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There are Commissar schools.

They are run like boot camp but with intense propaganda and political training on top of it.


They get indoctrinated and then are taught about the various threats, and ways of dealing with different crimes.

@Merlin nice one, I've ahd interviews like that...

For a real grimdark interview it's hard to top the one in Snow Crash. But let me see what I can do...



Heinrick suffled into the chamber slowly. Despite the chill of the room his was sweating under his humble brown robes. The vaulted chamber was dark and cold, the only feature was a steel chair in the center spotlighed by a hovering servo skull. The armoured door rumbeled shut behind him.

"STRIP!" The distorted voice echoed throughout the room from unseen speakers.

"Excuse me kind sirs, I think there has been an error, I was invited here to discuss the position of deputy assistant overseer for workunit #42, I think I may have been directed to the wrong-"

"STRIP!" The voice repeated.

Heinrick had not spent 20 years in the Emperor's service without learning obedience. With shaking hands he immediately shed his robes, carefully folding them and laying them on the floor. He shivered in his drawers.

"STRIP!" The voice repeated.

Near panic at having been given an order 3 times Heinrich dropped his drawers and stood shivering in his skin. Sweat covered his shaved scalp.

"BE SEATED!"

Heinrick lowered himself to the floor.

"BE SEATED!" The voice demanded again.

Relaizing his error Heinrick nearly ran to the stainless steel chair in the center but once there froze. The chair had open shakles at the wrists and ankles, injectors and mechadentrites were posed to impale anyone seated there.

"Kind sirs, I saw again I think I may have been directed to the wrong-"

"BE SEATED!" The voice demanded a third time.

Now more afraid of the voice than the chair Heinrick climbed in.

With a loud and permanent CLICK the shackles locked him down. He screamed a bit as the needles drove into his skin and the mechadentrides burrowed into his cerberal implants.

Before him the vid screen crackled to life but showed only distorted shadowy figures. A half dozen servo skulls appeared and buzzed around him, flashing coloured lights and printing out ribbons of paper.

"TELL ME" The voice began "WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN FIVE YEARS?"



Next up...

The GRIMDARK cell phone

Standing before the seemingly endless shelves of Bubo Hive Central Commercium, Gunther pulled out the thick telescopic aerial of his personal hand-vox, a device the size of a housebrick, and looked at the green-hued matchbox-sized screen. Wherever he went, the signal strength never seemed to exceed two bars. He used the thick rubberised buttons to scroll down through the list of contacts, noting that he had almost reached its maximum capacity of ten numbers.

Finding the intended name, he extended the telescopic ear-trumpet and speaker horn, leaning in to listen and make himself heard over the background hubbub. Before the device even attempted to dial his hab, the standard pre-recorded message blurted out, reminding him of the need for all to play their part in maintaining the glory of the Imperium, followed by the mandatory fifteen seconds of patriotic music. He knew the network would be charging him for this.

After a few rings, his wife Kara answered, her words barely audible over the background hiss and crackle. "Hello?"

"It's me. I've gone and forgotten the shopping list. What did we need again?" He spoke unusually quickly, almost to the point of incomprehension.

There was a brief pause. Gunther silently urged Kara to hurry.

"Let me see...a pallet of purified water, some more grox jerky and a sack of class 5 dehydrated gruel, it says here." Again, the hasty speech.

"Right, thanks. See you later. Love y-"

The line went dead, and then a strident, tinny voice screeched from the earpiece. Gunther jerked away.

"ATTENTION CITIZEN! We remind you that the Auraphone Personal Vox System is provided for the sole purpose of increasing efficiency among Imperial citizens! You have exceeded the ten-second limit for personal calls and as a result your prepaid calling credit has been reduced by five per cent." Another pause as the next part of the pre-recorded message was loaded. "ATTENTION CITIZEN! The exchange of pleasantries is superfluous information and your prepaid calling credit has been reduced by a further five percent."

Gunther began the laborious business of folding up the cumbersome hand-vox, sighing in exasperation and ruing the day he had paid good Thrones to buy the wretched thing. As he did so, the tinny voice could just be heard emerging from the device.

"We heard that. Another five per cent."

-----

Next topic: a GRIMDARK pizza delivery!

Asherian Command wrote:I've always wondered if there was such a thing as a commissar school. What would happen if all of them did something wrong. Would that mean that each one executed the one right next to them and so on. And then the last one is accepted as a commissar? Sorry but that sounds like Law School in a jiff.

