightly when it happened. That makes him bloody dangerous as a commissar, he doesn't even need to do anyone in to get them moving.
[Koath]: I see.
[C.G]: That's not to say he's soft, you'd be daft if you weren't scared. He’s far worse. Learns people instead of using one stock method for everyone.
[Koath]: And after the incident?
[C.G]: Some of Creer's closest weren't happy, but they weren't there when it happened. Most of us took the view that [Creer] shouldn't have been going at a civilian. Us that were there that night felt bad for Creer but he shouldn't have done it. We thought it were all cleared up between them until the attack on him happened.
[Koath]: The attack on Creer?
[C.G]: No, Cat. Cat were stabbed. Though Creer and a couple of lads were attacked the same night. Mugging they all reckoned. Then there were the hospital fire.
[Koath]: This is not fully on record. We only have account of two incidents, both involving Creer, and the second also involving two officers. The hospital fire is recorded as an act of local arson. Can you explain the attack on Commissar Yorke?
[C.G]: I don’t know why it wouldn’t be recorded. The last month on Valse, about six weeks after Creer lost his arm. Cat were cut on the way back to us from a trip out. I guess he’d gone for a walk or something .Someone got him in the back with a blade. Medics said it got his insides fair bad. They also kicked seven shades of gak out of him. Collapsed lung. Fractures up and down him. Our patrol found him. Crazy bastard trying to walk back to his bed right after. First time I'd really seen him blooded. We got him patched up locally, but he's not been quite the same since.
[Koath]: What was the cause of the attack?
[C.G]: We were never sure. It were two of Creer’s lads did it. I had the rest of them transferred after we found out.

[Koath]: Would you say Commissar Yorke’s ability to perform his duty has been compromised by the attack?
[C.G]: No. He is- He speaks less. He listens more. He's the dangerous kind of listener. Lets people hang themselves by not stopping them or interrupting. You try and fill that gap and it's not always a good thing. I’m not sure I have a full understanding of him so much these days, but I’d say if anything he’s more efficient. That time he spends listening? He learns more about how to move people. It makes him harder to argue with. That’s for sure. Sometimes he wears this coat with the hole in the back. Like he's saying, "You can't get rid that easy." It motivate them some, but it’s not half grim.
[Koath]: Thank you for your cooperation.
[C.G]: Sure. I mean, yes sir.

[End Transcript]

[Investigation note I]: The Valse infirmary record for the date supplied is incomplete, due to a fire the following week. However records show only three men admitted on the date provided by Captain Gaskell. Two guardsmen with mostly superficial las-weapon burns, the third was Captain Creer, with severe lacerations to the legs and neck, amongst lesser injuries. There is no record of any injury sustained by Commissar Yorke on this date.
[Investigation note II]: Captain Creer expired the following night due to respirator blockage. Medical staff were not found to be negligent in their duty and no charges were brought against them.

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

Walking back to the makeshift barracks, along a canal path. They waited until I lit up, my roll-up in my mouth. The flare of the match stripping my sight in the dark.
"feth you, Yorke." the whisper behind me, close enough that I felt their cooling breath on my neck. A hand gripped my collar. Before I could react, I was hit low and hard in the back. The punch knocked me to my knees and stole my air away, forcing me to drop my light. No, not a punch. A numbness and spreading chill came along with the ache. They struck again, close to the first and I choked back a gasp as I felt it connect. I heard their blade drop heavily to the dirt behind me. Gak.
The light gone, I caught the ground hard with my left hand, springing into a crouch, and swept backwards with my other arm. Try and get the bastard down here with me. 
My arm met nothing, and I over-balanced. For my efforts something in the darkness slammed hard into my face, sending me backwards into the ground. Pain awakened in my lower back, the same darkness mercifully providing ignorance of why.
I snatched at the pistol at my waist, cursing my slowness. Attempting to snapshot in the direction of my attacker, it flashed, and a howl of both anger and pain replied as they fell back. Good. 
My satisfaction was short, a sudden, soft sound beside me. A powerful kick to my side shook the last air from my lungs. I tried desperately to breathe, choking in briefly before the bastard stamped down onto my chest. I felt and heard a dry cracking in my ribs over the thudding. There’s more than one of them, you idiot. Likely they’ve had all night stewing in the dark. They can see better than you.
Frustrated, I rocked forward, firing blindly in the direction of the second attacker. A wordless yell after the blinding light, and the groaning sound of stifled pain, somebody stumbling back. I grinned in the blackness. See how you like it. 
I hadn’t done enough, they lashed out again wildly as they retreated, striking lucky across my wrist, knocking my pistol away into the black. Too far to reach, and I would not allow myself to crawl for it.

"Finish him, for feth’s sake!" a third? I paused trying to right myself. Not a voice I recognised. Or maybe it was? The lack of other senses shielding him.
"Can’t. Manage it yourself?" I spat out, costing precious breath. Keenly aware I was starting to suffocate. I could hear crackling and fizzing as I tried to inhale. See flickers of light in my eyes. Get him talking, track the sound.
Footsteps on the grit drew closer.
I remembered the knife that dropped, scanning the darkness for any slight reflection. There. Near enough to grab, the gleam dulled by something smeared across it, black against the bright metal. 
"You’re not worth it, Yorke. You only drag good men down to your level." the voice hissed by my side.
"No. Above us, it’s. Duty.” I fought to speak, aghast at how pathetic I sounded.
"Duty!" he snarled, "You filth-“
I cut him off, swiping wide and inelegantly with the found blade, catching him across the backs of his legs. I swung again, jamming the knife into his calf, meeting resistance I hoped was bone. I wrenched it free, the sound buried in his screams.

These men knew my name, they must be Mordian. What was their game? No guns? The thought slid past. Untraceable, a man goes missing in the dark. An unfortunate footnote before deployment to yet another shithole. The reply sparked back. Well, that can work both ways.
The anger rose in my gut, fire replacing pain, I shifted my weight, found purchase on the earth, and launched myself into the good man at waist height, bringing him down with me.

*

The world shrank in size as I came to a stop, resting against the make-shift barrack. Still gripping the knife, unsure if I could release it. The handle was real, I could feel that. Understand that. I could feel the wall’s cold, rough surface against my other hand, the night air making ice of my sweat, taste the blood in my mouth, and hear the quiet winds rattling nearby rooftop cabling. Feel the odd pressure in my temples as I fought to stay upright.
Then, I couldn’t.
I felt only the curious, numb lack of control in my legs as I slid down, heard only the crackle and fizz of air in my chest. Saw the eerie flashes like luminous tree branches, as my vision sparkled, my eyes failing to steal blood from my core. My whole body shook as my senses disconnected. Stay awake. I would not crawl.
"Over there!" Gaskell? I couldn’t see.
My vision was just static against the dark. Static flared to white, blinding as their torchlight hit me.

"It’s Cat! Strewth!" Gaskell.
I heard running, or it could have been my pulse thumping. In the light I saw movement, shadows against the neon vignette my vision had reduced to. Uncounted arms pulled me to my feet, and held me up. I still couldn’t catch enough breath to stand alone, never mind speak. An unseen hand pried the knife from my own.
"Who did this?" Gaskell demanded as they half dragged, half carried my dead weight.
"Mugging." I murmured.
"You’re a very bad liar, for a Commissar." he scolded, trying to keep me awake.
"Mhm."

*

I remember tales of flying aces who kept the same coat or scarf for each flight, believing them lucky. Tradition and superstition, shielding them from fear. It may even have made them better pilots for it.
Often I wear the coat from that night. The blood long since washed away, a ragged gash remaining in the back.
That didn’t work for them, it says. It won’t work for you.

♬ Eventually I'm know I'm doomed, to get what I am asking for.

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

The room came to me in a blur of light and unfocused shape as I was gently pulled to consciousness.
"Ramirez, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me." a female voice matched to the shadowed shape leaning over me, and I felt a firm pressure on my fingers. As instructed, I reciprocated groggily, wanting nothing but to return to comfortable warm rest.
She moved her hand slowly back and forth across my vision and I followed it lazily with my eyes. Go away, I want to sleep.
"Tell his Captain he's come through okay." the blurry medic said to someone behind her.  
Captain? Creer? I felt a minute spike of panic beneath the soft fog. It rapidly faded as I drifted off under another blissfully soft wave of anaesthetic.

All good craic our kid. I'll never look at my Mordians and Commissars the same way after this story. I've only one squad of suits and a pair of pointy hats but they're certainly taking on plenty of Northern character in my mind.

Thanks for keeping on working on this for us all, hope you're feeling better.

 Buttery Commissar wrote:
I'm doing better, but I still have no energy.

It's so odd, I don't know quite where the Northern Mordian accent came from.

Maybe It's because when four Mordians from different units get together they look like Sgt Pepper 's Lonely Hearts Club Band.

"In the taaaaaahn where I was born... Heretics everywhere, we shot them."

Why not have the guard kill each other off? They seem jumpy enough to do it. Maybe accusing each other of being tainted or having a more circular pattern where Cat gets one talking to him and the others start accusing him because he's showing compassion to a tainted soldier. Or start throwing accusations at him because they don't want to let Cat go or something of that nature. Have them end up taking care of each other. That could have some seriously interesting implications for the investigation, too...

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

I woke up whilst it was still dark, and was aware of a pressing urgency that I'd previously managed to ignore.
Over by the camp itself, I could hear voices still talking quietly, two guard must have still been awake.
Deciding to try my luck, I shuffled myself into a sitting position after some difficulty and made the politest noise of inquiry I could manage.
"Ignore him." one guard sighed.
I repeated the sound with increased urgency. I was hoping to not end up with botch a concussion and wet clothes, but this escapade was teaching me that life could go either way right now.
"I think he needs something." a quieter voice replied, and I heard footsteps approach.
A torch blinded me, and I stayed as still as possible as my eyes adjusted. I recognised the young man who had earlier expressed doubts at me being a tainted enemy.

"What?" he stayed a fair distance as he asked me.
I attempted to reply through the gag, finding it impossible, rolled my eyes and simply nodded my head downwards emphatically.
Recognition dawned, "Okay, hang on."
Climbing past me, the guard cautiously picked up my sword, and then untied the rope linking my ankle to the truck. He held both with great uncertainty and then helped me to climb down as well.
He reached up and pulled the gag out of my mouth, "You need to, uh, go?"
"Mhm. My kidneys are starting to ache." I mumbled.
He looked alarmed, and then led the way around the back of their makeshift camp to where I assumed was their collective midden. We stood at the edge, and tried to avoid looking at one another.
"You're either going to have to free my hands or get overly friendly." I sighed.
"Oh!" the young man looked perplexed, "But you might escape."
"Look, tie that rope to something then." I fidgeted. Having just woken up I was very unsteady and didn't much fancy falling into the hole.
Keeping one eye on me, he obliged, and then set my hands free. I flexed gratefully at the return of circulation to them.
"Ahem." I looked sideways at the lad.
He looked embarrassed and turned away.

