You walk away from the trio of Arbites you had been talking to and hear them snicker as you leave. Oh, yeah. Frowning, you pinch your gown together behind you as you walk to the room that you woke up inside, peering in from the corridor at the sterile medical environment. After some minutes on your feet, you notice your leg’s aching as well. Throne! You’ve been shot in the thigh before, and you know it’ll be a few weeks before that dull pain fades away, but until then you’ll be aware of it with every step of your right foot.

Down the corridor, you see a group of elevators. You wonder if you should try and find your unit yourself, or if you should wait to be discharged from the hospital wing before you wander around the Hall of Justice.

> Wait in your room to be discharged.
> Look for Redmore and Groves in your hospital gown.

>>5484736
>Look for Redmore and Groves in your hospital gown.
Can't stop won't stop.
Nice image QM

You just know if your hospitaller returns, she’ll bitch at you for getting out of bed. You’re pretty sure your fatigues and armor aren’t being kept in a chest right next to your bed either, so you head towards the elevators, clutching your gown closed behind you with your good hand. You push the hailing button next to the doors and wait patiently, looking down the corridor further.

Some of the hospital rooms aren’t separated from the corridor with doors and walls, just widely spaced columns that either have curtain dividers hanging from the arches or don’t. You see a couple Sororitas Sisters from the Ordos Hospitaller wheeling somebody on a cot from the corridor into these rooms. There’s the faint ambience of hushed voices that’s barely audible over the medicae machines pulsing and whirring. You imagine the hospital wing’s gotten somewhat busier in the wake of the prison riot.

The elevator opens, and you step inside.

> Go to Dormitories, look for fellow Troopers and see if your uniform’s being stored there.
> Go to Armory, request new bodyglove fatigues so you aren’t walking with your ass out.
> Go to Reception Hall, ask where Redmore is so you can frantically update him on the case.

>>5484804
> Go to Dormitories, look for fellow Troopers and see if your uniform’s being stored there
We need to look presentable to be taken seriously.

>>5484804
>> Go to Dormitories, look for fellow Troopers and see if your uniform’s being stored there.
Welcome back! I hope you don't mind I archived the last thread, I noticed it was way down in the archive.

>>5485658
It was a pleasant surprise when I tried to archive it and got an error that somebody already did. Good description too tyvm

>>5484746
also, thank you!

Through the reflective metal on the elevator doors, you get a good look at yourself. The hospital gown is already not flattering, but your face looks incredibly tired under your scruffy, unkempt hair. A helmet and greatcoat would significantly improve the current pitiful aura exuding from your bruises and floral-patterned gown.

“Dormitories.”

> “Identity confirmed. Trooper Janus Caskett. Departing to Dormitories.”

You lean back on the elevator as it begins to move, the sudden lightweight sensation making it clear that you are going down. You can’t tell how far exactly down you go, because after only a few moments, the elevator slows down, and the feeling of gravity is exaggerated, aggravating your leg wound as the doors slide open.

You exit the elevator into the dormitory hallways. It’s a different area than where you’ve arrived and departed before, but it’s unmistakably the same level you’ve slept on for all of one night. Limping down the corridor, you fruitlessly wander the intersections and peripheral halls until you manage to intercept a servitor with fresh bedsheets and find out where your room is. By Celestine’s grace, it isn’t a far walk either.

Finally arriving at your dorm, you open the lockless door and find your same empty room, every bed just as finely made as you left it, except for yours, of course. You were hoping you’d run into Flayer or Groves lounging about so that you could get an update on either the riot or the investigation, but you’re also relieved they aren’t getting the opportunity to crack jokes about your current state. You open the closet door at the end of the room hoping to find a fresh uniform, but instead are surprised to find you have a combination toilet/shower washroom that, for the first time since you left Equine, is a downgrade from your Schola experience. Fortunately, the chests at the end of the bunks seem to have bodyglove fatigues in them, if not your full uniform. You begin to climb into one awkwardly before you recall a certain request that Charles made of you yesterday.

The shower water is cold. Very cold. The odorless soap dries your skin and irritates your leg wound. Your arm gets tired due to you having to hold it outside of the stream of cold water, not wanting to wet the bandages. When you finally exit the shower, you realize you don’t have a towel, and are forced to dry yourself off with your bedsheets. A humiliating exercise, but by the Emperor, you don’t smell anymore, and you feel a satisfying freshness when your damaged body is covered once again by a fresh set of bodyglove fatigues.

You feel a little better, and find that the strain of putting on boots is worth it when your leg feels less pained standing up.

> Go to Armory, see if you can get a new set of your missing gear.
> Go to Reception Hall, ask where Redmore and company is.
> Go to Archives, look for information on Tiber’s wife.

>>5484804
> Go to Dormitories, look for fellow Troopers and see if your uniform’s being stored there.
And then go to the Armory, grab some new gear also the Armourer can probably compare shell casings to tell us about them

>>5485907
>>5485906
Bugger, just my luck
>Armoury
Also maybe we can grab some spare bandages from the Medicae, plus finding out if the stubber the Constables are using is standard issue for them
Tbh QM we probably need Evidence Recaps or something, there's kind of a lot of information we need to make informed decisions as we go forward (maybe Caskett pulls a Standard Issue Notepad from Supply on a recommendation from Arbite-Sargeant Nick-Laz Angle)

File: marshal.png (941 KB, 811x1078)

941 KB PNG

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKK

Even with your bodyglove on, you still feel a little light without your carapace, greatcoat, and pauldron. You exit your dorm and head towards the elevator, intending to go down to the armory and get the rest of your uniform back before you find Redmore or Groves. The elevator doors close as you direct it towards the Armory, stepping out with a little more projection in your posture, walking through the curved halls until you reach one of the armory servitors behind the reinforced glass. It looks idle, but when you rap your knuckles against the glass, it jerks upright.

“I need a new standard Arbite uniform, sans bodyglove fatigues.”

You indicate at your garb to show that you already in fact have some fatigues on, though you’re not even sure if the servitor has ocular functions to see.

> “Arbites Badge not detected. Identify.”

You blink, remembering just now that the most important component of your uniform, your Arbite Badge, is also missing.

“Uh- Caskett, Janus. Trooper.”

> “Identity confirmed. Caskett, Janus. Trooper.”

You sigh in relief.

“I just need the armor, helmet, carapace, and greatcoat. Oh-! Also a new autopistol and shock-maul, with some ammo and batteries for both.”

> “Request denied.”

“Pardon?”

> “Request denied.”

“No, I know- Why can’t I get gear?”

> “Trooper Caskett, Janus has reached rank capacity for armament.”

“What do you mean? I don’t have anything on except bodygloves!”

> “Trooper Caskett, Janus has (one) Standard Pattern Arbitrator Uniform Set, (one) Agni Pattern Power Maul, (one) Ius Pattern Automatic Pistol with additional (two) Ius Autopistol Magazines and (one) Icarus Precinct Badge withdrawn from Icarus Hall of Justice Armory.”

“But- I lost it!”

> “Confirmed. Reporting Trooper Caskett Misappropriation of Arbite Badge and Arms.”

Your stomach drops, and you back away from the depot. You don’t think all the charisma in the galaxy will help you get the gear you need from this servitor.

> Go to Reception Hall, ask after Redmore.
> Go to Archives, look for information on Tiber’s wife.
> Return to Medical Wing, look for your gear.

>>5485970
>Return to Medical Wing, look for your gear.
>“Confirmed. Reporting Trooper Caskett Misappropriation of Arbite Badge and Arms.”
FUUUUUCCCCCK
We are going to get chewed out.

>>5485979
Ditto

You feel a little discouraged after being rebuked(and reported) by the armory servitor. You don’t want to catch any flak explaining why you don’t have your badge and weapons, especially when even your shakiest memories of bleeding out the day prior included both your autopistol digging into your hips while you were sitting on the mag lev. Groves and you have had your differences, but you can’t imagine he’d spitefully discard your badge and arms while you were out, so they must be SOMEWHERE around. If not in your dorm, then probably somewhere around where you passed out.

You step into the elevator.

> “Hospital Wing.”

> “Identity confirmed. Trooper Janus Caskett. Departing to Medicae.”

You brace against the elevator wall as it shoots up through the shaft, unsuccessfully attempting to alleviate your leg from the discomfort of the apparent increase in gravity. When the cabin slows down and the doors open, you hobble out of the elevator, back on the same floor you departed, but not in the same corridor. A little annoying, but you hobble down the hallway regardless, trying to find the trio of Arbites you talked to or some other landmark that could tell you where you were when you woke up. The cacophony of pained groans and Sisters Hospitaller taking in hushed tones seems to be ubiquitous across the entire floor.

You’re wandering for several minutes down the sterile, identical hallways, your spirit wearing down with every strained step. You’re just about ready to give up and ask for help when you hear the most beautiful sound you’ve heard in 18 hours: Flayer and Groves bickering.