Schola Progenium. Here you go: http://wh40k.lexicanum.com/wiki/Schola_Progenium#.Tz7vrLFOi38

Based on the Ciaphas Cain novels, it pretty much functions as any school, pranks included. Punishment in the form of washing an entire building up to lashing.

The actual training to become a comissar, is kind of like being an intern, cadet-comissars get atached to higher ranked Commissars to learn it in the field.

Next topic: a GRIMDARK pizza delivery!

Sean the plucky 16yr old from midtown was excited about his new job as a pizza delivery boy.

"Barracks #3794" read the delivery chit as he rode his bike up to the imperial guard station. After walking his bike around the prefabed plascrete bunker painted regulation grey, he spies the low gothic script written on the door plate for the building. Let's see, we're at barracks #4.... aww crap....

Off Sean goes as fast as possible with his delivery trying desperately to make the "30 minutes or it's free" deadline. Being an astute math student, he rations that he has some 10 min left to go down 3790 more bunkers as each apperas to be sequential. If he cut across horizontally, he can probably skip them by the hundreds as the next row apparently started at #100. Only taking 1 minute to get past a bunker, he'd still essentially be screwed out of some 20 credits but he has no choice but to go as fast as possible and hope the customers don't complain.

Furiously riding, he soon approaches #3794 and only 30 minutes late! Oh well maybe he'll still make some tip.
Sean raps on the door and yells out "Pizza Delivery!" and secretely leaves out the remainder of the slogan where he would pay the tab if it was late.

Strangely, no one responds right away though a lot of noise of crunching fists, heavy metal objects hitting the floor, and slaps of what sounds like meat hitting the floor, can be heard as he puts his ear against the door frame. Sean pushes against the door and finds that it is unlocked and actually opens. Curiousity overcomes our plucky hero and he looks inside. To his horror, it looks like a tornado has gone through and devestated the place! Chairs smashed to pieces, walls riddled with holes the size of apples, lights were all put out and several dark sinister shapes appear to be in some sort of wrestling match in the back. Are they under attack? Aliens?! Herectics?!?!?!?!!!!!

Sean drops his pizza carrier and spints back to his bike. Unfortunately for him, the occupants noticed the shaft of light from the open doorway and a tremendously large "AHHHHHHH" screamed out from the occupants inside baracks #3794. The shout nearly froze Sean in his tracks and he stumbled scratching his palms on the ground. As Sean scrambled back to his feet, he could hear an avalanche of steelshod boots pounding through the barracks surely after his sorry hide. He prayed to the Emperor as he fumbled with his bike's kick stand and in his mad panic failed to notice that he had locked the bike in his usual manner.

His brave flight to safety on his bike went all of 3 feet before his bike lock caught his tires and threw him out on his side. By now, the boots were nearly at the door and Sean had yet to get more than 8 foot away from the building. (terrible run roll). Cold stark realization that he had no chance to flee now set in and Sean quickly voided his bowels in fear and rolled into a foetal ball on the floor screwing his eyes shut against the inevitable.

Sure enough, huge rough hands picked him up by the scruff of his shirt and lifted him up into the air with as much ease as his mother could lift a load of laundry. Thinking briefly of home, he noticed that while he was dangling, no sharp objects have stabbed into him nor a bullet entered his side. Large paddles were apparently hitting him about the back and chest however which left Sean mightly confused. After a few more blows that seemed to knock the air from his lungs, he was set roughly though not unkindly back on his feet. Curiousity finally overcomming abject fear, Sean opened his eyes a pinch and saw ...

a squad of 6 hugely large bald humanoid looking men? each muscled like a grox and tall as an ork. Kneeling besides the pizza box that he had left at the doorstep in apparent prayer. A larger one than the rest wearing a helmet with 2 large horns decorating the sides was apparently leading them in prayer.

In thick low gothic accent that Sean could barely comprehend, the one with the bones on the helmet seemed to be saying " Praishe to the Emperorrha! The Emperorrah luvz uss and shends uss thish "pizzzaa!" Thanks Mr. Emperorrah!" as they then dig into the 10 super large extra meat specials that were bordering on the cold and slightly stepped on side of things.