Focusing on the task at hand, I then heard something move in the undergrowth a small distance away from us. I pretended to ignore it. Having attended to my requirement, I readjusted my uniform and turned back to the guard.
"We need to move,” I said in a very low whisper, "we need to move now."
Without turning back to me, he flicked out the arm holding my sword, and severed the rope attaching my leg to the nearby tree.
 We started striding the short distance back towards the camp, and had nearly arrived as a blood curdling scream went up from the opposite side, followed by sounds of alarm and gunfire.
“You tricked us!" he span and pointed the blade at me.
“Get down." I ignored the sword and pulled him with me as I concealed myself behind the truck that'd been my temporary resting place, "These aren't my squad. We don't attack guardsmen." I whispered.
The young man looked deeply uncertain, "You're trying to fool me."
“Fella, I could have had my sword back at any point since you freed my hands. I'm as much in the gak here as you are." I gestured for him to be silent and crept along the side of the truck.
The sight that greeted me was grim. The guard had been attacked in their sleep and then rounded up to the centre of the camp by a pair of very similarly dressed guardsmen, the difference being that they had lasguns and body armour. The weapons of the guard who had captured me lay heaped to one side. However the two men that I had injured in my fight to remain free, now lay dead on the ground, apparently executed. With them, three more who had been unharmed. Why?

I heard a small gasp beside me, and held out my hand to stop the young guard doing anything foolish.
"Wait." I murmured.
Another armed man emerged from outside the clearing, I could then count three.
"Give me my sword back and stay here." I held out my hand.
He returned it, "What're you going to do?"
"What I do best; confuse people." I replied quietly.

Standing up straight, I walked calmly up behind the armed guards, my sword low by my side. The captured guard spotted my arrival and I put one finger to my lips, then gestured with my finger to their weapons, silently praying they'd play along.
"Finally got here, then?" I snapped, causing three of the captors to spin to face me.
Behind them, one of the captured guard called out and spat, "You bloody traitor! We should have killed you!"
The three guards span again, bewildered, and in one movement I activated the field on my power sword and swept it, beheading the nearest guard and then plunged it deep into the side of his companion standing close by. The headless guard slumped, spilling blood across the ground, and scattering his weapon as he fell. His companion choked and dropped to his knees, where I pulled out my sword from his side, and swiftly performed the only mercy I could.

The remaining guard turned his gun barrel toward me and I would swear to this day that I saw the coil inside begin to glow before he was knocked unconscious by a solid crack to the head. One of my own captors was stood over him, face clouded with rage and holding his reclaimed pickaxe handle in both hands. He raised it again.
I stopped him with the flat of my sword, "You're better than this,” instead pointing to the dropped lasguns, "see justice done, but make it clean."
He did just that, and a sense of relief washed across the men. I breathed a little easier knowing that at least two of them would listen to instruction.
"You can come out now." I turned to the truck and called quietly.
The hiding man emerged, but there was no relief on his face. Behind him stood two more armed guard, their guns trained on his head.
"Drop your sword, Commissar." one of them snarled.
As a rule, I do not negotiate with chaos or the enemy. But I saw the terrified face of the young man who had trusted me. I deactivated my sword and dropped it to the ground. Behind me, I heard a lasgun drop to the earth similarly.

*

"Makes a change to have company." I smiled ruefully at the man shackled beside me in the bed of the truck.
"Shut up." he growled.
I rolled my eyes, "Last time I invite you over to stay the night."
He swung for me with one massive fist, and found himself stopped short by the chain being held by the man next to him.
"Leave him alone,” my saviour glared, "and that goes for you as well." he looked at me tiredly.
"What's the hold up?" I looked around curiously as we sat in the stationary truck, “They can't get it going."
The man beside me laughed, "They'll have no chance. Terrance took the plugs out and stashed them." he nodded his head over to where the dead troopers lay.
"Why?" I chuckled.

"He figured you might be a clever bugger and get loose." sighed the young lad who had freed me.
I looked up at him and met his nervous eye, "If it's any reassurance, I wouldn't have hurt you."
"What would you have done?" he looked at me with curiosity.
"I'd have pushed you in the toilet pit and run off." I grinned.
"Feth's sake, Darren." the man beside me rolled his eyes, "You let him out?"
"He needed to go, Ron!” Darren frowned, looking back and forth for reassurance.
I nodded, "To be fair, that was actually true. You did what I would’ve, Darren.”
“Just who are you?” Ron turned to me, his expression weary.
I stared back at him.
"You really are a commissar sent down here to find us."
I nodded, "I really am."
He closed his eyes, "And we nearly handed you over to them."
"Who?" I was getting tired of asking the same question.
The exhausted trooper stared at me, "You really don't know? The guard camps have all been taken by chaos. I don’t know where exactly it started, but they corrupted so many of our men and killed anyone who resisted. Those they didn't kill, they press-ganged into digging for them. We escaped, but they came after us."

Processing this, I couldn't help asking, "Digging?"
Darren interjected, “Down. Random sites at first, we didn't even make sense of it. Never found anything. But then a message came through that they found whatever it was they were looking for at the Northern camp. We were being moved there to contribute when we made a break for it."
The Northern camp. The pick up point, my blood ran cold. The Hollies were headed straight for this all-important dig site and had no clue. I had to get there ahead of them and try to warn them.
“My squad were headed there.” I whispered, failing to keep my face free of fear for my friends.
“Gak.” the third trooper murmured.

~

Darren, you had one job! At least this way he didn't get killed (yet, at least) or shoved into the toilet hole.

It's also nice for the group to actually see Yorke isn't a traitor.

Maybe Cat could use the example to teach Mouse some rudimentary maths after his reading lessons.

To be honest I'm often so immersed in the story that I don't even notice. I'm too busy reading to bother much with the counting. I don't even have an excuse. Maybe I'm just a lazy reader who enjoys a good story enough to implicitly trust that the author knows what he's talking about when it really matters.
Why nit-pick a gift horse in the narrative?
You're doing sterling work, honestly.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: On Leave III

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

The next time I opened my eyes, it was natural daylight that met them. Blinking, I was able to gradually focus on the nearest surroundings. Without thinking, I lifted up a hand to clear my vision.
"Don't, please." I was fuzzily aware of a figure by the bed. The lady medic? I lowered my arm, and tried to apologise, perplexed when I discovered I couldn't. I was unsure why, my senses all strangely suspended, cushioned.
"You have an auto respirator fitted, we have to leave it in a little while longer. We'll get it out soon." she spoke calmly with a reassuring tone, and put her hand on my wrist gently.
Tensing my face slightly, I could feel the restrictive piping running into my nose. As my senses returned slowly, I became aware of a burning in the back of my throat from the rest of it. My mouth was dry and foul, taking up a share of my attention. I made a hand gesture, my eyebrows raised politely as I could manage. 
The blurry medic shook her head, "Not until the ventilator is out; you'd choke. I'm sorry."
I nodded carefully, then motioned to my eye, curious why she had stopped me from touching it.
"Your nose is broken; you have two impressive shiners and a fractured eye socket." her tone was professional but sympathetic.
Hah. No wonder my head was full of fog.

Beside me, the medic yawned, trying to conceal it, and failed.
Trying my best non-verbal signing, I signalled, you okay?
She smiled tiredly, and sat down in the seat beside the bed, whilst patting my arm gently, "I'm just tired. Putting you back together has been a long one."
That hadn't yet occurred to me. I motioned, so nap. I won't tell anybody.
She chuckled, "You can't tell anybody!"
Grinning, I nodded. I regretted it shortly after, as pain spiked through my skull, sending me cross-eyed.
The medic had closed her own eyes, "I suppose five minutes can't hurt. I can hardly do my best if I'm half-awake.”
“Mhm.” I managed. I half-watched her through the haze as she drifted off. Her breathing relaxed, and I was glad to see her at rest.
Feeling safe, I let sleep claim me too, there was little to worry about in this room. It was an uncommon feeling, but a good one, despite the circumstances.

Waking again, I found the chair beside me empty, the young medic was instead silently checking the drip feed. She winked and put a finger to her lips.
I was about to enquire about the varying states of the rest of me, but my new companion straightened up suddenly, “You have a visitor." she said cheerfully.
A shadow drew across my vision and then I was gazing up into Gaskell's battered, solemn face. It was the first thing I'd truly seen in focus since waking, not entirely unwelcome but somewhat alarming. He was in uniform, the crisp colours vividly lit by the sunlight. It also illuminated how dog-tired he was; even for Gaskell he looked rough.
Gaskell read my expression, "Yeah I know, not a patch on young Bridget here." he chuckled.
Unable to reply, I watched him blearily. 
"You can't speak yet, huh?" he motioned to his nose with one hand, "Good. Gives me chance to bust your balls for once without you jawing back at me. And you can put that down before I snap it off." he said sternly, pointing at my obscene hand gesture.
I lowered it petulantly and listened. 

"You're lucky we found you, Cat! What in the Emperor's sainted boot-caps were you thinking? Walking back to bed with a stab wound, a collapsed lung? You can't just sleep those off, you fething maniac!"
I grinned at him, my split lower lip stinging sharply. 
"No, no you don't. All four of you need your heads examined. You can't just go around playing hero when you're off-duty. If it were up to me we'd fething leave you all here." he scowled. 
I held up my fingers, and cocked my head, [b]four?[/b]
He ignored me, "As it is, you idiots bought us all some more time off. So there's that." 
I blinked confusedly, he winked, the formal facade of bollocking me over. I felt the tug of sleep calling me back, softly.

He stepped away smartly, Bridget had returned with a male colleague. They sat me up carefully but efficiently, and after a short explanation, they removed the auto ventilator tubing. The passage of the tubes burned my throat and sinuses further, but the freedom more than made up for the brief discomfort.
Gasping, I found a small cup of water in my hand, and a basin was offered. Still unable to speak, I nodded my thanks and put my thumb up weakly before rinsing and spitting, “Tank y'." I managed, embarrassed at my articulation.
"With manners like that, you can come back." teased the second medic.
"Ah don't. He's a sweetie." scolded Bridget.
Out of the corner of my eye I could just about see Gaskell, and knew he was listening and storing it up for later.

The medics departed, leaving me with a further small cup of water and warning to take it slow.
Gaskell returned and sat in a chair beside the bed, “Hello sweetie." I couldn't see his grin, but knew it was there.
“Mmh.” the pull of sleep was still tugging me down, much firmer this time.
"Woah there." jumping up, his hand firmly caught my shoulder as I started to slide back, and lowered me gently, his other hand catching the drink.
"S'rry." I murmured, fighting the inevitable drop off.
"Rest up, Cat. I'll come back tomorrow." he put the cup down quietly on a nearby surface, "You better be your smart-arse self when I come back. I can't do this huggy gak." he muttered, his charming way of saying he'd been worried.
I closed my eyes, “Thass Coms’r Sm'rt 'rs." I heard his snort as I drifted off.