Rounding the corner, you see them standing next to a door that looks quite a bit like the one you exited when you woke up. You limp down the hallway, and their so engrossed in their argument that they don’t see you until you put your hands on both their shoulders from behind, causing them to flinch before looking at what startled them.

> “Janus!”
> “THERE you are, you oaf! Where WHERE you?!”

Flayer and Groves both embrace you with wide grins before their expressions contort to concern. Groves starts speaking,
> “You aren’t supposed to leave the Medicae until you’re officially discharged, moron! The Hospitallers have been haranguing Redmore about where you-“

Flayer interrupts him,
> “Forget the Sisters! Janus, you’ve missed quite a bit while you were napping! That woman you and Groves nabbed-“

Both of them bite their tongues and stare in horror behind you. Their sudden silencing reminds you a bit of the Bridge Armsmen you encountered on the Inquisitor’s Strike Cruiser, especially because there’s also an aggravated woman who appears behind you. You turn your head back just in time to catch the open palm of a disgruntled Sister Hospitaller, her dainty, nimble hand smacking you across the cheek with a stinging precision.

> “Ya little ratling! Gone for five minutes to fetch you your drugs and you sneak outta bed like you’re ducking an execution!”

You reel from the smack, your cheek hurting with a novel kind of fresh pain that compliments the old, dulled pain in your limbs. Your vision recovers just fast enough to recognize the woman as the same adept that presided over you during your opiate-addled stirring before you truly woke up.

“That- That really hurt-“

Your whining is cut off by another smack, expertly directed at the same point on your face that her palm already clapped against. You groan and reach out for the wall to stabilize yourself, but you feel Groves and Flayer hold you up. You’re grateful for the sentiment, but all they really do is prop you up nice and tall for another smack to finally grace the side of your face that the Sister hadn’t hit yet.

> “Oh- it HURTS? I know it hurts! Perhaps if you were present to receive your painkillers, you would’nae be feelin’ anything! Then again, I’d have no reason to smack your stupid head in the first place!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize anyone was tending to me- AGH-!”

Another smack to the other side of your face. You tap Flayer behind you, silently begging him and Groves to pull you out of her melee range.

> “DIDN’T YE NOTICE THE BANDAGE ON YER ARM? IF NOBODY HAD BEEN TENDING TO YE, YOU’D BE MORE DRY OF BLOOD THAN A CHERUB WITHOUT THE DERMAL EXTERIOR!”

> “I think he’s had enough, Sister!”

> “I’M THE BLEEDIN’ MEDICAL ADEPT! YE AREN’T QUALIFIED TO SAY WHEN HE’S HAD ENOUGH, TROOPER!”

She might’ve wanted to strike you some more, but Groves and Flayer either picked up on your nonverbal message or figured to pull you away on their own. From a safe distance of two meters, you look at the Sister seethe at you, her dark eyes wide with contempt. Flayer goes to bat for you.

> “He’s here now, Sister! He hasn’t been planetside for more than a week! None of us have! He didn’t know about discharge procedure, otherwise he would have kept his ass put! Isn’t that right, Janus?”

“Y-yeah…”

> “If there’s a corner of this Imperium where ignorance is an excuse, I’ll eat my bleedin’ habit! Come on now, don’t loaf against your comrades when you were perfectly able to walk out of here on your own. Get inside, Trooper.”

> “Before you go in, Janus, we came to tell you that-“

> “I won’t hear of it! Stop holding him, he can walk just fine! You all can debrief him for the rest of the year when he’s out, but until he’s discharged, he’s MY PATIENT. Now, scram!”

You stumble a bit when Flayer and Groves let you go, but you catch yourself, standing up straight. The Sister is glaring daggers at Flayer and Groves, who scoot back down the hall when she opens up the door. Pointing her death-stare at you, you hobble back into the room where you woke up, stumbling to the side of the bed. The Sister slams the door shut and flicks a switch, the galvanic lights increasing in luminosity until the room is fully lit without any shadow. She walks over to a cabinet-counter and opens one up, retrieving a bag of liquid with an IV drip hanging from it.

> “You were quite battered when I started work on you. Your humerus was chipped, your brachialis hanging by a thread.”

Whatever accent she was yelling at you with seems muted when she speaks calmly, a more generalized Low-Gothic to this region. You shift on the bed and nod.

“I feel much better than when I passed out. Thank you.”

> “Yes, well you stitched up just fine anyway. Any soreness you’ll be feeling in your arm’s leftover from the incision on your skin I made to fix it up. Of course, your muscles and bone will ache for a little while, but you can mitigate it with a STRICT SCHEDULE OF MEDICINE.”

She carries the bag over to you, retrieving a cannula from a tray in the bedside table and applying it to the tube hanging from the bag. Up close, she’s as fair as any other Sister of Battle, and you notice that she looks to be about the same age as you. Her delicate features contort when she frowns, her nose twitching as she sniffs you.

> “Trooper…”

“Yes, Sister?”

> “Did you frakkin’ shower in the interim between you leavin’ here and returning…?”

“I did, but I-“

She grabs the collar of your bodyglove and shouts in your face.

> “ARE YE AWARE OF WHAT A “BACTERIAL INFECTION” IS??? DO YOU THINK THAT WARM WATER IS ENOUGH TO STAY THE FESTERING PUS ACCUMULATING ON YER ARM STITCHES?”

You flinch, expecting another slap, but you manage to cry out that you held your arm outside of the water when you showered. She sniffs your bandaged arm to be sure, and then sneers.

> “You fucking Troopers would be dead before your third beat if not for us Hospitallers.”

“I know to keep wounds clean, Sister. We Arbites went to Schola, same as you.”

> “Well, let’s see how your knowledge of wound hygiene holds up when you’re sewing Scion’s stomachs closed in a muddy trench, getting’ shelled by greenskins all the while.”

She unwraps your bandaged arm, and your eyes widen at its state. The skin all around the wound is swollen, with tiny stitches holding the giant hole in your bicep closed. There’s yellow-white pus accumulating on the edges, which the Sister cleans by licking her thumb before scraping it out of the crevice. She then sticks you with the cannula on your good arm and twists the drip, the light-brown fluid starting to flow through the tube and into your body.

“You healed wounded in a battle against greenskins?”

> “Aye. First assignment out of schola. Baptism by fire, to be sure.”

“That seems like a lot for a fresh graduate.”

> “I was taught well. Knew the body inside and out come Selection Day. Knew what I wanted to do.”

“That’s nice for you. I had no idea how I wanted to serve the Emperor.”

> “Prolly why they stuck you here instead of somewhere important.”

“The law’s important!”

> “Aye. Don’t see why we don’t legislate against xenos incursions. Might save the Guard some trouble.”

“Alright, look here, you-“

You stand up from the bed, trying to assert yourself, but the painkillers coursing through your arteries make it difficult to keep upright without your knees wobbling. You begin to fold under your own weight before the Sister grabs you with surprising strength, holding you upright no worse than Flayer and Cobbler did combined. She snickers, sitting you back down.

> “Alright, tough guy, the law’s important, I’m sorry.”

“It’s- it’s protecting- the populace- and upholding the Emperor’s-“

> “I got it, I got it. Don’t stand up so fast when you’ve got an opiate drip stuck in your arm, you oaf.”

You chuckle lightheartedly, though that might be the opiates. Your arm and leg feel just fine right now, and a warm glow seems to be emanating from your chest.

“This stuff really works… How much more do I get to take before I’m better.”

> “This’ll be your last dose of the good stuff, I’m afraid. I’ll have some capsules dropped off with your gear, take ‘em until you can run without hurting.”

“Throne, my gear! Where are my guns and coat at?”

> “Patient collections are behind the reception desk on this level. Might’ve figured that out if you even attempted to exit the correct way.”

“Gotcha… Good. I think I’m in trouble, I told a servitor I lost my badge.”

> “You think YOU’RE in trouble??? I nearly had to explain to my Superior why my unconscious patient was suddenly out of bed!”

“Sorry about that. I’m new here, and stupid, and I didn’t know it was-“

> “You’re high, Trooper. Save the self-flagellation for when your sober mind can be sincere.”

The Sister lays your head back on the bed when you start to sway in place, and you just stare up at the galvanic lights with a dumb grin. You spend your minutes-long stupor thinking of the plains of Harvestfall, Charles helping you out of your armor, and laying in a temperate sun while enjoying a good book. It couldn’t have been more than an hour later, but it also might have been a few minutes.

You rise from the bed and stand up, the near absence of pain in your leg and arm a satisfying change of pace. The Sister is at the cabinet again, organizing tourniquets and other medical tools into trays and boxes. She looks behind you and nods.

> “He rises again. Arm’s feeling better, I trust?”

“MUCH better. I feel like I could win a fight against an Ogryn.”

> “Well, do me a favor and don’t try it until your wound fully closes. The stitches will dissolve on their own, but don’t go firing a bolter-pistol with that one arm for a month.”