While these mighty strange ogre like creatures ate and occassionally hit eachother about the head, Sean noticed some pieces of paper stuffed into his pocket as he carefully got his bike upright and unlocked. As the beasts appear pre-occupied, Sean looks at one of the pieces of paper and on it was written in green crayon as if written by a 2 yr old the character for credit. sure enough, 20 of these "bills" were stuffed into his shirt. Really just more thankful for continuing to exist, Sean wasn't about to being to correct the giants on their ability to pays so he rode home with a nasty smell eminating from his pants and a pocket of useless paper. As Sean rode as fast as possible from his near adventure, he though to himself, "Tomorrow, I'm so going to work hard at math and try for techpriest during the next set of exams"

Nice one! Let me throw out a new topic, the GRIMDARK war game!

"You only roll a nineteen, all your friends die," muttered the DM. They all hated this game. Xenos and heretics. You could only choose one of 2 characters, Braun the heretic, or Kliklik the filthy xenos, and all the situations ended in painful death for the player characters, but the only other options were "Hard Labor, the game" and a boring round of "Poke the Ogryn" a children's board game they had all outgrown. Suddenly, a buzzer on the wall sounded, and a mechanical voice buzzed in. "Your 15 minute respite has been exhausted. Return to work. For the glory of the Imperium.

@Moom241: haha, very nice.

*khhhrt* the imperium commands you to grimdark: pets *click*

This thread is full of win.

As my writing skills are sub par at best I propose:

GRIM-DARK SPORTS MATCH!

vodo40k wrote:This thread is full of win.

As my writing skills are sub par at best I propose:

GRIM-DARK SPORTS MATCH!

Pics, or it didn't happen.

I'll bite

The men playing "Recreation activity No. 15.1" were very exhausted. And they had every right to be exhausted, since there was much to win, or better, loose.
Recreation activity Nr. 15.1 was a popular way for noble Commanders to inspect the physical constitution of their soldiers. It cosited of two ten men teams trying to get a metal ball into the other teams goal. There were no restrictions on the methods used to archieve this, and the loosing team had to do hard labor for the next two weeks.

The match had already been going for nearly one and a half hours, and the ball had not yet even gotten near one of the goals.
Freds arms and legs were hurting so bad that he was close to collapsing, and his team was down to six. Three of the others had collapsed by themselves, the fourth, poor Bob, had gotten the metal ball between his eyes, thereby denying it entrance to their goal.
The game would end when the ball was in a goal, or when one team was out to the last man. Fred was desperate to make it end the former way. With his last strengh, he flew at the opponent who wa carrying the ball at the moment. His fist crashed into the others face, making his team one man weaker. Fred grabbed the ball, and dashed for the other side of the field. the fellow who got in his way was quickly shoved aside, and there it was, in front of him.
The goal. An iron ring, half a foot in diameter, ten feet above the ground. All he had to do was throw the heavy ball throug it, and the game would be over.....
As he lifted his trembling arms to make an end to it, something got him in the back with brutal force, knocking him to the ground. It was one of his opponents. Fred had forgotten about them. The exhaustion had wiped every hint of thought from him.
Unable to gather the strengh to get up, he just remained on the ground and closed his eyes......

Hmm... Grimdark sports match:

The men were getting angry now. Commissar Agrav smiled, wondering which squad would lose.
It was a vicious game of strength, speed, agility, endurance, and, above all, utter brutality.
First, the two squads would gather around the centre mark, and five, 7kg, balls would be thrown into the air, and each man would try to grab one. Then, it begins:

It was always the same start; men desperately punching those of the other team in the hope of grabbing their ball before the whistle was blown. It would be blown, and each squad would walk to their respective pitch-ends.
The whistle would be blown, and they would charge forward, mercilessly chucking the balls at each other, while running around to avoid being hit themselves. Each hit was liable to break bone, and there would be a number of injuries that weren’t even from them.
After a tense half hour, whichever team had a man standing won. Of course, sometimes this time limit would change, depending on how long it took for the last person of the opposing team to go down.