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41] *

“Someone’s popular.” Bridget winked at me as she finished checking my chest drain.
I looked at her in confusion, half asleep.
The medic smiled, “There’s a young lady here to see you.” She helped me sit up in bed with a trained efficiency tempered by an understanding of exactly what hurt and where.

Beside me, Gatchi took a seat and waited politely for me to wake up a little.
To say I was surprised would be an understatement. "How did you know I was here?" I mumbled.
Smiling, she was lit by the sun that broke into the room, giving her a warm glow that was strangely fitting. Her spiced perfume was a gentle but welcome contrast to the disinfectant smell that permeated the hospital. Gatchi laughed, "The world didn't stop because you got attacked, you know. Your lads are still coming into our bar. They're quite vocal after a few."
"Oh, Emperor wept." I could only imagine.
She leaned her elbows on the bed next to me, "I assume this is your reason for not coming back to see me. I'll give it a nine out of ten for commitment to the excuse."
I blinked tiredly, "M'sorry there. Didn't really think you wanted me to visit after all that I got up to." I had assumed that bridge burned and the ground long cleared.
Gatchi furrowed her brow, smiling, "You are the only person I know of that could turn what I did into your own transgression."
“Well-ingrained Commissariat guilt and manners." I smiled.

She gave a shark-like grin, "I remember your manners."
I winked tirely, "I could still find you a complaint form."
She shook her head, and reached out gently, holding her hand against my cheek, "You're daft. I liked them."
Closing my eyes at the warmth, I murmured, “Be a while before I can get up to anything, polite or rude, from the sounds of it. Don't think I'll be climbing down more fire escapes any time soon either."
"I can wait," she very lightly flicked my nose with one finger as she withdrew her hand, "no pity-party though."
"Promise." I chuckled, which was nearly too painful to be worth doing.

"I'll come back on my next afternoon off." Gatchi smiled as she stood up, "Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"
I considered the question, "Keep an eye on Ahde and Gaz for me, if you see them. I'm worried that this may not be the end of things." I gestured to my injuries.
She nodded, "I'll make sure to. And I'll let the guys at the bar know to be on the lookout. I'm sorry that we facilitated that bastard to begin with."
"You couldn't have known." I was starting to feel acutely tired again, and blinked, struggling to focus.
Reaching over again, Gatchi gently turned my head with one hand and kissed my forehead lightly, "Rest as you need to, Ray, the world won't stop, but you must now and then.”
I closed my eyes and nodded sleepily as she slipped out of the room.

Bridget reappeared with a roll of fresh gauze and some tape, “I like her.”
I gave her a politely quizzical look.
“She made you laugh. And she’s got confidence to her, you could do a lot worse.”
Caught off guard, I mumbled, “So could she. I’m a commissar, Bridget.”
She tilted her head.
I continued, “There’s no future for her there. There’s no end to my duty, not really. So, we get together… I might see her once or twice a year if that, and then some day she gets a letter saying that I’ve been killed or gone missing. I can’t do that to someone. Not someone like her…”
Sitting on the edge of my bed, Bridget looked at me, exasperated, “I wasn’t saying you should. I just meant that you should seize some joy, Ramirez. Enjoy what you have whilst you’re here. Besides, it’s her choice as much as yours. That girl is no fool, she knows what you are.”
I smiled, “I guess I am a bit doom and gloom, huh.”
“That’d be the nearly being beaten to death; it tends to lower the mood.” she lifted back the sheets carefully to inspect my side.
I rolled to allow her access, and at some point fell asleep again while she skilfully changed the dressing.



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41 - week after the assault] *

"A mugging? Didn't they teach you to lie convincingly when they gave you that hat?" Gaskell ran his hand through his hair in exasperation.
"They tried. I wasn't paying attention." I replied glibly.
 He glared at me, "You spin gak to sound better all the time!"
"That's just varnish. A pearl is formed around grit until it is beautiful, valuable." I made a circular motion with my hands.
"Can't you varnish your lies?" he replied, exasperated.
"Of course I could."
"Then why don't you?" my friend snapped.
"Don't want to. People get hurt." I smiled.
He growled and cuffed me around the back of the head in almost paternal frustration, unseating my hat over my eyes.
I laughed, "See?"
"I think I liked it better when you were unconscious." Gaz sighed.

I changed topic, straightening my hat, “So. Who were the other men brought in?”
"Hantel and Sanderson. Someone shot them, they were just clipped though." he watched my reaction closely.
I did my best to appear shocked, "And the third?"
"The Cap." he frowned.
I failed to appear surprised, this time, “Creer? How is he?"
"Dead." What?
"Dead! I didn't think those wounds were fatal." I scratched my chin, thoughtfully.
"Cat! What do you know?" he seized my shoulder suddenly and I let out an involuntary yelp. Bridget looked over sternly and Gaskell quickly released his grip. He looked almost sheepish.
"I know there was a spate of mugging." I shrugged, wincing.

He looked over uneasily at me, "Someone carved his face, neck and legs up badly, but it wasn't lethal. He died from ventilator malfunction two days ago."
"That's a shame. I'd have had him against the wall for trying to kill me." I growled quietly.
"He did this to y- You did that to them?" his eyes widened as he blurted it out.
"Keep your voice down, Emperor above us, you're worse at subtlety than that bastard Ahde." I hissed.
He lowered his voice, “Why didn't you say it was Creer?"
"I wasn’t sure!”
Watching my face carefully, Gaz relaxed, "The upside of you being a gak liar is I know you're being straight with me now."
As was often the case, I felt half complimented, half damned.

"What I don't understand," Gaz murmured, "Is why they did such a piss poor job of trying to kill you."
I stared at him completely deadpan, "Thanks."
"You know what I mean! Three trained guard, you were drunk, and they couldn’t just off you in the dark? Basic training covers how to kill up close, and none of them were first week recruits, Cat!”
It'd occurred to me as well, "At a guess, Creer wanted me to know what was happening. Get his point across before... Well, you know. He just hadn't anticipated my reaction."
My friend looked at me, something akin to concern in his eyes, "Neither had I, Cat. You made a right mess of him."
"I was hardly trying for efficiency!"
"Good, because you'd have failed entirely if you were!" Gaz ran his hand through his recently cropped hair, "Promise me if I ever cross you, just use that bloody pistol."
“Can’t,” I frowned, “dropped it during the attack." I felt a pang of deep sadness. After everything the battered thing had survived, I'd lost it after all. I could hardly complain given the circumstances, but losing my last tangible link with my own family was a raw feeling.
Gaz shook his head, smiling, "You mustn't have had it with you, Cat. It was by your bunk this morning."
I turned my head so quickly that I rapidly regretted it, I exclaimed "Someone must have found it, then. I definitely had it with me!” catching his doubtful face, I then snapped, "I'm not crazy; those troopers came in with las-wounds, didn't they?"
His eyes widened, "So they did. Sorry fella. Been a long one, this."
Sitting for a little while, we didn’t fill the time with chatter, just thinking about the mess.

*

“Look, before it goes further, I don't want to report it." I heard myself say after some consideration.
"Why the feth not?" Gaz gaped at me.
I spoke slowly, “We can move on. Let Creer die in this insignificant way, Gaz. Let them all believe he was killed by some local, squabbling over nothing. The man was a brute and a bully." 
Nodding, Gaz leaned back in his seat, "I can't argue there. And that's Captain Gaz, Yorke."
Saluting stiffly, before breaking into a grin, I murmured, “About time."
"Thank you, Cat. It makes this look mighty shifty though, everyone knows we get along well, and then Creer pegging it... And what about Hantel and Sanderson?"
I considered the problem. Executing the pair would lead to questions, but allowing them to live would mean also allowing for treachery in our ranks. Plus, it would be exceptionally dangerous for morale and survival if anyone found out I’d let them stay.
On top of that, Gaskell was right, my involvement in Creer's death could unfairly cast a shadow over his new promotion. My head started to hurt again, and this time not from the fractures.
"They're letting me out of here in the morning, I'll deal with them tomorrow." I stretched out on the bed. 



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41 - week after the assault] *

"Ahde, I need you to leave." I stood in the doorway of the signal hut. Ahde was lounging with Hantel and Sanderson, playing cards inside. They looked up in surprise, I watched them silently. I knew I looked a state, despite wearing my uniform My coat buttoned up to hide the amount of bandage under my shirt, and provide a little support. Two black eyes and a broken nose under my cap, combined with a repairing split lip and unavoidable but gentle sideways sway as I stood there refusing to lean on a doorframe.
As he stood, Ahde nodded to me, "It's good to see you up and about, Cat." he smiled broadly and then caught sight of the pistol in my hand, looked away and slipped past wordlessly. 
The two young men stood up eying me, their faces still but pale. Sanderson’s arm was bandaged heavily in a sling, and he sported a black eye of his own. Strange, as I hadn't struck out at either of them during the attack, only fired. Hantel was shirtless under his jacket, with a large swathe of clean bandage and gauze across his stomach. 
He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut across him, "Save it. I charge you both with my attempted murder. Do not insult me further by assuming me too stupid to realise it was you."
I handcuffed them both. Sanderson had the decency to turn his eyes and lower his head, whilst Hantel glowered coldly at me the entire time. 
"Outside." I pointed with my pistol, "And before you get ideas about running, remember that I could hit you both in the dark." They traipsed past me, out into the courtyard, and I led them around the back of the compound in silence. 
I have always hated what had to come next, there's enough death in our lives without adding our own men to the tally. Partly why I made the call to do it myself, freeing anyone else from the burden. Commissars see execution as performing the Emperors will and upholding the Imperium's strength. I recognise that. I may even have at one time have subscribed fully and unquestioningly to the school of thought. Standing before them, I wished that I still did.

"Your final words, Hantel.” my pistol raised to his head as he stood against the wall. We were alone but for Sanderson. No ceremony, no firing squad. A faint breeze blew past, moving branches in the nearby pines. Birds chattered, and grass rustled gently. It felt surreal enough without the backdrop of a perfectly pleasant day in the countryside.
"feth you, Yorke." he spat at my feet. 
I sighed, took aim and fired. As his companion’s body crumpled to the ground, Sanderson flinched away, his eyes wide in fear in his pale face.
Rubbing my temples I focused and began to recite the Litany of Forgiveness, my heart wasn’t in it, and he wasn’t listening.
The slim trooper was sweating visibly and I realised quite how young he was. My heart sank as he started pleading. He was sorry. They had threatened him. They had forced him to go along with them. I realised his black eye was much older than my own. His already browning and starting to fade. Other, older bruises showed in the daylight along the bare flesh of his partly bandaged arm. 
"Compose yourself, Sanderson.” I said, my voice level.
"Please. I'm sorry." tears ran down his freckled cheeks and I thought again, how truly young he was.
"I believe you." I whispered before I fired. 

~

Litany of Forgiveness:
God-Emperor, forgive your servant his sins, and remember I am just a man.

Rough justice, I daresay. I liked the two different outlooks they gave. Hantel was cold to the end, and Sanderson was as much of a victim as a perpetrator.