You nod.

> “I went ahead and grabbed your gear from reception. It’s in that box right there.”

She points at a new box sitting at the foot of your bed. You can see your Arbite helm and gauntlets poking out of the top. You sigh in relief, starting to suit up. There’s also a capsule with little white tablets inside, you stick those in your greatcoat pocket.

“Thanks! I was starting to think I’d never see these again.”

> “If you run afoul of Orders Hospitaller procedure again, you might not one day. Don’t take your healers for granted! And... keep an eye on the back of your head from here on out, got it?”

You nod,
“I will.”

> “Then I guess you’re discharged. Good luck, Trooper Caskett."

Fully geared, and in fresh fatigues to boot, you head to the door before catching yourself, turning back towards the Sister. She frowns back at you, setting a tray in a cabinet.

> “Yes, Trooper?”

“Could I get your name, Sister?”

She blinks, dusting off the apron in front of her habit.

> “Sister Isla, Trooper.”

You nod.

“If you ever sew me up again, you can call me Janus.”

She nods.

> “Fair enough, Janus. I hope you won’t take offense to me saying I hope that doesn’t happen.”

You nod again and exit the room, returning to the corridor. Naturally, Groves and Flayer are nowhere to be found, though to be fair to them you aren’t exactly sure how long you’ve been in there. A servo skull flutters down the hallway towards you, and you turn to face it, hoping it will point you in the direction of your comrades. Instead, a giant vox-phone underneath its upper teeth crackles to life with a new friend’s recorded message.

> “TROOPER CASKETT! RETURN TO THE MEDICAE AT ONCE IF YE EVER HOPE TO BE TREATED FER THE REST OF YER MISERABLE LIFE!”

You spare yourself(and Isla) the embarrassment of looking back through the window. Obviously, that was from when you were wandering the HOJ earlier. You shuffle down the hallway towards the elevators.

> Go to Reception Hall, ask after Redmore.
> Go to Dormitories again, maybe Groves and Flayer went there after waiting for you.

>>5486131
>Go to Reception Hall, ask after Redmore
Ha, Casket brilliant investigator, but o so stupid patient.

>>5486143
Ditto, might as well, also HELLOOOOO NURSE

“Reception Hall.”

The elevator confirms and closes, and you notice with a smile that the shifting apparent weight of the elevator doesn’t disturb your wounds. When it opens, you step out, once again surrounded by all manner of Arbites adepts. The Cantina’s a little quieter than you remembered, but then again it’s only the afternoon. Walking up to the reception desk, the Arbite behind it looks up at you.

> “Oh, you again. How’s your training going, Trooper?”

You can’t seem to remember the receptionist, but you nod anyways.

“Very well, thank you. I’m actually looking for my Inspector.”

> “Again? You lot should invest in vox-casters. Remind me of his name again- and yours?”

You feel your stomach churn. Surely the servitor’s report wouldn’t come up on something so trivial as seeing your CO’s current assignment?

“Inspector Callus Redmore. I’m Janus Caskett, Trooper.”

The Arbite nods and types into a cogitator. The screen blinks red for a moment and he frowns up at you.

> “Funny thing just came up. Says that you’re missing your badge and your weapons.”

“Oh, uh- I can explain. I left the Medicae without being discharged, uhm- I didn’t realize I needed to wait for that- and, well- I didn’t have my uniform or weapons on me, so naturally I went to the Armory-“

You feel two very large men brush up against either side of your back. You audibly gulp and continue explaining yourself.

“But- Uh, I returned to the hospital wing, and- and I got discharged, and I- I got my badge and gun back, see?”

You peel your greatcoat away from your breast, showing that your badge is, in fact, still embedded in the specialized holder on your carapace breastplate. The receptionist narrows his eyes at it, and the two giant Arbitrators on either side of you look down at it.

> “An interesting tale… I see here that the misappropriation report DID come in shortly before you were discharged… Take off your helmet.”

Of course! If this guy saw you the day you arrived, then he’ll remember your face for sure. You pull your Arbite helm off and smile at him.

> “Yeah, it does look like him. Better take a sample, just to be sure, though.”

“Yep, just me! Granted, I made a pretty stupid error, which will not happen again of course, but-“

The two giant arbitrators are joined by a servitor that has a giant needle in place of an arm. You can feel your face drain in color as the two men grab your arms and restrain you. Other people in the hall look as you struggle against the reception desk.

“Hey, wait, he said he recognized me!”

The one to your right begins rolling up the sleeves on your greatcoat, then the sleeves on your bodyglove. As fate would have it, the particular arm he rolled up was your wounded, bandaged arm.

“Could you take the sample from the other arm?”

> “What are you hiding under those bandages?”

“I was hospitalized! Your records say so!”

> “Indeed they do. Unfortunately, they also say you are missing your badge and arms, so seeing you with both on your person necessitates a quick procedure to ensure that you are, in fact, the owner of that badge and not, say, a heretic? Perhaps hiding foul tattoos under that dressing?”

A gauntlet reaches down, unwrapping the gauze on your arm. Your head is racing as your bandages are unraveled, a small part of you worried that the shiv you got stuck with was designed to heal with heretical markings, or the Hospitaller stitched your wound up in the shape of an anti-Imperium slogan. When the last bit is unfurled, you almost can’t bear to look.

Of course, there’s nothing nefarious about your wound. There’s just a hole in your bicep, it’s even free of any pus or debris thanks to the questionable thumb-cleaning of Sister Isla. You feel a sense of anticlimax coming from those restraining you and the receptionist, perhaps even a sense of disappointment. You sigh in relief.

“There, see? It’s just a stab-wound. Now, could we please- AAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHH!!!!”

The servitor could not be blamed for taking a sample directly from the hole on your arm. It was probably merely following a deeply-ingrained pattern of learned behavior, specifically poking its giant, unwieldy needle into holes meant to receive collected samples. Despite the fresh, white-hot pain coursing through your arm, to your shoulder, to your spine, to your neck, you can’t bring yourself to hate the pitiful creature, although you wish it had taken less blood.

Now the whole of the Reception Hall is fixated on you. The needle comes out of your arm and the servitor lowers its head, the sound of stitching and vox-speaker static crackling within it before it raises its head again.

> “SUBJECT IS 100% HUMAN. OPIATE-BASED NARCOTICS DETECTED IN SUBJECT’S BLOODSTREAM.”

> “Oh. All right, that settles that.”

The giant Arbitrators release their grips on you, but you find yourself still leaning on the reception desk, your arm shaking. You hear more typing on the cogitator.

> “Right, so Inspector Redmore is currently on liberty. Most Arbites spend that time in the Cantina, but he could be anywhere. Hope that helps.”

You slide off the desk and pick your helmet up off the ground, your arm throbbing painfully.

“Yeah, th-thanks. What about Troopers Groves and Flayer?”

> “They’re all in Redmore’s unit, so unless he’s particularly cruel, they’re probably also on liberty.”

> Go back to Medicae, get your wound redressed.
> Wrap your arm back up, look for Redmore in the Cantina!
> Go to Dorms, look for Groves and Flayer.

>>5487054
> Go back to Medicae, get your wound redressed.
Might as well while we're here

>>5487179
+1
Jezus we should start learning about procedure

You walk back into the elevator and go down to the Medicae for the second time. You can’t imagine what Sister Isla might do if she sees your wound bleeding and unwrapped not twenty minutes after discharging you, so when the Arbite at the Medicae reception asks you what you need, you meekly ask to redress your bleeding arm. The Arbite directs you to a row of servitors hanging out of the wall. The one you walk up to powers up when you approach, and you hold you arm out to it.

“I need this bandaged.”

The servitor points a nozzle at it and sprays disinfectant on it, a nice last morsel of stinging pain before the contraption awkwardly wraps it back up a little less proficiently than the Hospitaller did. Whatever, at least it’s bandaged again.

You walk back toward the elevators when you see a Hospitaller speaking to the receptionist. You avoid eye contact in case it’s Isla, but you stop dead in your tracks when you hear the older Hospitaller speak to the Arbite.

> “-to inform Proctor Castellan and Inspector Redmore their wounded have been relocated from Intensive Care.”

The elevator dings open, and a servitor wheels out three large boxes that look empty to you.

> Look for Redmore in the Cantina.
> Go to Dorms, look for Groves and Flayer.
> Snoop around Medicae, look for Redmore’s wounded.

>>5488039
> Go to Dorms, look for Groves and Flayer.

>>5488052
Ditto

You really want to figure out what that Hospitaller was talking about, but you’re still pretty sure you’ve got a report on your file and catching another one for snooping around the Medicae might put you in a worse position.

Sighing, you step into the elevator and go back to the Dormitories, walking through the arched corridors back to your room. On the way, you hear whirring above your head and are shocked to see three servo-skulls bumping into each other, trying to get to you. A small one with a crack on its temple beats the other two in the descent. It’s Groves’s voice.