Next: Grimdark supply shipments from overseas.

grimdark supply shipments eh?

it was that time again. exactly one decade since the last time that the loading dock had been crowded with the hustle and bustle of unloading. but now it was alive again as thousands of menials labored to haul the nearly three tonne crates across the deck. contantly serveyed by overseers armed with shock mauls. always ready to beat any man who dared to slow his pace.

several hundred men had died so far today alone. wether by exhaustion, the over exuberance of the enforcers disipline or by falling into the huge whinches that shifted the larger cargo containers. several more would be counted when a seven tonne dull grey container broke from the grip of its loading crane and crashed to the ground, crushing dozens outright and maiming hundreds more.

of course the crane operator was shot for the incedent along with those laborers too injured to work, the rest were beat back in line. one of the menials actuallly glanced at the contents of the crate that had claimed the lives of nearly half a dozen of his freinds and couldn't look away.

his delay was not overlooked and the worker recieved a particularly vicious beating as a result.

slowly the day ground to an end and nearly fifteen hundred men had been reported killed and hundreds more injured. acceptable losses, thought the site overseer as he watched the ground trucks haul their cargo of pillows off to the governors pallace.

next topic: grimdark dmv!

dmv?
I'll assume it's the department of motor vehicles:

The Departmento Motorium facility was a pit. There were hundreds if not thousands of mechanical parts and tools everywhere, and worker 117-GrmDrk was beginning to work on another chimera-engine. The thing had been designed to work on nearly any kind of fuel, but for some reason, it had fatally misfired when a handful of mud and stones clogged the engine. Those damned guardsmen thought that such things would actually burn into usable energy.
117-GrmDrk resigned himself to replacing the engine...

What next..? Aha: Grimdark bunkrooms.

Does someone want to grimdark tv commercial?

DMV is Department of Motor Vehicles but in the US it's considered pretty grimdark already, a place where you stand in line for hours to renew your driver's license or car regisration and then get sent home for not having the right paperwork.

But I'll pass on that one... and now BECAUSE I DEMANDED IT! The GRIMDARK Renaissance Faire!

--------------------------------------------------------------


Heinrick shuffled off of the Civil Transporter onto the black topped vehicle bay. He, along with a thousand other scribes, had been granted a day's leave for a historical and cultural enlightenment programme. A programme for which they had deducted ten thrones from his wages.

Along with the other scribes in their robes of grey, brown, beige and tan shuffled slowly through the gate.

Above them on a gay banner pictures of people in ancient costumes surrounded the words "Olde Tymes Faire - See life in M3 Y12!"

"WELCOME AMIGOS!" A loud voice called out, giving Heinrick a start. He looked up, above them on a stage was a man in an outlandish outfit consisting of an oddly patterned tunic and trousers of some blue materials. The bright colours and patterns hurt Heinrick's eyes.



"I'm the great hero Buzz Solo! YEE-HAW!" The man fire two small stub pistols into the air. "Along with my co-pilot Aldrin the Wookie, and my ship the Apollo Falcon..." he patted the gondela of a hot air balloon tethered behind him. "...I fired the Atomic Torpedo that destroyed the Hiroshima Star and saved Holy Terra from the Empire of Hello Kitty!"

Music began to play, Heinrick could only catch the lyrics "Strangers in the Night". Buzz Solo then dropped and launching into an intricate series of breakdancing moves.

Then the musical number was interrupted by the sound of heavy wheezes.

"Ohmygawd!" Buzz yelled. "It's Osama Bin Vader!"



The newcomer took out a crude laser sword and pulled a scantily clad woman in front of him. "Surrender Buzz Solo! You will never rescue Princess Brittney Kardashian!"



"Save me Buzz!"

Suddenly two armoured doors slid open with a hiss and a new figure appeared.

"I beg to differ! I am Job-Gates of Borg and I will destroy you!"



The newcomer fired beams of light striking Osama Bin Vader and the villain fell. The crowd cheered as Buzz Solo kissed Princess Brittney Kardashian and Job-Gates took a bow.

Shocked by the riotous colors and queer behavior Heinrick fled to the nearest privy, locked the door and remained there huddled in a fetal position until it was time to take the Civil Transporter home.
---------------------------

So we still have the grimdark bunk rooms and grim dark commerical out there.

Grimdark commercial, it's a short one.

"Hey there citizen, are you tired from working all day? Too bad, keep working. Car broken down? Keep working. Can't find a date? You won't have time to date when you're working! Broken arm? Work heals the soul! So get off that standard issue chair, turn off the t.v. and keep working."

"We now return to 'Why the Emperor is the best person ever, a thirteen hour documentary,"

Poor little thread, you need some love.

------------------------------------------------------------
Mom-Honey have you noticed young Sven has been going through... changes? His skin is red and splochy, he has hair growing in strange places, he's sullen and moody, even his voice sounds different.

Dad-Hmm, sounds like we'd better take him for mutation screening. I'm sure the Witch Breakers will find the problem.

Mom-But I love him so!