I find it odd after this scene that the only pictures of Cat that I've seen are cute and rendered in crayon.

I just want to see a gritty black and white study of the guy in all his grim bad-assery. All gaunt and steely eyed and haunted.

Here's a scruffy sketch. I haven't drawn people for about eight years, so it's a little uhh.. yes.

I managed to find the surface of my desk.



Excuse the pixellation. I signed it and oddly enough I don't want Dakka knowing my real name.

Awesome. And a bonus Gaskell to boot. Thanks.

Been meaning to get them in here for a while. He doesn't change dramatically from the neck up apart from getting grayer, so it'll do.

I asked a friend to do them for me, who's a professional illustrator, but that was May, and here we are. I may some day get them.

Now you all have to deal with the mystery of Yorke's head-buttons for another couple of months until we hit Book II.

Edit: Ah Hell, whilst I'm here, let's see if I can't pull my socks up and get a small update finished. It's mostly written, I'm just dawdling on describing the dark.

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

I became aware of a rustling in the bushes nearby, and turned my head, gesturing for silence from the men with me. Listening, I head a small pattering on the ground, and a thump on the step of the truck bed.
“Commar-sar?” a small face appeared over the edge, in the dark I could just discern crimson eyes below the pointed ears.
“Mouse! You came back?" I whispered, bewildered and almost humbled by the efforts of the creature I'd barely known a day.
Confusion at my question spread across his dimly lit face, "Yer? You said you'd help us." Either animal-like loyalty or childish naivety had caused him to believe me, and for either, I was grateful.
“Mouse, in the cab, they put my sword. I need you to get it, quietly. Don’t let yourself be seen.” I pointed to the front of the truck.
Nodding, he disappeared into the black.

“You sure you’re a real commissar?” Ron gave me a hard stare, his brown eyes appearing almost black in the low light from the camp. His shaggy dark hair didn’t serve to make him appear any less menacing.
I sat and considered his question.
Darren furrowed his brow, “Why is that thing helping you, Commissar?”
Staring out in the dark I murmured, “Ray. And he knows the geography of this place. I needed a guide.”
“Well Ray, I’m not sure if you’re resourceful, heretical or cracked.” Ron sighed.
“I’m your best shot at getting out of here.” I muttered.
He put one hand to his forehead, “Emperor help us all.”

After a painfully long wait, Mouse’s feet echoed on the step again, and he returned with my power sword firmly gripped in his hands, and hat perched precariously on his head. He also returned with my Hell-pistol. I kept my face calm but I was extremely relieved to see it again. A small glow of happiness at seeing the old thing quickly dissipated when I remembered our stranded situation.
I reached over and retrieved the items from the over-burdened little creature, “Thank you, Mouse. Did you see many men?” I laid the gun quietly on the seat beside me.
“Three,” the small xeno replied, “over by the fire. They were yellin’ about something. Didn’t even hear me when I dropped your sword.” I started to feel Ron was not far off the mark with his curse.
“Go wait by the trees, fella. Quietly.” I motioned. Taking up my power sword, I activated the disruptor field and quietly carved through the chain lining the four of us to a welded bar at the back of the truck bed. “One at a time,” I said in a low voice to the guard with me, “I’ll go last with one of you.”

A few seconds later, Ron dropped down from the truck and silently crept out into the dark, after a few paces he was invisible to us.
After a moment or so, I nudged Darren, “Go, lad.”
He swallowed nervously and set off after his squad-mate into the thick night. I wondered if they would actually wait for me or not. I was hoping so, but realised again I’d been overly trusting. After a moment, I stayed staring into the darkness and motioned again, “Our turn.”
“I don’t think so, Commissar.”
I snapped my head back, and what likely won’t be the last time in my life, found myself at the mercy of my own pistol. After I’d invested in that bloody buckle-holster too, why hadn’t I stowed the damn thing?
“What are you doing?” I stared at the remaining guard in confusion.
“You’re staying here,” the young man shook his head, “you’re going to buy us some more time to get clear.” he climbed past me, keeping the pistol trained on my chest. Dropping down onto the ground, he backed away, still carefully aiming at me.
I threw myself flat as he fired at me, the loud crack and flash illuminating the area.
He sprinted into the black, and as I heard a yell from the camp, I threw caution to the wind and followed him. I was going to get my gun back if nothing else. As I ran, lasfire cracked into the earth near my feet and I stumbled trying to avoid it, but managed to keep upright.

Ahead of me, I heard a dull thud, closely followed by Ron reaching out of the undergrowth and pulling me into cover by my lapels.
I regained my compose and found myself stood with Mouse, Ron and Darren, and the unconscious form of the third trooper.
Ron kicked him in the ribs, “Knew he was a ignoble little gak.” growled the tall trooper, as he handed me back my pistol.
“You could have gone.” I was confused as I nodded my thanks.
“So could you, when they attacked. But you stayed,” he replied simply, adding, “and you didn’t let them kill Darren.”
Understanding, I didn’t push the issue. We crouched low in the thick bushes, the light of the camp's fires clearly visible, sparkling through the branches. I was dog-tired, but leaving our attackers to roam free was simply storing up problems for later.
Before we did anything else, I turned to Mouse, “You said you have a camp?”
The tiny xeno nodded, “Yer.”
“Can you tell us where it is?” I knelt and held out my dataslate, showing the map I had of the area.

*

 Buttery Commissar wrote:
Book III is possibly the most soul-crushing thing I've ever written and I need to look at something colourful whenever I write a chapter.

if it's Gaskell letting slip a single tear as he orders a rag-tag band of surviving Hollies in their finest regalia performing a Three-Volley-Salute at Cat's funeral... I mean... I'd be an emotional wreck by that stage.

And all things considered that'd probably count amongst the happier endings the grimdark universe might have in store... Soul crushing you say.... I dread to think.


Also, really looking forward to a whole camp of grots! Feels like coming home.

[Journal Entry: Renan] [Day 2 - Inquisitorial Visit - 732M41] *

At the mention of the cultists, I fleetingly noticed a spike of interest from Inquisitor Sharp from across the room. He had momentarily dropped his guard and revealed a small detail.
So he is here to investigate the same thing, I thought. At least we would not be at odds regarding the xeno interaction. It did seem that both he and I shared a thought there. Though I did worry that the revelation gave him leverage to pull Yorke from us under another pretence, the inquisitor seemed content to cooperate with us. Perhaps he saw some merit in our methods, or perhaps he understood a combined investigation would yield more information, I was unsure. Whatever his motives, he was one man to watch closely.



[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 4 - Jallen - 732.M41 ] *

As Mouse scurried into the jungle, back to his camp, I remained with the two men, “You don’t have to follow me back there, after this. I know it’s hard to swallow, working with xeno; it’s my decision and I wouldn’t hold you to it.”
Darren looked over at me, “You think they can help us?”
Thinking for a moment, I replied, “I think it’s worth trying. It’s certainly a resource to pull on. One more than we had to begin with.” 
Beside us, Ron shrugged, “If you think it would work, and that your regiment wouldn’t kill us as soon as look at us for doing so.”
“I’m almost entirely certain they wouldn’t.” I smiled tiredly.
Darren eyed me nervously and swallowed.
“Don’t tease the lad.” Ron nudged me with an elbow.
“I’m not,” I rubbed the back of my neck, “it’s not exactly something that’s ever come up.”
The large trooper chuckled, “Fair.”

“What about him?” I pointed to the unconscious trooper.
“He tried to kill you.” Ron shrugged again.
I raised my eyebrows, “So did you.” 
“Aye but to your face.” he grinned.
Fair. I nudged the comatose man with a foot, “Reckon he’ll stay out of it?”
Darren nodded, “He’d have to be crazy to go back toward the camp.”
As one, I turned with Ron and looked at the young lad, and then one another, but remained silent.

*

The three of us crept back toward the camp, despite all my best instincts telling me to lead the men away. The pair were unarmed, and I was feeling understandably reticent to share my weapons with anyone else.
Listening for the enemy, I heard voices muttering inside one of the shabby tents, and a lantern inside glowed through the worn cloth. It sounded as though they were arguing.
I signalled to Ron, who vanished into the dark, waiting to ambush anyone who emerged from the entrance. A faint reflection from his eyes several feet away, the only sign of his location. Darren was looking noticeably frightened, and extremely tired.
Feeling sympathetic, I paused,  "Go and wait by the truck." I whispered, "If anyone comes up that way, call to us." If nothing else, it gave me one less thing to worry about in the upcoming mayhem.

Waiting for a solid shadow against the canvas, I lined up my pistol and fired. The thin fabric offering no resistance to the blast, a small sooty hole immediately appearing. More pertinent was the crash as it downed a man inside the tent, and a yell of surprise from his companions.
Two men emerged, lasguns raised, and eyes squeezed half closed, desperately scanning the darkness.
As one, Ron and I attacked from either side. I caught the man nearest to me around the neck with my arm, and simply put my hellpistol to him. He crumpled quietly to the ground, lasgun clattering beside him. I turned to find that Ron had bodily tackled his own adversary, and was using the man's own lasgun to choke the life out of him against the ground.  To my relief there was no satisfaction in the strong trooper's face, just tired focus. He straightened up slightly as the cultist breathed his last, and raised his head to look at me.
"That's for the rest of our lads," he said firmly, "can't say I hated doing it-"
He never got to finish his sentence, as a blast of concentrated light caused his head to evaporate and burn at the same time. He collapsed before he knew what had hit him. No-
I wheeled and fired blind, hitting the cultist in the chest as he limped forward, the shot leaving me part blinded. For good measure I shot again as he fell, more out of spite than necessity.
Our tiredness had caused us to be lax. Cost Ron his life. Cautiously, I leaned to see into the tent, ready to spring back. Other than a spattering of blood from where I'd hit the man earlier, it was empty.

Kneeling, I moved Ron's body from atop the corpse of the heretic. At least he died secure in the thought that he had avenged his friends, I thought bitterly. It was limited comfort, but it was some.
I picked up the lasgun that his killer had been using, and examined it. Well used, but standard issue for guard. It hadn't even been defaced. I began to wonder what was driving the cultists.

Behind me, interrupting my thoughts, I heard a quiet yelp. Darren.

"Commissar!" gak.

I wheeled around to see Darren stumbling forward, the tip of a jagged blade protruding from the front of his abdomen. His face was white with shock, the channel of blood already drenching his front.
Unthinking, I fired at the remaining cultist behind him, downing the bastard instantly with a shot between the eyes, spraying a column of filth and matter into the night. Gaskell was right, I was only ever very good at instinctive snap-shots. In this instance it provided no comfort.
I sprinted to the young soldier and caught his arms as he sank to his knees on the ground.