> “Janus, me and Flayer got yelled at by a Sister Superior, so we went to the dorm. Hurry up here, we need to talk!”

You feel relieved that you were on the right track to finding them. The second skull floats down. Its voice is synthesized, like a servitor’s or any other servo-skull that can’t record voice messages.

> “TROOPER CASKETT. MISAPPROPRIATION OF BADGE REPORTED BY ARMORY SERVITOR HN-740. REPORT TO ADMINISTRATION. FAILURE TO REPORT WILL RESULT IN ADDITIONAL DEMERITS.”

You gulp. The third one flutters in front of you, a giant vox-speaker on it which crackles to life with the curt voice of Cobbler.

> “Caskett, I’m assuming you got your stuff back, so disregard any summons to Administration or Internal Affairs. Might want to avoid using any cogitators or other infrastructure in the meantime.”

Thanks for the tip, Cobbler. The three skulls all float away. You continue to your dorm, opening the door up and finding Flayer and Groves sitting on their bunks. Flayer stays seated but Groves jumps up.

> “Finally! What took you so long down there?”

“I, uh- I was waiting to come down from the painkillers.”

> “Whatever! Listen, while you were out, the riot’s been quelled, but-“

> “Tell him about the woman, Groves.”

> “I’m going to, but first he should hear about Ulbryn!”

“What happened to Ulbryn?”

> “He’s down in the Medicae, worse off than you! When I finally hauled you in, Redmore and Cobbler were there, and they said he might die!”

“What?! What happened?!”

> “Serves him right.”

You and Groves look at Flayer, whose lips are curled downward.

> “How can you say that?! He’s our brother! He trained at Schola Equine the same as you and I!”

Flayer sneers.

> “He broke ranks and chased a prisoner down a stairwell. Charles told him not to, Cobbler grabbed him by the collar of his Greatcoat, but he just slipped OUT of it. Serves him right.”

Groves clenches his fists. Flayer stays seated, apparently not very threatened by Groves.

> “’Serves him right?’ Granted, what he did was pretty stupid, but he was being brave, too! Janus got ambushed on OUR assignment, you think he had getting his arm nearly cut off coming to him, too?!”

Flayer looks at you and gives a curt nod.

> “Of course not, but Janus probably wasn’t looking for trouble. Redmore told us not to talk about Ulbryn, anyway, so drop it. Tell him about the woman you caught.”

> “Not surprised you’re so detached from your comrade getting put in the Medicae. You wanted to be an officer, didn’t you?”

> “For artillery, yes.”

> “Ah, there it is! You look down on the people doing the real fighting, you’d rather be safe and sound miles behind the frontlines firing shells into the trenches like a coward!”

Flayer stands up. Him and Groves are staring at each other now, inches apart. You’re pretty sure one of them is gonna throw a swing, so you pipe up.

“I- I think Ulbryn’s gonna be okay.”

Groves snaps out of his bravado, looking at you with an elated face. Flayer looks less than thrilled.

> “He is?! How do you know?”

“Well, uh- while I was being discharged, I overheard a Sister Superior tell the Medicae reception desk that one of Redmore’s Arbitrators was being moved out of ICU… I kind of worried it might be Charles, or- or Cobbler, but that’s probably him, right?”

Groves sighs in relief and looks back at Flayer, who shoves him back a bit.

> “There, see? He’s fine. Simmer down.”

> “Yeah, you look absolutely elated about that, too.”

The room’s gotten awkward, and for once it doesn’t seem like it’s your fault. You’re surprised to hear Ulbryn got hospitalized, a little uneasy at Flayer’s attitude about it, and annoyed at them both for going off on such a tangent.

“What about the woman, though?”

Groves looks gasps, as if he totally forgot about her. He opens his mouth to say something, and then looks at Flayer.

> “You tell him.”

> “Bite me.”

> “Ass. Alright, uh- well, I left her at the kiosk, because I didn’t want to haul you and worry about her squirming away- or trying to put you down for good, eheh, so-“

“She wasn’t in the kiosk when you returned.”

> “What? No! I didn’t return to get her, I voxed in backup to collect her while I was gone! Which they did, thank you very much! They got her to the Hall of Justice pretty quickly, something like twenty minutes after I got there with you!”

“So what about her, then? Spit it out, Groves!”

> “I’m TRYING! You know, you’re pretty heavy, but I CARRIED you after you went out, so I’d hope we’d be a little warmer between each other-“

“GROVES!”

> “She- I- Ugh. Redmore and Grist pulled me aside in the Medicae and asked me what happened to you, so I told them. Then…”

You don’t dignify his meandering by speaking, you just look at him.

> “Then… Redmore ordered Grist to sentence her for Assaulting an Arbitrator with intent to kill.”

You blink.

“That’s execution.”

Groves nods weakly.

> “Execution. Grist took her out of the Reception hall and that’s the last I saw of her.”

“He- He didn’t interrogate her?!”

> “Redmore said Grist would handle that.”

“But- But you told him about the-“

> “The badge and the bullet, yeah, I showed it to him when I told him what happened. That’s the last I saw of that, too.”

You feel your jaw drop and you sit down on your bunk. Flayer sighs and sits down too.

“She- She was a witness. She probably saw who came for Tiber- Why would-“

You hold your head in your hands. You simply can’t understand it. All the work of the past few days, all the effort you put in to prove to your unit and yourself that you could handle this, and then the one living, breathing witness to this conspiracy just snuffed out, by your own superiors, no less. You need some time to think.

You need…

A recap!
Two days ago, you had just completed some riot-control with Charles as part of your standard training regimen, when at the end of your work-day Redmore had wrangled you and everyone else in the squad into a Valkyrie. Archibald Kor, Planetary Governor of nearby Harvestfall, had been murdered. Harvestfall, being an agri world responsible for the large portion of Icarus’s food supply, was in the throes of a civil war that mitigated said food supply and subsequently put Icarus into a pretty bad famine. It was the sort of murder that a middle-rank Inspections Squad and their four bouncing Troopers wouldn’t be assigned to investigate.

And you weren’t. You only learned halfway there that Redmore had gone to Harvestfall of his own initiative. It wasn’t exactly clear how he found out, and you had your doubts that resulted in an embarrassing meltdown on your part during the flight down to Harvestfall. Old wounds.

Anyway, once you got to the site of the murder, the Villa of the Planetary Governor, you found the Planetary Guard had secured a perimeter, cordoning all civilians into the guest-house. Charles, the sole Arbitrator supervising you Troopers(long story), put you all to work honing your investigative prowess, and you didn’t disappoint.

Archibald’s sole wound was a stub-round to the head. Fatal. You later recovered the spent shell of the responsible stub from the fireplace. He was laying in the middle of the room, though the blood spatters suggested his corpse was moved, or at least touched after death. Fortunately, the hidden safe in the room hadn’t been raided, though not for lack of trying. Clear scratches and indents on the safe suggested an attempt at illicit entry. Predictably, there was nothing in the office that could help you open it yourselves.
His desk didn’t look rifled-through at first glance, but there were obvious gaps in weekly and biweekly reports that suggested a deliberate pilfering of certain documents had occurred.

The documents that remained painted a picture of disgruntled laborers organizing and revolting against the Planetary Government, at first peacefully, but then violently, at first unsuccessfully, but then with steady momentum, particularly when they acquired Guardsmen-grade weapons. All the while during the revolt, the Planetary Governor asked for more troops from Icarus, and more time to meet the Tithe from the Administratum.

From his correspondence alone, the culprit and motives seemed much more straightforward. A rebel snuck into the stubborn and unyielding Governor’s estate to strike a decisive blow against a callous despot. The theory didn’t seem airtight with you, especially with the missing documents from the desk. Something didn’t add up, so you all tried your hand at interrogating the civilians present during the murder at the estate’s guest house.

The interviews were fruitful. You worked out a basic timeline that put Archibald’s murder only minutes before his body was found. You heard about several potential suspects whose jobs in the government were threatened by the ongoing revolt. You learned of a young staffer that had gone missing the evening prior. Intriguingly, there was also no indication that any of the governor’s closest associates had any knowledge of the hidden safe in his office, meaning the killer was better informed than Archibald’s right-hand man, and probably was not one of the ordinary country bumpkins currently embarrassing Harvestite and Icarian PDF troopers at the frontlines.

The most important bit of information, gleamed from the Administratum adept who discovered the Governor, was that there was a draft in his room. You raced with your comrade back to the office, whereupon opening the large window behind the desk, you found a torn piece of fabric hanging on a wooden lattice on the exterior wall. It was the same kind of fabric the house servants wore.

So far, for being mere Arbites Troopers, you all were doing pretty good. So good in fact, that you had nearly forgotten you weren’t assigned to this murder by the time the person who was arrived: Inquisitor Weiss. You couldn’t get a good read on Weiss, she seemed aggravated at being undercut, but after you told her all that you had uncovered, she went ahead and let you keep investigating. Weiss took over interrogations, of course, and with the recovered fabric as a catalyst, she proceeded to march all the house servants down the hill to their quarters to begin questioning.

