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Alright, so I have tried writing some short stories based on recent ideas, and, unfortunately, writers block has set in. I think I have too many ideas, and I can't really separate them; I don't know which direction to go in. So I decided for now to continue the story from my last fan-fiction, but I can't even guarantee that will get very far. My goal for this is to improve character interaction and development, consolidate the plot, improve narrative (less-wordy/repetitive), to focus much more on Thirteen, and to make sure it has a different feel from the original.

So, without further ado, a teaser...

It was Et Mortum Diem, The Day of the Dead, on Passon’s Stead and the planet was in celebration. The usually somber streets were dressed in garlands of gold and red, and gaudy skull motifs hung from lamp-posts. Smells of roasted meats and pastries wafted through the air, occasionally joined by the sweet stench of alcohol. People crowded the streets in their thousands, celebrating their ancestors who came before them to colonize this world. They dressed in magnificent costumes and extravagant robes sporting beads and frills. Each hid their faces behind an ancestral mask, shaped like a skull. Some were ancient and opulent, resembling an honored forebear and passed down through generations. Others were simple papier-mâché constructs, mass-produced for the festival. Only one in the crowd of thousands did not boast the garb of the dead.

Percival Bostitch elbowed his way through the partying mob, spitting curses under his breath. His dour grey suit marked him as an offworlder, and natives assaulted him with strings of beads and flowers. “Damn this drunken lot,” he thought to himself out loud. Percival had come to Passon’s Stead at the very beginning of the celebration, hoping to take advantage of the lax in security that would inevitably take hold. Day after day he searched for his prize. One day he finally discovered it, thrown carelessly in a vault containing artefacts from the first colonists to ever discover Passon’s Stead. The trinket now lay in his pocket, carefully wrapped and sealed. Percival grinned to himself, pleased with his find. All that remained was to leave this absurd world behind forever.

Fending off the advances of an intoxicated Passonian (man or woman, it was impossible to tell what lay behind the mask and robes) Percival risked a glance behind him. Yes, he was still there. At first Bostitch believed he was only being paranoid, but now he was certain. Ever since he had left his hab that morning someone had been stalking him. It was always there, in the corner of Percival’s eye; a tall, thin figure, dressed in funerary black. The figure’s hood hid his face in shadow, but the cold white of a skull mask could be seen peeking out, suffused by a dull blue glow. Percival gulped down his fear and took another furtive look. The figure was gone. Get a hold of yourself Bostitch, everyone here is wearing a mask. It’s nothing!

The spaceport was close now, though it took time to navigate through the press of bodies. Percival’s private cruiser, a luxury many in the Imperium did not posses, waited for him. Percival was a man of some considerable wealth, a gentlemanly son of a minor noble from Purl. Money and power were never a cause for concern, and Percival lived the life of privileged ignorance. Growing older, and more bored of his courtly existence, Percival sought newer and rarer treasures. And so he began collecting. At first it was minor things; one-of-a-kind pieces of art from his home-planet, or a cultural treasure from some feudal world. The acquisition of a new artefact was a thrill drugs, power, and money could not match. Soon Percival was collecting things of a darker nature. Books blacklisted by the Inquisition, rare tomes of knowledge and dubious origin, inert warp-trinkets; all these things were housed in Percival’s private museum. The newest part of the collection sat in his pocket now, waiting to join the others.

Today was the final day of Et Mortum Diem, and the streets were packed to the choking point. Nobles and munitorium workers caroused together in drunken song. Homeless and destitute twists and mutants performed as jesters and side-shows, clothed in checkered costumes. Percival felt the pressure of acute claustrophobia set in; he had never liked crowds. Head swimming, he pushed forward, eager to be rid of these riotous peasants. Percival stopped, head turning, attempting to regain his bearings. He felt it again, the feeling he was being watched. There! Out of his peripheral vision a shape slid, black and menacing. Percival’s grip tightened on the cold metal handle of the compact auto-pistol rigged inside his coat. His nose began to drip blood. Come on you bastard!

Percival swung on his heels, tearing the auto-pistol out of his jacket. Depressing the trigger Percival fired the entire nine-round clip point blank into the shadowy figure. Bits of bone and brain spattered the party-goers on all sides. The figure swayed for a moment, attempting to process information even though its skull was a red mush. Finally the lifeless body collapsed onto the ground, an expanding pool of red forming around it. Dazed by the sudden violence the revelers stood silent, staring. Then the screaming started.

Costumed citizens fled in terror, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the man with the gun as possible. Percival looked down at the corpse and cringed. Only a child, just some native boy looking for a handout. Percival suddenly found himself alone on the street, surrounded by the debris and litter of the festival. In the newly formed silence the gushing of the blood from the corpse’s neck wound sounded like a waterfall. Percival felt his vision swim and his head cloud. He bent over and retched onto the cobblestones of the street. Reaching inside his coat pocket, Percival wrapped his fingers around the hard orb that had brought him to this planet. At least now he had a clear path to the spaceport.

The dock-workers had heard of some incident, something about a man and a gun and a child, but didn’t know the specifics. Still, they were eager to see the offworlder gone. He was much too serious. Percival tipped them, graciously, and shooed them away. The inside of the vessel was plush and refined, like a palace stateroom in space. Percival hurried to the back of the ship, where the stowage compartments were located. He lifted the orb gingerly out of his pocket and placed it into a box. Percival took a last, wistful glance at the trinket before he made his way to the cockpit.

Percival was no pilot, and so he relayed his instructions to the servitor manning the controls. Most servitors were ugly things, built from man and machine for menial labour. This specimen was a different example. Its form was fashioned from gold and silver, and resembled an angelic cherub. The machine-servant cooed in a soft, artificial voice that it had received the orders and would begin flight shortly. Percival breathed a sigh of relief. His hands were still shaking from the…accident, but other than that his journey had gone off without a hitch. He gazed at the instruments of the flight controls, making sure the servitor had input the correct coordinates. Everything looked sound, except for…

Percival saw the reflection of the skull in the glass of the instrument panel only a moment before he felt a cold twinge of pain creep into his body. He felt strong hands lower him into the co-pilots seat next to the servitor. A figure materialized in front of him: thin, and tall, and black. The shadow wore a skull mask, not decorative or jewel-encrusted, but malign and functional. A cold blue glow shone from the eye sockets. “Where is it?” the figure asked, dry as a funeral drum. “I-in the back, in…uhn…the box marked with an ‘N’” Percival felt so weak. The figure stared for a moment, then left the cockpit. Purring in its androgynous voice, the servitor announced that lift-off was imminent and advised passengers to secure their safety harnesses. But Percival Bostitch was already dead.

Good sir, I now have 2 favorite artists

Dan Abnett
and
You