"Easy now." kneeling with him, I steadied Darren's torso, stopping him from slipping face first to the earth, and causing any more damage to himself.
"Take it out." he whispered, his eyes pleading.
Still holding him upright, I studied the curved weapon's entry point and my heart sank, "I can't. If I pull that out, chances are you'll die."
He looked up at me, desperate, "But if you leave it in, I'll-" he couldn't finish.
"Yes." very gently I lowered him to the ground and onto his other side, keeping his head level as I could. We both knew it. There was nothing I could do. No medical supplies, no blood to give him. Even if I removed the blade without killing him, I had nothing to close the wound, or heal the terrible damage inside of him.

He gripped my arm, “You'll stay?"
"Yes." I repeated, and as slowly as I could, shifted so that I supported his head with my knees, raising it from the ground. I took his hand gently.
"Will it hurt?" he looked up at me, his young face still seeking answers.
"No. No, you'll get tired, and then you'll want to sleep." I answered quietly.
Darren nodded, his eyes already darkening from the exhaustion and blood loss.


Silence flowed around us, compared to the havoc only moments before,
"I'm sorry," he murmured as tears formed in his half-closed eyes, "I'm sorry I'm not a good guard."
I rested my other hand softly against the back of his head in a bid to comfort him, "There's no shame in that, lad. Not everyone is good at the same things."
"I'm good at farming." he smiled faintly.
Despite him not being able to see it, I smiled back, ”Yeah?"
"Yeah, I can get things to grow almost anywhere. Mam said I could get crops to grow out of an old boot if I tried." Darren's eyes started to close.
Carefully, I squeezed his hand, "See, that sounds a damn sight better to me than killing. Creating something from nothing. I wish I could say I was good at that."
"You think so?" he smiled again as he mumbled.
"Aye. I do. You tired, fella?"
"Mhm... What're you good at, Ray?"
I looked around, wondering the same thing, then remembered Mouse, "I think maybe, I'm good at telling stories."
Darren gave a little sound, like a small laugh, "That's not such a bad one either."

*

After a little while, the last sane guardsman of the 57ths passed quietly away. There was no fanfare, nobody around to even recognise it had happened. I knelt there with him, surrounded by dead, and as a swirl of emotions battered at the door, I struggled to make sense of the day.
Tiredness had become roaring background noise to loss, anger, confusion and a building resentment of the situation.
Gently I laid Darren’s head on the grass, and then stood, looking around the clearing. I took my sword and cut a panel of canvas from one of the guard’s makeshift tents. Then I slowly gathered the dead guardsmen and laid them on one half of it, taking time to also gather their dog tags. I folded the other half of the fabric over and pegged it down, forming a rough cover. Tomorrow we would return to bury them. Tonight I had not the energy nor the drive.

 Mouse had given me directions, I supposed I should head that way. Picking up my sword, and pausing to say a prayer for the dead, I set off in arguably the right direction.



[Audio Transcript: Captain Gaskell] [Day 5 - Jallen - 732.M41]

We've started the descent. It's cooler with every step, but it's also claggy. By the end of the night our uniforms were wringing wet, and it felt like a steam room all around us. The air smells like wet compost all the time, it’s fresh, but it’s thick and hard to concentrate.

Hopefully once we reach ground level this will clear.

Nothing much else to report. We're on time, making good progress. Ahde is keeping spirits up with his terrible jokes. He's using it as an excuse to keep a eye on the lads, Talsen especially. They seem fairly resilient, and morale is higher now that the landscape is changing. Less reminders, more to focus on. More to watch out for. This strange interim is dangerous. We still cannot see below us properly.

I keep a small amount of hope that he's down there. I know it's stupid. I know it is.
It's like walking into your house and expecting to see someone, it's hard to turn off that way of thinking.
I want to say it gets easier with time, or seeing it happen repeatedly. That's bollocks. It really is.

Makes me pity those mighty Astartes sometimes. We only have one lifetime, we can only see so much, and lose so many. They must see hundreds, if not thousands of years. Brothers, they call them. A blood loss as well. I can't imagine fighting alongside actual family. We're close, sure. We make our own family from the company we keep. But I couldn’t see someone from my actual family die fighting.

Couple of days now and We’ll be at the next camp. Here’s hoping there’s no fresh horror there.

[Disconnect]

You handled their deaths really well, and I'm actually familiar with how people would prop up the dying. I am sad that Darren is gone though. I think he made a better guard then he thought, he might have messed up, but he made up for it by doing what Yorke told him, even though it meant his own death. It's more than a lot of people are up for in their lives.

Interlude: What I did on my Hollies-Days: Diary of a Commissar: On Leave IV

[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41 - week after the assault]

Ahde caught up with me as I came back around the corner, my hellpistol  still loosely in my hand by my side. I walked without speed, miserable, barely registering purpose, and desperately wanting to return to the oblivion of sleep. There was more work to be done first.
"Cat?"
I ignored him.
“Cat!”
"What."
"I heard shots. You didn't-" he looked with panic between my dull expression, and my pistol.
"Leave me be." I dismissed him without meeting his eye, and carried on my path back to the office where I now had the grim task of reducing two young men’s deaths to paperwork.
"Cat! What did they do?" Ahde called out piteously, and against my better judgement I turned back.
"Are you questioning me?” I snapped.
"No, sir." he bowed his head.
Seeing what I’d done, I softened my tone slightly, “Look, I’m sorry, Ahde. It's better that you don't know."
He looked up at me, confusion in his face, “Then they were not to be made an example of?"
“Ahde. Please. I’m asking you to stop. You know better."
Ahde threw out his hands in frustration, "I don't know what I know! I know Gaz is now Captain, Creer is dead. I know you just took out Creer's most loyal officer, like you were cleaning house!" 
I stepped close to face him, mere inches between us, looking coldly down into his dark features, "Be careful." I spoke with a low tone.
"Are you threatening me now? You'll take me back there too?" He pointed to the building behind which two young men lay, not yet cold. The last tatter of respect he had for me stripping away.
At the bald accusation, I expected to feel angry. Insulted. All I did feel was numb.
I rubbed my aching temples with my free hand, " Of course not. Let’s- let’s not go over this out here like children in the schoolyard." I turned towards the office, "Come on."

*

“I had no idea.” Ahde sat, his shoulders low, hanging his head. His fire blown out, he sat dejected and somehow smaller than before.
“It took a while for me to realise.” I replied.
“Hantel I could understand. But Sanderson? Sanders was a good lad!” he looked to me, desperate for an answer.
Looking away, I said quietly, “It was him, Ahde. He had the las-burn to prove it. He didn’t even try to deny it when I caught up with them.”
He shuddered, searching my face, it wasn’t hard. I could barely hide the fact I was miserable about the decision, “What happens now?” he asked.

“Only thing we ever do; we move on.” I reached to the bottom drawer of my desk to fish out my flask and swore, remembering that I was under doctor’s orders not to drink yet. I pulled it out and instead tossed it to Ahde, “You’ll have to double up for the both of us.”
“No fear.” he necked it. Then grimacing exclaimed, “Cat! This is filth!”
“Give it back, then.” I rolled my eyes.
He grinned, “Nah, it’s not that filthy. But I thought you officers got the good stuff? Why’re you slumming it with this gak in your drawer?”
“I like it.” I shrugged, “Reminds me of someone.”
He swigged again, “Family? There’s grit in this.”



[ Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke ] [ Valse - 728.M41 - week after the assault]

I needed to make a final call at the hospital, collecting the drugs for my aftercare, and final wound inspections. Whilst we could have insisted upon one of the hospital staff travelling out to the base, I was grateful of the diversion and headed out there alone.
In the examination room, I sat swinging my legs off the side of their bed, my coat and hat laid aside, my shirt open to give access to my back and side. Bridget was uncharacteristically quiet as she examined the neat stitches, checked my eyes and took down my vitals. The bright face I had become accustomed to was distant, and uneasy, and she barely spoke except when necessary.

"Something is troubling you." I stopped her work.
She avoided looking at my face, instead focusing on the chart in her hands, "I heard that you killed those two young men that came in the same night as you. We patched them up, you killed them anyway."
My gut sank as I remembered that she was a civilian, "I executed them, yes."
"Executed, killed, what difference does it make, how you dress it?" her eyes were intense, frightened.
"They committed a crime, Bridget. If it had been discovered sooner, they wouldn't have made it to the hospital." I looked down at my hands in my lap, the hands that killed Hantel and Sanderson.  Compared to her hands, those that had repaired the same men only days previously.
"What crime?" she asked quietly.
"They and Captain Creer were the ones who attacked me. They aimed to kill me. That is- it was, treachery and they paid for it the only way we can allow." I still stared down into my hands, unable to look away, "If it were up to me, I- Sanderson was so young and they, they beat him into doing it. He was nineteen! A child. But if I didn’t-“she reached out and touched my shoulder, causing me to jump. I was lost in my anger and had pulled my hands into fists without meaning to. I relaxed them and finally pulled my gaze from them, dragging it to the wall instead.

“It’s not my place. I didn't mean to judge you; I'm sorry." her hand still resting on my arm, Bridget spoke softly.
I let out a sigh, "By all means, do so. We end lives, you preserve them. Primum non nocere, no?”
A silence rested in the room. Outside the world carried on, patients and orderlies rattled past, doors hissed, people spoke in a blur of sound. I was unsure quite where in that world I fitted any more. Merging military and civilian life had never struck me as so difficult before. Nothing had caused me to feel so deeply unsettled, or the divide so deep as this one small conversation.
"Have you done it before?" the medic remained by my side.
"Far too many times. I remember all of them.” I wanted to leave, but her hand anchored me to the strange honesty.
Bridget slowly removed her touch, "Do you need to talk about it?"
"I didn- I mean I don't. No, I've already-" I rubbed the bridge of my nose with my fingertips, welcoming the distracting sting, "I'm alright. Besides, you find me monstrous enough already. And I won't have you thinking poorly of the rest of our guard on my account."

It was her turn to show anger, stepping in front of my view, casting down the chart on the bed, “You think so low of us? That I’m incapable of understanding? Of course I don’t find you a monster! Complicated, frightening, and by the Emperor, frustrating. But a man!” She lowered her voice, "I'd know, I've seen your insides."
"Now that's line you'll have to remember! I could see it working on the young men." I couldn't help myself, grinning and raising an eyebrow.
She sternly poked my chest with a finger, "You're the one who undressed for me, sunshine." she cracked and started giggling. 
"About that." I tilted my head at the chart beside me.
"Oh, right. Considering the timescale, your wounds are healing very well. Keep them clean, dry. These smaller stitches can come out next week, the rest will dissolve in their own." she rattled off the instructions and I listened attentively.
When she finished, it dawned on me, "You mean I've been sat here with my shirt open all this time, and you were already done?"
She laughed, "Perk of the job. Beats our regular clientele, kids and geriatrics."
"Young lady. I'm pretty sure perving on a political officer is an offence." I sternly wagged a finger, using an officious tone.
"Bollocks!" Bridget exclaimed.
"No, those are fine,” I chuckled at her cheeks rapidly turning red as I buttoned up my shirt, prompting further expletives, “that is, too."