Dad-I love him too, that's why I'll take him this morning. Better for him to be broken on the wheel and his remains purged in fire than to allow him to live as a mutant.

Mom-I guess so.

Dad-You'd better get screened too, after all it was your corrupt womb that he sprang from.

Announcer-Mutant screening, it's not just a good idea, it's the law! Report to your local Witch Breaker at the first sign of deviance.

--------------------------------------------------
Next up, the Grimdark children's cartoon!

Poor little thread...

So much fun...

I'm now looting it for this

http://www.dakkadakka.com/wiki/en/Civilian_Life_in_40k_Part_2#Life_During_Wartime

People just stared at his "Gangsta" outfit till someone called the arbites for suspicion of being a heretic

 Harriticus wrote:

Spoiler:

GRIMDARK THIS.

Thread has potential.

It's Milwaukee. Isn't that grimdark enough already?

 moom241 wrote:
"You only roll a nineteen, all your friends die," muttered the DM. They all hated this game. Xenos and heretics. You could only choose one of 2 characters, Braun the heretic, or Kliklik the filthy xenos, and all the situations ended in painful death for the player characters, but the only other options were "Hard Labor, the game" and a boring round of "Poke the Ogryn" a children's board game they had all outgrown. Suddenly, a buzzer on the wall sounded, and a mechanical voice buzzed in. "Your 15 minute respite has been exhausted. Return to work. For the glory of the Imperium.

Hmmm. Sounds a bit like...

 Kid_Kyoto wrote:
So I've been thinking a lot about civilian life in the Imperium and thought it might be neat to try and crowd source what life might be like on a 'typical' Imperial world by taking something normal from our world and then imagining what it would take to grimdark it up.

IE



Herick boarded the Civil Transporter an hour before dawn. Already the common-use seats were full, the only vacant seats were those in the front reserved for higher-ranking adepts than he. He managed to find a choice spot however before on of the air gargoyles which granted him occasional gusts of chilled air as the Transporter filled with hive workers, scribes, an the occasional servitor. His bones already ached from the lurching of the poorly maintained vehicle and he had another two hours before he arrived at his work station.

Like that...

Next topic - A GRIMDARK convenience store!

They were going to IKEA

Not sure what we're grimdarking next, so I'll just make one up:

Getting a tattoo.

Kayel leaned back in the chair. It was a very cluttered room in which he sat, while his arm was being repeatedly stabbed by an ex-magos biologis, who was trying to earn some cash by giving people tattoos. One of the many needles went straight through Kayel's arm, and he was very glad he'd had the common sense to take a large drink of amasec beforehand. The drink tasted terrible, but it blotted out pain quite effectivley.

To his left was the "artist" that was working on his arm, and to his right were a few people waiting to get their tattoo. All of them, without exception, posessed guns of various kinds, and were either drunk on amasec, or were licking a large, slimy five-legged blob-thing.

Next: Driving to work

Once again, Chavez was stuck in dawn traffic on the Interhive, on his way to the labour centre. He felt priveliged to have his very own civilianized Tauros, many young men his age dreamed of owning one. Well, technically he didn't own it yet, he still had about ten years' salary to pay off on it. But he convinced himself it was worth it. At least it was better than the tunnel shuttle. He was lucky to have acquired one with a roof, giving him some protection from the prometheum fumes sputtering out of the truck in front of him. Praying to the Emperor that no underhive hoodlums would steal his precious car while at work, he cranked up the vox-caster, having to turn vigorously to get the damn device going. It crackled to life, and Chavez smiled, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, singing along to the "Imperial Nutritions' Gray Mush" jingle. Now with extra sodium! Yum. The jingle was followed by a message from the Governor, and then another one from his superiors. Then came the morning news-vox. Another world has been consumed by the Tyranid Hive Fleet, that's the tenth one this week... and it's only Wednesday. And now sports, with the results from yesterdays Recreation activity No. 15.1. Winners: spared, Losers: death by stubber. Feth, Chavez had bet on the losing team... Well, he wouldn't make that mistake again since they were all dead. And now the weather: Today, smoggy. Tomorrow, smoggy. Friday, smoggy, with some acid rain, so stay inside, folks!
He looked at the time. He should be at the labour centre in about five hours, provided he doesn't miss his exit off the Interhive. But still, much better than the shuttle... much better...

Looks like I shall invent topics:

Being an I.T. guy.