She didn’t take the fabric, though. Requisitioning one of the hounds the local government used to catch fleeing laborers(and some cool bikes from the PDF), you tracked the scent of the fabric all the way from the courtyard of the estate… down to the well near the servant’s quarters. Inquisitor Weiss wasn’t very happy about being interrupted, but when she saw where the dog was pointing, she had the same feeling you all did.

The missing maid, Yuliya, was pulled out of the drink, her naked body bloated from drowning.

Now, the idea that Yuliya was attacked so the killer could take her uniform had crossed your minds long before finding the poor girl, but it seemed like the scent-trail had ended at her corpse, rather than her killer. Remembering those odd, body-rifling bloodstains by Archibald’s corpse, you wondered if any of the killer’s scent might remain on his body. Turns out, it did. Your steadfast canid ran right out of the house after a couple whiffs, and you all finally got to ride those bikes over some terrain, going out a couple klicks behind the estate to the edge of a forest.

Once there, it seemed the trail had gone cold again, but the only problem was that the dog couldn’t fly. There were skid-marks on the ground(the vehicular kind), that indicated some kind of light aircraft had touched down recently. You took measurements of the skid impressions in the dirt and returned to the estate.

When you returned, the Inquisitor had managed to get the safe open, and graciously gave you all the chance to peek at its contents. There were letters from friends, letters from a (possibly illegitimate) son, and, most concerningly, correspondence with an Ecclesiarchal Cardinal Theodore Flemming. The first letter from the governor to the cardinal suggested that the Governor was going to attempt to negotiate with the revolting farmers. The cardinal’s response was a gentle ’please, Emperor, do not do that.’

With seemingly nothing left to investigate, the Inquisitor kindly flew you off-planet to the voidship where the rest of your superiors were being held by the Mechanicus(long story). You took the opportunity to enlist the aid of a young Tech-Priest in finding out what kind of vessel matched the dimensions of the skid-marks you found planetside, and what voidships those matching vessels embarked upon.

It was an Arvus Lighter, and it docked with a grain carrier bound for Icarus. You left the Mechanicus ship for the Inquisitor’s personal strike-cruiser, but not before the Tech-Priest blessed your shock maul. You’re not sure it actually did anything, but he seemed nice.

On the way back to Icarus, you could have gotten laid. You didn’t, but you could have. Redmore told you all that the Inquisitor requested your squad continue investigating the murder once you all were back on Icarus, and there might have been some backroom deal made with her in exchange for saving them from the wrath of the Mechanicus(long story, it’s seriously cool now, don’t ask).

Due to a riot that happened at the Arbites Department of Justice’s prison, your squad split up, and you and Groves arrived at the Icarian Orbital Spire with just Grist and Redmore. There, you found that the grain hauler the killer escaped in was still docked, and acquired a long arrivals manifest that you expertly narrowed down to three potential suspects through the process of elimination.

You and Groves agreed unanimously on which one suspect to pursue, Gerard Tiber, while Redmore and Grist took the other two by themselves.

As fate would have it, Gerard Tiber totally did it. When you arrived at his habitation block, his hysterical wife leapt out of his closet and stabbed you in the arm. After subduing her, Groves took her out so that you could investigate the apartment, and found a box of bullets matching the spent shell recovered on Harvestfall, along with an Icarian Constable’s badge.

Just in case that wasn’t enough indication that something very, very convoluted and evil was going on, while you were trying to reach Groves, a pack of goons noticed you with Tiber’s things and attacked you, chasing you all around the Hab-center. Things get a little hazy here. You remember falling down the stairs, shooting four out of five goons while curled into a tactical fetal position, and then Groves finding you. You made sure Groves picked up the fallen bullet and badge before helping you to an Arbites Kiosk, where Tiber’s wife was incarcerated. Then you passed out.

You woke back up in the Hall of Justice Medicae, where all the events of this thread(of today’s occurrences) transpired. You’re now sitting on your bunk with your face in your hands because it seems like after all that unauthorized investigation, interviewing, dropping the ball with your buxom superior, and getting stabbed and shot, Redmore had Tiber’s wife killed.

> “Uh, Janus…? You okay, man?”

You tilt your head up and look at Flayer and Groves through your fingers.

“Sorry? I was lost in thought for a moment.”

> “No shit. Listen, Redmore wants us to meet him in Conference room 147 at 1800 tonight, but we’ve just been meandering all day otherwise. Maybe you should get some rest until then. If not, I’m gonna go see if I can visit Ulbryn, and you’re more than welcome to come along if you want.”

“Thanks, Groves. I think I’ll…”

> Stay awake. [Liberty. Go with Groves to visit Ulbryn, or fraternize with fellow Arbites at the Cantina, or see if those gangers you nabbed are still alive in the Penal levels, or test out your blessed shock-maul, or check out what’s available to you at the armory(when your demerits are clear), or your own suggestion.]
> Angry sleep until 1800. [Skip to next assignment.]

>>5485938
What? Wait nevermind, I saw it. At least it's the right number, right?

>>5488398
Since I was one of the anons who were responsible for our last meltdown towards Redmore, I want to push Janus away from making assumptions. Maybe Redmore isn't half dumb and used the threat of execution to get her to cooperate? Let's keep ourselves in check and wait to see what he has to say. And sure, let's go visit Ulbryn to get a catch-up on the riot, then maybe we can go see which of our own perps made it?

>>5488398
> Angry sleep until 1800. [Skip to next assignment.]
>Scream very fucking hard when alone in the dorm room.

“I think I’ll catch up with you.”

Groves nods and exits the dorm. You stay seated. Flayer looks at you for a moment and then stands up.

> “All right, I guess I’ll get some drinks. Come by the Cantina if you wanna talk, or something.”

Flayer walks to the door and gives you one last look before he closes it. You can hear his boots scuff against the floor, the sound getting more and more feint before it dissipates. You take a deep breath, inhaling.

And then you scream as loud as you can, throwing your helmet across the room at the rockcrete wall.

Your heart pounds in your ears, and you stay seated on the bedside, your shaky breath rocking your body. Damn your Drill Abbot, sometimes such outbursts are helpful. Not when a pretty girl strips you out of your armor and asks you what’s on your mind though, nor when your superior officer does something you don’t fully understand and you have the slightest question of his judgement. You fall back on your mattress, hitting your head on the rockcrete wall. Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown your helmet. You curl up along the edge of the wall, your sheets wrinkled and uncomfortable to lay in, especially with all your armor on. You wrench your eyes shut, not feeling the motivation to take it all off.

After a few minutes of earnest effort, sleep still evades you. You get out of bed and fix your greatcoat, walking over to pick your helmet up off the ground.

Let’s go visit Ulbryn…

Stepping out of the elevator and into the Medicae, you quickly find the same reception desk you had visited earlier, staffed by the same Arbite. You approach the desk and expect her to recognize you from a little while ago, but she doesn’t look up from her paper and quill.

> “Yes?”

“I, uh- I was wondering if I could visit my squadmate. Ulbryn Goats?”

> “Oh, yeah. Your friend came by just a minute ago. He’s in the Northwest Quadrant in Room 204.”

“Thanks.”

You have no idea where the Northwest Quadrant is, but you see there are numbers on the doors. After a bit of wandering you find 204 printed in Gothic Numerals and try your luck.

> “Oh, it’s you!”

You see Ulbryn laying in bed, sans armor, his skin pale and his eyes sunk, but he gives you the same worrying grin he always seems to have on. Groves is next to him, and he seems glad you made it.

“Hey, Ulbryn. How are you holding up?”

> “I’m alright, uh-“

He stares at you with a dim expression. Groves nudges his arm.

> “Janus.”

> “Yeah, Janus, I knew that! I’m fine! They’re making me stay the night to monitor my vitals, but I’m seriously alright! I’d get out of bed to prove it, but-“

Ulbryn lifts the sheets off his body to show his torso and legs are bound by leather straps, a lock over each buckle.

“Throne! What do they have you in that for?”

> “’Cause I kept trying to show ‘em I was alright by getting up and out of bed, but the lady said I had to stay put, so they kept me here. They put my arms in them too, but they said they’d let me out of those if I stopped biting.”

> “Sounds like you’re doing good to me! Still, if you were in Intensive Care, it’s probably for the best they keep you here for the night at least.”

Ulbryn shakes his head.

> “Like hell! I wanna get back down to the prison level before the riot’s put down!”

You open your mouth, but you see Groves shaking his head. You close it up.

> “Anyway- Groves was telling me about your guys’ day yesterday. Sounds like fun, shooting them gangers!”

You pull your arm out of your greatcoat to show Ulbryn the bandages beneath your carapace armor.

“Not as fun as you’d think.”