After I dressed, I turned to the young medic and held out my hand, “Thank you, Bridget. If there's anything you need before we leave-"
She ignored my hand, and drew me into a hug, skilfully avoiding catching my injured side.
"What's this for?" I relaxed and gently put an arm around her.
“Another perk of the job." she mumbled into my shoulder. 

*

Ahde greeted me from his seat as I walked back into the office, "You're very late,” he raised his eyebrows, smirking, “trapped yourself in a broom closet with one of the nurses? Did she take your vitals?"
"feth off."
"Ha! You old rogue! Gaz owes me a drink." he snapped his fingers.
Stepping past him, I sat heavily in my chair, wincing. 
"So what was she like?" he leaned forward, attentive.
Sinking back into the seat, I considered, "Kind." 
"Well she'd have to be, face like yours.”
"What?" I blinked, returning to the present, "No, no! Not like that."

Ahde looked sorely disappointed, “Seriously? You're the only one who got off base all week and you didn't... get off base? Can I still call Gaz on that drink though?"
"Do what you want." I closing my eyes, leaning back further. I wished Ahde hadn't mentioned drink, I was still banned from alcohol, and felt extremely weary. I’d thrown out the flask in my lower drawer to avoid temptation, and started to regret the decision.
"Cat?" Ahde persisted. 
I growled, “Fine. Tell him it was two nurses, just piss off, will you?"
"I'll tell him it was a nurse and a hospital servitor if you don't watch your mouth." he chided.
“If you think I care-“
Sirens. We both snapped upright.
"Not ours!" Ahde streaked outside and I scrambled clumsily to join him.

*

Smoke in the distance, from the city, just down the hill from our barracks. Civilian buildings, or homes?
Gaskell raced past us and I met his speed. We clambered into a truck as it sped away.
"Back from your date?" he finally recognised my presence.
"What?" Confused by the sirens and urgency, I barely registered his voice.
Gaz swore. As we cleared the ridge, the flames were visible, licking up the sides of a small building, “Isn’t that the hospital? What in the hell is going on?"

Thankfully, the size of the building and low evening attendance meant that evacuation had been brief and efficient, over before we arrived.
Staff and patients milled around the front courtyard, watching in confusion, the local fire services hadn’t reached the building yet, made up of volunteers and their station further away than our temporary base. The back of the hospital was untouched, looking absurdly serene in comparison. The fire lighting up through the rooms as though everything inside were open as usual.
The truck slowed, barely stopped when the lads, Gaz and I leapt out to assist.

A middle-aged man stepped across us, "Don't you think you've done enough?" he demanded.
We were two dark figures against the hard light, and I could barely make out the man's face, but his anger was baldly obvious.
Gaskell ignored him and carried on past, but I halted in bewilderment, “What?”
He leaned in close, I still couldn’t make his face out, “You got gak between your ears, lad? Imperials! If we hadn't been treating a bloody member of the Inquisition, the bastards wouldn't have lit us up to begin with."
"Who?" I furrowed my brow, trying to concentrate.
“Don’t know, there was a threat called through this morning, but nobody took it seriously." he waved an arm at the scene.
"Is everyone out?"
“Try looking yourself." he spat at me.
I frowned, “Thanks for the help.”
"Stow it up your arse." 

Finally, I lost my patience with the man, and started moving towards where Gaskell and Ahde were organising the staff into a line. I turned back briefly, “And that's Commissar gak-between-his-ears."
The man took a pace back, ready to run, and I gave him two thumbs up before returning on my way. Prick. 
"What can we do?" I asked Gaz as I rolled up behind him.
"Get everyone clear, more bucket columns. Try and do a head count." he nodded. We set to it, with the obvious military precision and efficiency. It took a further twenty minutes for the fire crews to arrive, and we welcomed their help.

*

My tiny earpiece crackled, an incoming vox, "Cat!" Ahde? I turned from passing a water bucket, and stepped out of the line. It continued seamlessly, the men now well practised.
He was out of breath, "Thought you should hear it from someone you knew. Fennel just finished the headcount. There's someone still in the building, he thinks” 
"Who?" I felt a sudden chill, fearing the answer.
Ahde paused, “The medic- the lass that saw you today." strangely I’d anticipated his answer, even though it horrified me.
I'd already started running towards the back of the building when Gaskell tackled me, holding me back, "You're insane!"
“Get off!" I fought to pull away, but despite being near a foot shorter, Gaskell was far stronger than I was. On top of it, I felt myself rapidly tiring, not yet recovered from my injuries. Thinking fast, I twisted and slipped out of my coat, leaving him grasping it as I sprinted towards the doors.
"Cat! Get back here!" I heard him call out behind me, before cursing at me and starting to run himself.

Running into the double doors at the rear of the hospital, I was surprised to find it untouched by the flames.
The entrance hall was evacuated, chairs and tables left in a moments notice. Drinks and paperwork were discarded mid-use. The blinds were still half-drawn on the barred windows, as though to guard fromm the afternoon’s sun.
The air was thick and unpleasantly hot, a slight haze rising like dust in afternoon sunlight, but the fire was yet to reach the back half of the building. Everything else was strangely serene.
"Bridget?" I called her name as loudly as I could, and listened. 
The thick air seemed to muffle the sounds around me. I thought I could hear a faint noise over the distant sirens and the crashing of the fire in the next building. It could have been my ears playing tricks, but it was all I had to go on. I followed the sound, boots skidding on the polished floors as I hared down the corridor. 
My earpiece crackled to life. "Where the feth are you?" Gaskell demanded.
"Down by the examination rooms.” I panted.
"You're inside?" 
I slowed down, catching my breath, “What?”
"The door is bolted, Cat. There's no way in back here."
"Make one! I'll get back to you when I find her."
I passed along the winding corridor, pushing each door open in turn. As I got closer to the front of the building, the heat was stifling. I started to feel dizzy. I called out to the medic again, and finally heard a reply, and the frantic clanging of metal on metal.
Pushing open the final exam room door, I found her. 

"Ramirez?"
The room was in disarray, the table over-turned and instruments strewn around. On the far wall, Bridget was handcuffed to a thick heating pipe, struggling against it.
"Hold on." I drew my cutlass, and she pulled back out of my way.
"You're nuts, you'll have my arm off!"
Not having accuracy on my side, I waved her gently to one side with my spare hand, and hacked the pipe in two places, it broke neatly off the wall, freeing her and spraying us both with unpleasantly hot water.
"Come on!" The corridor was substantially hotter than when I'd arrived, we were far closer to the fire next door than I cared for. I sheathed the sword and ran, pulling her along with me, at times she pulled me as I struggled to breathe.
"How did you end up in here?" I gasped as we ran toward the exit.
“feth knows! I was outside and someone called me over to assist looking at a patient. Next thing I know I woke up in there, chained to the wall." she was out of breath but I could hear anger in her voice.
"Gaz, any joy with the door?" I pressed my mic.
“We’re working on it, someone’s bolted it from the inside! Can’t you sort it?”
I skidded to a halt as we had nearly reached the lobby, Bridget beside me, as we saw what lay ahead.

"This end’s on fire as well, Gaz! Get clear!"
Bridget murmured, “Smell that?”
She was right, I scanned my eyes back and forth, above the smoke I could smell the distinct tang of fuel. Someone had waited for me to run in and blocked the exit, before setting that ablaze too.
Bridget grabbed my arm, “Upstairs! There’s a large enough unbarred window in the staffroom.”
She led the way, our feet pounding on the tiles, the air further filling with smog as we ran back towards the fire, and up a spiralling staircase. Bursting into the staff room, we were both badly out of breath. She pointed to the window, it was certainly big enough for an adult to climb through, with a large sill on the outside.
"Ahde, Gaz? Can you get us a soft landing? Large window on the north side, second floor. You'll see us."
"Got it! Give me five."

We watched out of the window, the scene below strange, silent. Gaz raced past in his pale uniform, a ghost in the dark. He briefly glanced up and I waved my arm. He signalled having seen me before vanishing.
Bridget leaned on me, lightly, her eyes clamped shut, “What is going on here, Ramirez? Who burns a hospital?"
"Someone insane?" I didn't have an answer. Someone who wants us both dead, I thought. Despite the heat, I felt my hair stand on end.
As we watched, more pale figures appear against the black, Gaskell returning with more troops, carrying something between them.
"Give us a minute, Cat. We found you a landing.” Ahde fizzed in my ear.
"What, time to leave? Just when things were getting heated up in here." I tried my best to sound disappointed.
Bridget swatted me around the shoulders.
"Okay okay." making sure the door was closed, I slid the window open and looked down. Beneath us, Gaz and half a dozen troopers were setting up a chute large enough to land safely in. It looked suspiciously like a truck cover.

"Ladies first." I bowed theatrically and helped Bridget mount the windowsill. She swung both legs elegantly over the edge, ready to drop.
Before doing so, she leaned back and lightly kissed my forehead, "For luck." she smiled.
"Get on with you." I was bemused but not entirely displeased. She landed safely, slid off the chute assisted by two troopers, and I climbed onto the ledge myself. To my embarrassment, I wobbled, as despite the nickname, I am not fond of heights at the best of times. As I got ready to drop down, the temperature was already decidedly unpleasant and I heard distant crashing from the floor beneath. I tensed to push away from the sill.
An arm grabbed my neck and pulled me from the ledge, back into the room, throwing me to the floor. I landed across my shoulders and sprawled out sideways, in a last minute bid to avoid laying flat on my back.
I heard a cry of desperation from outside, and my ear blew up at me, "WHAT ARE YOU PLAYING AT?" Gaskell, I barely needed the vox to hear him.
I couldn't reply, my hands busy righting myself on the floor, as I looked up at a face I recognised. Fennel, the man who had reported Bridget as missing. One of Creer's senior officers. Feth.

Staring up in confusion, I righted myself onto one knee, ready to stand. He kicked me in the face. My head erupted in pain, as the blow reignited the fracture and broken nose, I clutched my a hand to my forehead, swearing.
“On your knees again, Yorke? Why is this so familiar?” Fennel sneered, aiming another kick at me. This time I managed to dodge, rolling inelegantly away. My side burned from the effort, I felt tight, unpleasant resistance in my flesh from the healing stitches.
"Cat? What is going on up there?" Ahde came through clearly.
"Fennel! It was him! He set the fires, lit up the building!" I flicked my mic open, and called out as I scrambled up to my feet using a chair. The metal was hot to the touch, not a good sign. I wondered how long the floor could hold us.
Fennel advanced, and I drew my sword. In the rush to leave, I’d not picked up my pistol after returning from the hospital.
He laughed coldly and drew his own knife, “I was hoping to get that old bastard Gaskell up here, but he was smarter than you, it seems.”