Javez wasn't impressed. Once again he had to plug this damn servitor's face back into the wall socket, in an attempt to get the translator to stop shouting things in a rather offensive dialect of low gothic, whilst simultaneously trying to figure out what the hell ERROR 1,956,243,355,456.000001A could possibly be.
He gave the servitor's head a good shove, and it was finally back in it's hole. he went over to the control panel, and began deciphering the binary code that was required to re-install the equipment.
He rubbed his eyes, and to his very great un-amusement saw an error message requesting verification of his humanity. Just great. A brain-melting equation first, and then a small claw would appear from somewhere to take a sample of his flesh.
Getting through that, Javez re-installed the servitor, and promptly dismantled the vox-generators that were making the noise. If he'd done this earlier, the machine spirit would have had a tantrum and melted down the control interface.

Next he set about solving ERROR 1,956,243,355,456.000001A. Several hours later, he was unsuccessful, but had managed to get the translator to work again.
He went to leave the room, but just as he started to close the door behind him, the servitor's head fell out again, and the wailing restarted.

Javez resigned himself to yet another all-nighter.


Next up: Grimdark power generators.

Irid Bazalgette ran. He ran hard. He ran fast. But mainly he ran to avoid the wrath of the electro-lash wielded by Compulsitor Grindpoor of the Mechanicus Monitorium who constantly checked his leg speed to confirm that the power output from Irid's treadmill never fell below the prescribed level.

Irid had been a Mechanicus power bondsman since he was twelve. His days consisted of a twelve hour shift, running the treadmill whilst a tube connected to his stomach fed him a liquid sludge of nutrients and liquids, carefully balanced to provide the maximum amount of slow release energy from the smallest amount of ingredients possible. Irid could no longer remember the taste of food, those days were gone, long gone. After his shift, he would disconnect the tube, move his shattered body off the treadmill and drag himself to the bunk which he shared with his co-generator. Whilst one slept, the other generated.

Irid had been running every day for thirty years. His knees were reaching the point where he would no longer be able to keep up the required pace. When this day happened, if he was lucky he would find work sweeping the corridors or perhaps he would be modified to work as a cargo lifter. If he was unlucky, he would be out on the streets, begging until he was found dead from one too many tots of bathtub amasec.

Do I get to go next? If so: Grimdark piano recital.

It was that time again. The indentured workers of Manufactorum XVII filed into the Macharius Memorial Concert Hall and settled into their frayed seats, surrounded by a faint but noticeable odour of damp. There was a general hubbub of conversation. They were now used to the grim-faced guards whose duty it was tolook out for anyone falling asleep or interrupting during the performance.

When the seats had been filled, the lights dimmed. From concealed speakers droned an augmented voice.

"Citizens, welcome. Once again the Governor has seen fit to take a personal interest in your monthly cultural education sessions, granting you a glimpse of the kind of Imperial achievements normally denied to your plebeian sphere. Today, we present Tech-Adept Therrman's patented chordophone."

The anceint curtains drew back to reveal a peculiar contraption, illuminated by a spotlight, in the centre of the stage. Several banks of keys fashioned from bone were built into a vast array of riveted brass plate and tubing. From the top of the device sprouted a vast trumpet-like object apparently intended to amplify the sounds made. Hardwired into it, in front of the bank of keys, was an emaciated servitor, its frog-like augmetic eyes fixed on the keyboard and four spindly, multi-jointed mechanical arms sprouting from its flanks.

The servitor began to play, jabbing at the keys with jerky, deliberate movements. It seemed to be thinking about every note played, so the sound it put out was a discordant, incomprehensible plonking. After several minutes of this, the noise ceased.

Uncertainly at first, a few of the citizens began to clap, but the applause soon reached a considerable volume when the guards began to clap enthusiastically while simultaneously glaring about the auditorium. When it had trailed off, the citizens filed out.

Watching secretly from the governor's personal box,Adept Therrman regarded his bizarre machine. Had his eyes not been cybernetic implants, and indeed had much of his capacity to experience emotion not been replaced by the cold logic of a cerebral cogitator, he would have shed a tear.



Next: A GRIMDARK night on the town.

4pm: Start drinking.

2am: Stagger home.

6am: Buzzer rings for work, bash alarm into submission.

6:01am: Everyone dies from Exterminatus.

Next: Grimdark the Office.

How can you Grim Dark an office? It already As grim and you can get.
Next: Grimdark Strip clubs.