Ulbryn scoffs.

> “They got your arm, huh? Well, what’s the big deal? You got another arm!”

“Yeah, and thank the Emperor I do, else I wouldn’t have anything to shoot that scum with.”

> “Aw, you GOTTA tell me about that! Groves says you put four men down in one clip, and left one injured and crawling for him to clean up!”

“Uh, yeah. Wait, I hit that last guy?”

Groves shrugs.

> “Yeah, I told you when I was carrying you, but- I guess you were fuzzy. The one I killed was bleeding. I imagine if he had fallen down the stairs like those other two he would’ve succumbed to his injuries, but he didn’t, so I finished him off.”

Ulbryn pounds his mattress.

> “Brilliant! Did he fight back? Was he scared?”

> “He looked scared when he saw me, his eyes went wide and he was fumbling with his autopistol, so I killed him.”

> “HAHAHAHA! Good! Was it instant, or did he bleed out?”

> “Uhhm-“

Groves shifts uncomfortably.

“I, uh- I almost bled out. I had a shiv in my arm the whole fight.”

> “Yeah, Groves told me all about that! Shame about Grist killing the bitch!”

“Yeah, I think so t-“

> “YOU should be the one to execute her, right? That’s only fair!”

“I guess so.”

You and Groves trade looks. You chalk up Ulbryn’s manic bloodlust to the drugs they must have him on.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re alright, Ulbryn.”

> “Yeah, you guys too! You gotta tell me all about the mission Redmore takes you on tonight! I hope there’s no fighting, cause I wanna be there when the shooting starts!”

> “From the way Redmore told it, we’re going back to standard training assignments. Patrols, riot control, stuff like that.”

> “Fine by me, as long as I get to be on riot control this time!”

You excuse yourself from the room, leaving Groves and Ulbryn to continue talking. That was probably the longest conversation you’ve had with the guy, and you don’t imagine staying will prompt any deeper discussions. Not quite feeling like a drink yet, you decide it’s been long enough that you should check in on those gangers you arrested on your first day on duty.

As you ride the elevator down to the Penal Transfer Levels, you think more about Redmore executing Tiber’s wife, the sheer nonsensical incompetence to it all. His stern yet encouraging words echo in your mind.

> “If at any point your guts are telling you that something is wrong with my direction, or the direction of any of your Arbitrators, you come straight to ME. I may tell you to shut your mouth and do your job, but more often than not, I’ll have an answer for you.”

Well, you’d LIKE to go talk to him, but you imagine until 1800 when he’s waiting for you all in the conference room, he’ll be pretty hard to find. You’re also not confident he wouldn’t just tell you to stop thinking about it and do your job. Then again, this is the same man who circumvented the chain of command and took you all to Harvestfall to start this investigation in the first place. Would he give up so quickly after such a risky maneuver, career(and skin)-wise?

You just don’t know. The elevator doors open and even through your visor the bright light makes you squint. The floor and walls are all tiled white, the galvanic lights are ubiquitous as they are luminous, and the whole place looks twice as sterile as the Medicae. Once your eyes adjust, you do end up seeing some debris and rubble near the end of the hall, with servitors picking up the larger chunks and loading into wheeled bins. There’s an empty reception area along with a barred divider that looks like an empty checkpoint. As you walk on the white tiled floor, an Arbite flags you down and jogs over to you from a group of Arbites and Mechanicus adepts.

> “Afternoon, Arbitrator! Identify yourself.”

“… Trooper Caskett.”

> “Ah, well-met Trooper. Enforcer Burke, overseeing low-security cleanup. You don’t look like you’re changing out the servitors, so what’s your business?”

“I was hoping I could follow up on some prisoners I detained a few days ago. Gangers, apprehended in Almond Tree Habitation Center.”

The Enforcer sighs and shakes his head.

> “Unfortunately, all non-essential interrogations are prohibited until the Penal Cogitator Array is back to full functionality, even in the low-security ward. Could be weeks.”

“The cogitators aren’t working?”

The Enforcer shakes his head again.

> “During the riot, several nodes that were otherwise inaccessible to prisoners became… accessible. Bastards banged ‘em up in such a way that the whole network’s in a bad way, machine spirits targeting Arbites with the automatic turrets, heavy doors closing with people in the frames, stuff like that. We’ve recalled some of the Mechanicus that helped set it up in the first place to make some sense of it, but right now the Warden’s got the prison detail working double-shifts, everyone else is barred from entering.”

“I see… Would I be able to at least check and see if they’re still alive?”

> “I wish I could help you, Trooper, I really do, but… Until the turrets stop taking pot-shots at the guards, the whole system’s offline. If it were up to me, I’d let you wander around low-sec and see if you recognize anybody, but, Warden’s orders, you see…”

“That’s alright, Enforcer, thank you. I suppose I’ll come back when I can.”

> “That’s the spirit! Who knows, with these Mechanicus back planetside to help us, they might get us working sooner than we think.”

You nod and get back in the elevator, another new frustration festering in your head. With your luck how it’s been lately, you wouldn’t be surprised if those ganger’s cells were ransacked and bloodied when you do finally go down to see them.

You make a stop at the armory, gambling that your demerit has been wiped by now. Still superstitious, you make a point to not visit the same servitor. Flashing your badge at a new one through the reinforced glass, you request an ammo refill.

> “IDENTITY CONFIRMED. TROOPER CASKETT, JANUS. SUBMIT ARMS AND MAGAZINES.”

You unholster your autopistol and put it on the counter, along with all of your magazines. After thinking for a moment, you also put your shock-maul on the counter. With startling efficiency, the servitor’s nimble extremities refill your magazines with stubs, returning the gun and mags to you in a neatly arranged layout.

The servitor then takes your shock-maul and sticks it in a plug on the side of its abdomen. After just a moment, it pulls it out.

> “ERROR. MAUL’S BATTERY ALREADY AT CAPACITY.”

It hands you back your maul, which you look at for an extra moment before holstering it. Did Sabine give it extra charge somehow?

Now fully equipped, you turn back to the elevators. It couldn’t have been more than an hour since you left your dorm.


> Request a familiar. [Servo-Skull, Cyber-Mastiff, Cherub]
> Go to firing range, hone aim, test blessed maul until 1800.
> Go to Cantina, talk with Flayer until 1800.
> [Write in!]

>>5494625
> Request a familiar. [Cyber-Mastiff]
dog get!

… You turn back to the counter.

“Could I get a Cyber-Mastiff?”

The servitor pauses for a second and you hear mechanical clicking. You brace for rejection but the thing just stares at nothing for a few more moments before it looks back at you.

> “GRANTED. ASSIGNING CYBER-MASTIFF FAMILIAR TO TROOPER CASKETT, JANUS. ETA FOR DELIVERY: 3 HOURS.”

You gawk. Seriously??? Was it that simple? You think about all the times a real Cyber-Mastiff would have come in handy this week, and all this time you could have just asked?

“What time is it now???”

> “CURRENT TIME: 1526.”

You scoff, leaning on the counter. That seemed too easy. You hope you didn’t just get yourself into more trouble.

> Go to firing range, hone aim, test blessed maul until 1800.
> Go to Cantina, talk with Flayer until 1800.
> [Write in!]

>>5494729
> Go to firing range, hone aim, test blessed maul until 1800.
Gotta get better

>>5494836
+1

>>5494729
>> Go to firing range, hone aim, test blessed maul until 1800.

It’s been a while since you’ve shot at something that wasn’t actively trying to hurt you. While training at a range doesn’t prepare you for the pressure and adrenaline of an active combat situation, there is still an underlying skill with weapons that must be refined and maintained, that those pressures don’t get the better of you. You take your replenished gear to the elevator.

“Firing range.”

> ““Identity confirmed. Trooper Janus Caskett. Departing to Gunnery Butt and Training Arena.”

What did it call it?

The elevator only closes for a moment, taking you down and opening its doors within 20 seconds. The firing range must only be one or two floors away from the armory. That makes sense, though you wonder why the armory isn’t simply on the same floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, rather than corridors and walls, the entire level seems to be an open space, broken only by the occasional load-bearing pillar with the perimeter of an enormous house. There are partitioned rings for one-on-one fighting, racks that include wooden and genuine mauls and swords, and to the right, the only continuous wall you can see providing a firing range that safely separates discharged projectiles from the melee amenities. There are several Arbites occupying all of these stations, some of them wailing on servitors with their shock-mauls, others testing the drop and spread of specialized Combat Shotgun munitions, and even some Troopers who seem to be receiving shock-maul blows from their Arbitrators, either punitively or for educational purposes. You can’t say you don’t appreciate Redmore’s unorthodoxy from time to time.