The man was clearly cracked. I kept my distance, buying time we couldn’t afford as the heat increased.
“Want another hole to match the first?" he purred, hefting his blade.
I blinked, “Wait. You?” I matched his pace, circling gradually, the floor tiles no longer polished and slick, but sticking to our soles.
"You really are naive,” he laughed again, “Sanderson? He made a great cover. We even got his las burn right." He flexed his arm out and I saw that it was inelegantly bandaged in the same area that Sanderson’s had been.
I froze. That meant Sanderson hadn't- That I had-

My pause gave him an opening. He lunged for me, and I darted out from his reach at the very last moment, using the weight of his motion to send him off balance. As he swept past, I flicked my cutlass and caught him with a glancing swipe to his side, drawing blood but not striking well enough.
"That's your last." he snarled, whilst making another lunge. I threw myself out of the way, but he recovered quickly.
On a good day my reactions would save me, but I was running on fumes, and barely able to avoid his strikes as he tried again and again. The circling and diving was starting to wear me down, my head swam. The reawakened skull fracture now combined with the heat and exhaustion. Fennel had the upper hand, and could easily wait me out until I was ready to drop. If the floor held that long. The air was burning, becoming thicker, both of us soaked with sweat.
Facing the fact I had to take initiative, I tried striking out at him, feinting back and then catching him across the chest as he dodged the first arc. Again, not enough to cause serious damage. But enough to enrage him.

As I drew back, he threw himself at me, taking me off my feet. I dropped my blade and we grappled on the slowly melting floor tiles, evening the playing field. Or so I’d thought. My torso was an agony rivalling the one in my head as I gripped his wrist, and pushed it away. I punched him in the side of the head, causing him to lose focus briefly, but he shook it off. The fury of the lunatic outweighing my own energy. Fennel kneed me viciously in the side, and I saw bright light, pain beyond my comprehension, only stubborn self-preservation keeping me conscious. My hands slipped on his wrist and he drew back his knife, his other hand at my throat. 
He sneered again, as I choked, and he took final aim with his blade, "You shouldn't have come alone, Yorke."
"He didn't." 
Fennel’s head whipped around and his last expression was that of alarm before his chest was loudly blown out across the room in a mess of scorched flesh. His body slumped heavily into my own, leaving me in a pool of blood and filth. I quickly shoved his remains off me, clambering to my feet amongst the slick mess, the flooring burning unpleasantly hot against my hands. Stepping over his corpse, I struggled to breathe, the room already half filled with smoke. In the doorway stood a figure that I failed to make out. It was oddly familiar, the poise and height.

"Thank you?" I raised a hand over my eyes, trying to see clearly through the smog.
The voice I was sure I recognised, called out, “Don’t just stand there! Go, Ray! And don't forget your blade.”
"Who-" crashing from beneath sent me running across the floor towards the window. Sweeping up my sword as I passed, I crouched on the sill, sheathing it. I twisted back to glance at the doorway, but the room was too thick to see across.
"Gaz I'm coming down!"
"About fething time!"
I dropped, unceremoniously. As I landed, I heard a booming roar of destruction, as the building's last floor gave way moments later.

*

I lay coughing gently, face up on the grass, close to where I'd slid from the chute earlier. I was scarcely able to move. Exhaustion, pain and mild smoke inhalation had finally caught up to me. 
Bridget gripped one of my hands, kneeling in the cold grass beside me, I barely noticed. I  flicked my eyes up, she was smiling. He hair hung lightly around her shoulders, framing her face. She was safe. I smiled back, blearily.
”You are a cock of the highest order." I didn't have to look to know who that was.
"You leave him be-" the young medic turned and started to defend me.
"- he's a sweetie." Finished Gaskell, “A word with him alone, if you will, Bridget.”
She gently released my hand and it fell to the ground lightly.
I found myself gazing up instead into Gaskell’s tired face as he crouched beside me, which was becoming a familiar sensation lately.
"Don't think I'm not pissed at you. You knew better than to run into a mess like this. And who’s blood are you covered in now?

"They laid it out for you." I murmured.
"What?"
"It wasn't for me. Fennel, he was waiting for you up there. Got me instead."
Gaskell’s eyes widened, but he stayed silent, unmoving.
I felt slow horror in my gut through the pain, “They framed Sanderson. He didn't-" I'd killed one of our own for something he hadn't done. I swallowed as I fought something down. Nausea? Tears? My throat tightened urgently, and I needed to get up as the heat flooded up my torso.
"It's okay, Cat.”Gaskell placed his hand on my chest, stopping my rise.
"Not. Vom.” I managed.
He quickly released me, I struggled to sit up, and managed, breathing hard and sweating in the cold air. I turned from Gaskell, lurched to my hands and knees, and vomited into the dark.

Moving away from it, I shakily sat back down beside Gaskell on my shabby coat. A thought struck me as I gulped air, shivering, “Where’s the other man?”
"Who?" he turned his head, puzzled.
“Not sure. Saved my hide up there."
"Nobody else came out, Cat."
I gestured to the gore soaking my front, “He must have. Took down Fennel. Shot him right through the chest."
Gaz shook his head firmly, "It must have been you, reactions or something. Shock."
I scowled at him, “Someone else was there!"
"Look, You're tired."
"You think I'm cracked." I fell back to the grass in exasperation.
"I think whatever happened, nobody else came out that window. First truck’s going back to base shortly, taking you as well. Get some sleep back there, no more idiot heroics."

Staring blankly into the night sky, seeing nothing, feeling little. I tried to call to mind the figure in the smoke. He hasn’t seemed like a reaction, reactions don’t typically take time to chastise you for dropping your sword. Maybe I’d simply hallucinated, a last move as I suffocated, which wasn’t a comforting thought either. I ran my hand to my holster, wondering if any clue lay with my pistol. Briefly I panicked, finding nothing by my side, but exhaled to calm myself when I remembered. I’d left it hanging on my bunk before coming out to the hospital.
Reactions? I closed my eyes.

*

The morning was spent rounding up the last few men known to be openly loyal to Creer. Half a dozen stood before us in the tiny office. The room chilly despite the sun shining outside. Some looked confused, others indignant. There was no telling how many of them knew what had truly gone on.
I'd spent much of the night sleeplessly deliberating what to do, and in the end we had them transferred to another regiment. It was not Gaskell's first choice, but it was the right one.

Primum non nocere:
Latin phrase that means "first, do no harm."

Health-wise things are going a bit south at the moment. Whilst I have the ideas, I don't have the energy to sit and edit them. It's about 6pm here and I'm starting to feel bed calling me back.
I'm starting to run out of energy to chew when it gets bad. Seeing a doctor tomorrow, hopefully the start of a turn back to being normal.

I'm getting some solid chunks put into the later 2 books, which is good because honestly this first one is very well laid out, it's just filling in the sections as I go along at this point.
But the other two are somewhat less structured, and scenes sort of fall into place as I think of them. There's a lot of social sequences and flashbacks to short encounters.

Sometimes there are just sections that don't fit anywhere.

[Journal Entry: Cadet Commissar Lewis] [733.M41]

["Ah, feth the cook!" Captain Gaskell rarely lost his temper, but he was getting close.
"Again?" murmured Ray distractedly, "I haven't the time right now."
We both slowly turned to stare at him.
Gaz then closed his eyes, "What."
Ray gave the conversation his full attention, "Hm? You remember a few months back when we were really getting short changed on the meal rations... Some of the lads were actually starting to pass out during drill."
"I remember. You said you'd sort it." our captain rubbed his chin and considered the past.

"Well I did. I went down there and explained a few things. Turned out somehow the Charlen meal quota had been doubled, and ours had been halved." Ray tapped the dataslate he was holding in emphasis, "I found out about the error."
Gaskell looked at him, "So you did what any rational commissar would do and reported the responsible staff. Obviously."
Laughing, Ray shook his head, "And lose the only palatable meals we've had in years? No, I simply used diplomacy to re-address the balance."

"Diplomacy? Is that what you're calling your little hell-pistol these days?" Gaz snorted and made an obscene gesture.
"You laugh, I didn't see you complaining when we had steak and eggs." Ray folded his arms.
"You're incorrigible." the captain sighed.
Ray grinned, "Look, everyone got what they wanted. We got the food, the kitchen staff didn't get reprimanded, and the cook and I had an evening's ...earnest discussion."
"Earnest? I thought his name was Thomas." Gaskell tilted his head.

[Journal Entry: Cadet Commissar Lewis] [733.M41]

I truly thought we'd lost Ray today, he led an extraordinarily brave assault on the xeno before us.
One moment he was staring down at the horde below, from atop the city wall, eyes cold with hate... The next he was amongst them, screaming curses and creating a windmill of death with his old pistol and powersword. He didn't stop moving, scarce anything could get inside the arc he created, and scarce anything tried.
Scared the foul green-skins into giving us space to get down there too. And then we really cleared them out. Without Ray's lead we'd be still picking them off now.

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [733.M41]

If I ever meet whichever prick built that wall, I will invent an entirely new kind of Hell.
I was just stood, leaning over, trying to assess just how many Orks were below us, I'd counted about four dozen, and the bloody flagstone under my boots tipped forward, slinging me off the top.
If I hadn't landed feet first on top of an unsuspecting, gigantic green moron, knocking him out cold, it’d be an entirely different story.

They say cats land on their feet, thankfully it held true. The huge stone flag landing squarely on his nearby buddy didn't hurt either. So to speak. The surprise gave the advantage, if they'd had time to expect me down there, I'd be dead.
Lewis keeps praising me, I don't think he quite understands what happened. I've tried telling him, but he's got some strange notion I was leading by example. If he goes leaping off any walls, I just hope he warns me first.

I have a folder full of these little entries, they're not worth crowbarring into the main stories, but I do like them.

Health comes before the writing. Get better, and don't worry about this, I definitely understand the delay. I wish you a speedy recovery, and hope you won't be rushing over anything because you're worried we haven't seen an update in awhile. I'd rather you take your time, feel better, and write something then, as opposed to not feeling good at all, and writing something for the sake of there not being any writing lately, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, I hope you feel better sometime soon, and wish the best of luck to you.

[Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke] [Day 7 - Jallen - 732.M41 ]

"Why don't humans like us Orks, then?" Mouse trotted alongside as I dragged a large sheet of dense scrap metal toward the camp.
"We're taught that the human form is perfection, and that mutants, xenos, psykers... Well they're not made in that image." I rested the sheet against a fallen tree trunk, and wiped my brow.
"What's perfusion?" he looked up at me, eager to learn.
"Per-fec-shun." I spelled out patiently in the air, "It means without flaw, without deviation. Correct as correct can be."

"Perfection." Mouse lightly sat on the metal sheet as it warmed in the sun that broke through the canopy. He tilted his head from side to side as though rolling the thought around, his pointed ears waving slightly from the motion. After a little he looked up, concerned, "I'm sorry we're aren't."
I patted his shoulder, "You're good!"
"But not perfection."
I gently steered him off the metal and lifted one end again, "Sometimes you just need to be good."
Mouse strained very hard to lift the other end of the sheet, and carry it with me. His effort made very little difference, but I didn't stop him.

