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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.

~