First up, you take your shock-maul to one of the unoccupied training servitors, whose eyes light up yellow when you step into the square mark on the floor that it resides inside. Upon drawing your shock-maul, its eyes turn red, and its notably unmodified arms reach out to you as its castor-wheeled base begins rolling it towards you. Fumbling to turn on your maul, you manage to notch it up to 30% when it grabs your arm, locking you in a grip as its free hand begins punching you. Your helmet and armor absorb most of the blows, but your injuries begin throbbing. You return punishment, your greatcoat insulating you from electric shock as sparks make the servitor spasm and twitch. It retains its grip on you even still, and in a fit of desperation, you simply hold the maul against the servitor’s dermis, maintaining an electric connection. The thing lets go of you, its eyes flickering before shutting off, its entire torso hanging limp over its mechanical base. Did you break it?

No, its eyes flicker on, yellow again, and it just watches you. You haven’t holstered your maul yet, so you carefully turn up the charge to 6 before holding it up. As expected, a combat stance triggers the servitor’s red eyes to come on, except this time when it attacks you, one swing is enough to repel it back five or so feet. It wheels over to you again, and when you smack it, it is again repelled five or so feet, its eyes flickering before it resets itself again.

Curiosity seeps into your brain. You dial your maul up to 100% and hold it up, visible arcs projecting from the end of it. The servitors eyes turn red and it rolls towards you. You take a swing, and before it even connects, you can see an equalization bridge the end of your maul with the servitor. Upon impact, you hear an intense crack, and the servitor flies backwards, outside the bounds of the training station. It collides with one of the load-bearing pillars that was behind it, slumping down. There is a visible chunk missing from the servitor’s chest where you made contact, the pallid flesh burned black, with smoke pouring out of it. There is no more light coming from its eyes. The servitor does not reset.

Other nearby Arbites turn and look at you. You give a sheepish grin and walk over to the ruined training dummy, trying to set it upright in a futile attempt to get it working again. Unfortunately, it seems there was some gyroscopic machination at play, because the weight of the servitor’s fleshy-bits seems to tilt it from its wheeled base, its center of gravity always making it fall over. You hear a rugged voice behind you.

> “AY!”

You turn and see a very tall, very wide Arbitrator fuming down at you. His greatcoat is steel-blue rather than the auburn tone your standard greatcoat has. His bade is also pinned over it, rather than affixed to the carapace underneath. It reads “MACKEREL.”

“I- I didn’t mean to-“

> “If I had a frakkin’ Throne each time you Troopers tested live ammunition on the melee dummies, I’d buy me own Paradise World by now.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to break it, I wasn’t using ammo, though!”

> “Oh ye? You expect me to believe you disabled a training servitor with your standard-issue shock maul, then?”

“But that’s exactly what I did! I turned it up to 100% power, which I probably shouldn’t have done, but- I swear, the only other arms I have is my autopistol!”

The Arbite holds his hand out.

> “Let’s see it, then.”

You unholster your autopistol and hold it out for him.

> “Not your pistol, cunt- your Arbite-caliber shock-maul.”

You hand him your shock-maul, and he looks at it with a stern scowl. Staring at the power-ring, he hems and then turns it down to 20%, holding his open, unarmored palm out and whacking himself with your shock-maul.

Nothing happens. There’s a soft clap as the metal collides with his pXVTPNalm.

> “Hrmph. This is definitely one of my shock-mauls, no doubt about that. Looks like you burned out the battery, mate.”

He hands you back the shock-maul, nodding.

> “I’d tell you to take it to a tech-priest to look at, but… looks like you already did. What’s your name, Trooper?”

“Caskett, sir- Janus Caskett.”

He nods.

> “I’m Arbitrator Mackerel, Quartermaster for the Icarian Hall of Justice.”

You nod, a little surprised. You had assumed the armory was fully automated by servitors.

“Good to meet you, sir. Sorry I broke one of your training dummies.”

> “Ahh, nah, yeah, nah, we get ‘em by the shiploads. I’m more worried about the batteries- they’re meant to be rechargeable, so don’t go turnin’ this up to a hundred percent at every opportunity. You’ll kill your marks, and more importantly, waste my batteries.”

You nod.

“Understood, sir.”

> “Alright, alright, you get the message. I’m gonna go see to my Troopers now, make sure you replace the battery before you go out again.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

He turns and walks away, before looking back at you with a cocky grin.

> “And, Caskett? Don’t lose your frakkin’ badge again- that thing’s worth more than your whole squad.”

“I- Yes, sir…”

Mackerel leaves you a little embarrassed, but you straighten yourself up when he walks away. You have two spare batteries in your greatcoat, but now you’re feeling like testing out your autopistol. You walk over to the firing range.

Unlike the range on The Lord’s Carbine, you can see the back wall on this one. Also unlike the range where Redmore had you test your basic Arbite arms, the targets here are more Servitors, instead of metallic cutouts of vague, threatening shapes. Taking up a lane, you draw your autopistol and aim at the servitor 20 meters away from you. You fire one shot, a perfect hit on the target’s chest area. Had it been a living, valid target, you would have struck its heart.

Strangely, when your bullet connected, you could see the hit from all the way at the firing stand. It’s as big as a pinhole, but there’s an orange glow to it that makes it perfectly visible. Firing in bursts, you see more of these glowing orange pinholes accumulate along the arms and chest of the servitor. There must be some kind of added luminescent sublayer just beneath its dermis. Cool! You unload the rest of your mag into it, trying to draw a smiley face, though the initial entry wounds make it a little hard to read.

Conveniently, there’s a big box of loaded Ius magazines right beside you. You eject your spent magazine, and when you do, you hear distant ‘clinking’ from your target, and watch the glowing orange pinholes all close up. Looking again, you can see thousands of spent stubs littering the floor of the firing range.

Reloading your autopistol, you wait patiently until the servitor’s wounds are all closed up, and then fire again. A pair of shots to the head, and then an approximate curved line right beneath them. You miss your mark and the line comes out squiggly, your smiley-servitor ending up looking intoxicated- or amorous.

Your aim is precise enough to put down targets, but not to create art from twenty meters away. A shame, but an acceptable threshold, you figure. You find a box on the side of your firing stand that controls the distance of the servitor from you, and use that to hone your close-range lines of fire and at long range, accuracy. By the time you get tired of the satisfying glowing orange hit-marks, it’s been a few hours. Reloading your Ius, you holster it and return to the elevator.

> Go to Conference Room 147

You told the elevator to take you to the conference hall, but it just dropped you off at the archives. The last time you were here, you spent the rest of your evening in an admittedly non-engaging cogitator user-interface. Walking around, you can see hallways branch out from the open library environment, and walk down the corridor with a big plague that says “CONFERENCE 100-400.”

Room 147 comes up after a minute of brisk walking. You open the door and step in, finding Inspector Redmore, Arbitrators Charles, Cobbler and Grist along with your fellow Troopers Groves and Flayer. For a brief moment you thank the Emperor you aren’t the last to arrive, before you remember that Ulbryn is charged in the Medicae still.

Redmore nods at you.

> “You’re late, Caskett, but not too late. Take a seat.”

The room is, as one would expect from a conference room, a small space with tables and chairs all facing toward a podium. There’s a holo-projector hanging from the ceiling, but you doubt Redmore would care to utilize it. Rather, when you take your seat beside Flayer and Groves, he takes a chair from one of the tables and sits down, not even standing behind the podium.

> “All right… We’ve all had a remarkable past three days, especially our Troopers, who I’m afraid might have come to expect a much more exciting career in the Adeptus Arbites than reality can provide. It’s all my fault, of course, I had volunteered my unit to receive Troopers and then went off on an ill-conceived detour from their standard training on the second day.”

Redmore pauses, and you look at Flayer and Groves. They seem uncomfortable.

> “But, with the prison riot quelled, and no further leads in our Inquisitor-assigned murder case, I think it’s best we get back to basics for now, until a new lead comes up or some new crisis rears its head.”

You clench your gauntlet.

> “Unfortunately, Trooper Ulbryn is hospitalized for the time being, so he’s out of the loop as far as our investigation goes, but I’ll take some time to get him up to speed later. For now, though- you’ve all had your share of liberty for the next standard year, so we’re going to get right back into training tonight. Night operations provide their own unique set of challenges, and though I haven’t been on one for quite some time, it’s always important to keep yourself fresh on all the different situations you’ll find yourself in as an Arbitrator. Any questions?”

> Confront Redmore.
> [Write-In question]
> Stay silent, await new mission specifications.

>>5498528
>Politely ask about the person we apprehended

Your hand shoots up.

“Actually, sir- I had a question about what exactly happened to the woman me and Groves apprehended.”

You feel Groves and Flayer tense up beside you, but you hold your gaze at Redmore, who is staring you down. Even Charles and Cobbler look away, pretending to be fascinated with the dull-colored carpet.

> “Ask away, Caskett…”

“Groves told me she was executed. Why?”

Redmore gestures at Grist.

> “Grist, if you’d be so kind.”

Grist stands up and turns back to you.