"Are you just good, then?" he huffed as we traversed the last few hundred metres to the grot camp.
"What do you mean?" I slowed and turned my head to look back at him.
The small grot examined me, "You're not doing what you're taught to. That's not perfection."
I blinked, and then laughed, "I'm not really sure."

I forget if you've already mentioned this before, but do you intend to bring in some of the cadets from the build-a-commissar workshop in the story? I apologize if you've mentioned it already, but I was curious.

It would be after book three, or in flashbacks. It entirely depends if Cat survives all three books of 183.

I'm going to write independent tales for BaC in that topic, which can be considered a bit of branch-off.

Ah, ok thank you. Wonderful story thus far. Love it

Glad to see you're able to make a but more progress. And it's on a part I'm very interested in, nonetheless. (Who wouldn't be curious to see how a grot and a commisar get along?)

Chaos is foul. Especially up close and personal. It's a tricky line to walk. I'd say if you're finding it uncomfortable to write then it's most likely uncomfortable to read. Striking the balance between "true to chaos" and enjoyable to read is a tough one. Maybe having the bulk of the worst part happen "off screen" as they say in the movies, might mitigate some of the nastiness. At least you're not actually making a movie.

[143.938.M41] [Journal Entry: Commissar Yorke]

One of my duties, and by far the one I'm least fond of out of them all, is recording the dead. Quite often we aren't even entirely sure someone has died. The vast majority of guard do not get graves or memorials. They don't even have bodies to bury. Sometimes we find scraps of uniform or tokens, dog tags if we are exceptionally lucky. Often we are not gifted the time to look.
We have become so beautifully, brutally efficient at destroying one another, that there's simply no way of identifying exactly who was in a set place at a set time, if the unit was killed.
I say killed, I say died, I do not say destroyed or wiped, because these were people. They had lives, thoughts and hearts all their own. And now they are tattered fragments on the wind, or grit beneath our boots. With only other guard and commissars to remember them.

And when we are killed too, and those around us, it ends. It ends with us, the story of all we remember. Bits of data and lists, sent off to some central bank, for what true reason, I'll never fathom. Why even pretend that each soul matters to the sightless machine that logs them?

Two hundred and eighty five. That is how many of the 183rd have died on my watch. Most of them young, some of them frightened, all of them believing they ultimately could make a difference. That's a small town, a village. The difference that many people could have made to a world without war is staggering. But also irrelevant, now.

And I go, and I fill out the stub paperwork that represents a life. And I then step to our chapel, and the detachment I could briefly pull around myself ends.
It's a place for soldiers to pray for the dead, and reflect on those we lose. There are small tokens everywhere. On the ledges, tables, even tucked in the corners. At first glance it may seem superstitious, but then you realise that button or sergeant's stripes may be all that returned of a squad. Many are faded beyond recognition, fabrics and colours I cannot even guess the origins of. In one corner there is even a lens from an Astartes helmet, the dark glass catches light and movement.
There are notes and prayers, seals and candles. So many candles. There must be light.

It's occasionally my shared duty to tidy up in there, and I must know which items may be cleaned and moved to the upper shelves, and which are recent, living memory.
Captain Gaskell took me through it when I first arrived. I remember. There was a commissar hat and sash on the front table. Bloodied and recent. I knelt to look at them and he turned his face from me. The only time he wouldn't meet my eye in our years serving together. They belonged to the man who came before me. I didn't need to ask.

And so I put each name into the book of remembrance in the chapel.
A book of remembrance. One. There's a back archive behind a faded curtain, as big as the chapel again. Dating back centuries before us. Each page listing the name, rank, age, and a small space for personal comments about them. I try to remember what I can when I fill them out. Many, many of those spaces remain empty in the older books. Time, knowledge of the person, or compassion are scarce resources in our time.

Sometimes I look through those older books, see the handwriting of those before me. Tasked with the same duty. Priests, Captains, Commissars, aides. Even occasionally fellow troopers when a deployment has gone so terribly wrong, and all were lost.

Sometimes the pages are torn or defaced where a guardsman was later found alive. They're not frequent, but they exist.

Sometimes if a whole squad or platoon were killed, there is a prayer, an epitaph beneath. As we come closer to present day, they are less and less common. Not because people aren't dying en masse, but because they are killed so thoroughly that there is nobody left to pray for them.

Sometimes the entries are smeared with what looks like water, and carefully rewritten beneath. We know it's not really water, there's no plumbing in the chapel. Humans are the only source. Sometimes those waters fell midway through the main entry, meaning that it cannot have been visiting troopers. Do priests cry? Commissars do.

The books at the back are nothing but dust now themselves. The covers holding together by sheer volume of those pressed against them. I drew one out once to see which regiments travelled aboard the Nubila in the past, and the lives in it evaporated into the air as I breathed upon the pages.

Did their contribution to the war matter? We have to believe it is so.

*

In the grim dark future, your job still sucks.

A little culture fluff for their home, the Inter Caput Nubila.
Even the hardest weathered commissar or priest would have to deal with the death reports. I think it would take a strength of faith to remain certain in the justness of their cause after doing it year in, year out. Though as Cat notes, that may not be for very long.

I was going to give this piece its own topic, but I'm already cluttering up the DF front page. What do you think?

I thought it was really interesting, and gave us a bit more insight on Yorke's struggles with a job that makes you do some rather upsetting things, to put it very lightly.

I'm glad you thought so. I also hope it comes across that he isn't saying out and out that war is wrong, just that the sheer scale of it renders the individual to nothing. I didn't want to come across as anti-war, but instead as anti-system.

It may be the only bit of this topic I add to the Dakka wiki, as it stands alone well enough.

I'm still chugging along with this, but I suppose lack of whimsy in my own life is making any attempt to write cheerful grots feel false and forced. I had this problem before when I was writing children's books.
Do t get me wrong, I'm not depressed, I'm mostly just weary. Certainly still in love with this story and still writing for it. I've added a great deal to books two and three, including some very dark scenes about the subtle effects of chaos on the unguarded.

But I've also written some nicer stuff, Sergeant Ronson gets a little introduction and character building in "the present" when we next return, and I've actually revisited Valse to give Gatchi and Yorke an ending.
That's ready to roll, it just feels like stalling on getting this boat afloat again, so to speak. Any opinion on what I should post next? Push on and get the main line going again, rather than keep distracting myself?

This week I'm painting like mad, the weekend is a tournament, and then the OH is whisking me away to Berlin to see Christmas markets. But in between and after, I'm hoping to get back to camping. I've written some, it's just walking the fine line between scene building and trimming.
Dialogue is clearly my passion, but getting some time lapse rolling would really help.

I know it's not what you're looking for, but I'd say write up whatever. If you want to push on with the story, go on. If you want to do some side stuff, that's fine too. Both have benefits, and both are bound to be interesting

I have to agree with 2BJ1. Write up whatever, we'd love to read it whatever it is.

To be honest I'm probably done with off-shoots for a little while. I enjoyed finishing the Valse line, and giving Gatchi a future, but a lot of my side scenes involve characters we haven't met yet.

I recently started writing a section, realised it was not going to fly due to being too personal, finished it and banked it under "optional chapter", a bit like the Space Wolf hangover.

There's basically now a bonus chapter for book II where two characters get a bit of peace and time hanging out together, and when I first wrote it, I thought "this is a good idea, this book was horrible to everyone." reading it now, I think, "this is a great way to give myself a terrible reputation."
Part of me wants to include it, because 38,000 years in the future, people would be mortified by soldiers of different rank being a couple, but not homosexuals. Part of me realised it runs a real risk of making my story uncomfortable reading for people who are not keyed into that idea wholeheartedly.
I'm not even taking sex, just two members of the 183rd finding solace in one another. It was never supposed to be a big thing. It was just a peaceful conclusion.

Like anyone else, I want my stories to be read and enjoyed, but staying away from certain subjects for the sake of that makes me feel a coward. Same reason we often write male leads and villains; they're easier to access on a casual level.

I guess it's about how it's handled, in the end. It's a war and sci fi story with occasional cuddles, not a romance novel after all.

On a side note, my villains make me worry which corner of my mind they crept out of.

Cheerful grots? I have no idea what you're talking about. Mouse and his pals live a life of perpetual fear and drudgery. They're lives are under constant threat and they've probably been dropping like flies for weeks. A cheerful grot is either laughing at his dead mate's idiocy or is about to die himself... Or both. Or he's Smirking and therefore immortal.
Anywho, I unsurprisingly vote for more camp grots.

Cheerful compared to a life full of awareness of war and the greater decay of your species on the whole.
I think grots are the most human characters in contemporary terms because they only really have to deal with the current situation and a slightly longer term survival. They don't have to cope with the bigger picture.

And actual imperial guardsman would have to be very stupid, very depressed, or very brainwashed (or all three) to avoid grasping the true scale of the war and not painting the inside of his helmet with his own lasgun.
Cat touched on the sensation, but I think we couldn't grasp it as a culture ourselves.

It's likened to WWII in space. But in WWII, generals and leaders knew there had to be an eventual end.

So yes, cheerful. Just relatively so.

I had Cat explain toilets to them, which is probably my favourite thing in the chapter.
Commissar Yorke: The Biography With a Surprising Amount of References to Body Waste

Who says sci fi can't be glam.

Actually, I've read that in the Guardsman's Primer there is an asston of outright lies (like orks being small and weak) to keep them from being depressed or absofethinglutely terrified. Of course, that only applies to new recruits who have never fought though, so the rest are fething BADASSES!

There's Fifteen Hours, which explains how truly unprepared and short the average guardsman's life is in some sectors.
Also the FFG Only War book has diary excerpts from a trooper who went from believing Orks were slow and stupid, to being the last living member of his squad, waiting for death.

I have the 183rd survive, because it they don't, the book ends, but they're only really doing small scale deployments and in some cases, planetary defenses. Mordians all start in the PDF, so they're the perfect diplomatic regiment to drop on a newly settled planet.

I'm officially back on the horse.
I loaded up the 183rd into my ebook reader and re-read what I've done. As well as noticing a few typos, I've got a better feel for where we're headed.

I'm also going to make the decision now to change and update Commissar Yorke's name to Raymond, as much as I love "Ramirez", it doesn't make any sense as a first name, and now I'm not playing the story for laughs, the story behind his name isn't very credible.
It's not a major change, and everyone calls him Ray or Cat anyway.

I've done a bit of work on various things away from the main plot line, but I'm happy to return to Mouse and Co, very soon.
I wrote the history of Cat's predecessor, some more about Creer, and some character journals from Michelle of all people.

Glad to see your return. And I don't mind the name change, like you said, it won't be the end of the world.

I know I don't keep up with this a lot, but I'm loving what you write here. You're doing great.

Thanks guys, it's something I really enjoy doing.
I don't think I would ever write a book like I wrote this again, because it's been very very scattered, and I think my consistency has suffered slightly.

Sometimes I just like to pick up a book and flick through the pages and be reminded what it is that makes it great.

Great Forum Books like this one deserve the same treatment. This one gets a well deserved BUMP from me.