> “Dictate 00047-C, Section 89(1) of the Book of Judgement: Any person who assaults an Arbite in the execution of his duty, or a person assisting an Arbite in the execution of his duty, shall be guilty of an offence and liable to summary execution or imprisonment for a term not exceeding thirty standard years or to a fine not exceeding level 5 on the standard scale, or to both.”

Grist sits back down. Redmore nods.

> “Might want to brush up on the Book of Judgement, or at least the Book of Law. That one is one of the oldest Dictates within.”

“But did you even interrogate her…?”

> “Nope! Any more questions? No? Good, let’s get down to our assignment. Charles, lights.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Redmore, Cobbler, Grist, and even Charles are all looking at you like you’re gutting a canid pup right in front of them. You stifle a groan and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. You can feel your pulse in your injuries again- maybe you need some more drugs.

Charles reaches from her chair and presses a light switch on the wall, dimming the lights. At the same time, the holo-projector clicks on, and a yellow, conical construct manifests in between Redmore and the Arbitrators and the Troopers. Looking at it for a second, you recognize it as a map of Hive City Icarus. Redmore presses a button on a tiny controller in his palm and the tiny hive city becomes transparent, with opaque lines forming inside and around the cone, creating a spiderweb of connections between different points in the city, with one line jutting out from the base of the cone before stopping a meter or so away from the rest of the projection.

> “This is the Icarian Maglev Network. As you might be aware, there have been thefts at several wharfs around the city of food shipments and other materials. Originally, the HOJ presumed that the thefts occurred on-sight, but after weeks of patrols with no arrests, our new theory is that the thieves are stealing shipments mid-transit, likely boarding at one of several junctions that the Orbital Spire line goes through.”

As he says “junctions,” several orbs appear in areas where the lines branch off.

> “The Orbital Spire is constantly receiving a variety of shipments from the Adeptus Administratum, the Adeptus Mechanicus, Rogue Traders, and of course, Harvestfall. Hundreds of thousands of shipments come in through the Orbital Spire which the Administratum then distributes to appropriate recipients at all hours of the day and night. The sheer volume of cargo that’s sent through the Maglev Network makes it pretty strange that our bandits are somehow aware of what trains have containers carrying their usual quarry of food and arms- but figuring out how they discriminate between maglevs and the containers therein might be the missing key to solving this food shortage- or at least alleviating it. We will travel to one of these junction stations that will be processing a maglev carrying grain and slab, and accompany that train to its destination to see if any prospective thieves try to empty it. With any luck, they will, and we’ll catch them.”

So you’re going to be on a maglev tonight. It sounds exciting, but you’re having a hard time getting enthusiastic right now.

> “This assignment will be the first time we’re all working together as a team, which is how I generally prefer to operate. Technically, I’m the squad leader on this, but as far as you Troopers are concerned, orders from your Arbitrator mentors are the word of the Emperor himself. We leave immediately. Thank you, Charles.”

The projection dissipates, and Charles hits the lights. Everyone stands up, and you rise from your chair, feeling the anger turn in your stomach. You’re obviously not meant to ask about it further, but as you all file out of the conference room and into the hallway back to the Archives, you can’t help but break rank and walk up beside Redmore. He doesn’t look down at you, but he gives a little sigh.

> “Something else, Caskett?”

> Press him more on the execution.
> Apologize.
> “Uh- this might not be the best time to mention this, but I have a package waiting for me in the Armory…”

>>5500702
>“Uh- this might not be the best time to mention this, but I have a package waiting for me in the Armory…”

“Uh- this might not be the best time to mention this, but I have a package waiting for me in the Armory…”

Redmore doesn’t say anything. You know better than to repeat yourself, but you feel a little uneasy as he continues silently walking the rest of the unit back into the Archives and into an open elevator.

He clears his throat and says,
> “Armory.”

Cobbler looks at him.

> “Sir..?”

> “We’re taking a detour to the Armory. It seems that Caskett has an important delivery that can’t wait.”

Ouch. You start to feel worried about what he’ll say when he sees what you ordered. The elevator carries all seven of you up towards the Armory, and when the doors open, you step out. Redmore gestures at the depot right in front of you, and you sheepishly shake your head.

“Actually- I made the order at a different depot…”

> “Then go to it. Double time, Caskett, you’ve had all day to prepare.”

You flinch a little bit and start jogging down the corridor towards the same depot you put the request in. It’s only a short walk, but thankfully, the curve in the wall obstructs you from Redmore’s view, and delays whatever chewing out you’re sure to receive. Approaching the desk, you knock on the reinforced glass, the servitor powering up.

“Hey- It’s Trooper Caskett, I’m here for my-“

> “IDENTITY CONFIRMED. TROOPER CASKETT, JANUS.”

“Yeah, hi, do you have my-“

> “CONFIRMED ARMORY RECEIPT OF FAMILIAR.”

“I- I don’t have it, yet. I still want it!”

> “CONFIRMED. DISPENSING.”

A panel beside the counter opens a hole in the wall, it looks large enough for you to crawl through, if there wasn’t a metal canister inside being delivered by a conveyer belt. The front of the canister dips onto the floor, scraping against the marble as the conveyer pushes the rest of it out, a metallic clang ringing out as the back of it drops out of the open panel. The “canister,” in full view, looks more like a chrome teardrop now, with laminar plates overlapping from the midsection to the back. At first, you figure that your familiar must be inside it when you hear a feint whirring inside, but then the odd shape begins unfolding with mechanical clicking.

Four limbs unfold from the base like landing gear, feeling around the smooth marble floor as serrated digits unsheathe from the pentagonal front feet. On the(much larger) back limbs, you can briefly see thick springs coiled around a hydraulic heel before curved lames slide down from the thigh to obscure them, the back feet elongated and slender, with serrated claws of their own that include a larger spur near the foot joint. When all four limbs have fully activated, they press into the marble with a robotic intention that contrasts greatly with the almost-infantile feeling motions they performed during startup, lifting the entire chassis up off the ground.

A plate on the front of the increasingly misdescriptive teardrop slides down, covering the already-armored breast between the two front joints. A fully-chrome head pops out of the hole, a triangular pyramid snout with vents where the nostrils might be on its biological counterpart the first thing you notice about it. The posterior of the head is a box-like cranium, two parallel slits where each eye ought to be, angled down towards the center of the head like a scowl. The snout suddenly breaks open in the middle, revealing a terrifying maw of thick, metallic teeth that stand in at least three rows behind the exterior set. Inside the thing’s mouth, you see the first indication this machine has any biological components, a pink tongue and fleshy throat that is obscured with a loud snap as the jaw closes with overwhelming force.

> “SUBMIT HANDLER SAMPLE.”

You’re torn from your fixation on this cybernetic hellhound by the servitor, who looks almost naturally-occurring after witnessing your order’s startup process. Not understanding what you’re supposed to do, you take your gauntlet off your hand on your bad arm, expecting some kind of painful DNA extraction. The thing presses its snout into your hand, and you wince your eyes shut when the jaw opens ever so slightly…

> “HANDER IMPRINT CONFIRMED.”

Your eyes open. The dog sits on the marble floor and looks up at you, tilting its head. At the base of the cybernetic canid, a segmented tail has sprouted. It’s wagging.

Familiar Acquired: Icarus-Pattern Adeptus Arbites Cyber Mastiff!

> What’s his name?

>>5501567
Marker
Named after the good boy.

>>5501567
Marker Secondus (MK II)

Hope you guys all had a good holiday!

You think for a moment.

“Marker Secundus.”

> “CONFIRMED. DESIGNATION: MARKER SECUNDUS.”

“MK II for short.”

The servitor does not respond. Instead, it slides a leaflet through the window. You pick it up and look at the heading.

NOTA MANDATUM
Icarus-Pattern Adeptus Arbites Cyber Mastiff

You fold it and put it in your greatcoat, not wanting to delay Redmore and company any further. You start walking away from the armory back towards the elevator, but when you turn back, MK II is still sitting. Sincerely hoping you don’t have to open the manual to learn how to get it to come along, you try a basic verbal command.

“Come along, MK II.”

Marker stands up and starts trotting towards you, a soft mechanical whir of his shoulder motors as he falls into step behind you. That was easy enough! You definitely ought to look at that manual at some point, but right now you’re worried about rounding the corridor and seeing what Redmore thinks of your new pooch.

Upon arriving at the elevator, you find it still open and still containing all of your squad, minus Ulbryn. Flayer’s jaw drops. Groves hems. Grist and Charles look down at it while Cobbler shakes his head. Redmore’s expression hasn’t changed since you left it, and instead of your new familiar, he looks down at you.

> “Anything else, Trooper?”

“No, sir.”

> “All right, let’s get moving. We’re late.”

You step into the elevator, and Marker follows you in. You see him tilt his head and sniff at your squadmates. Grist and Charles hold their hand out, and Flayer shrinks up against the wall, but everyone else ignores it. You hear Cobbler grumble into Redmore’s ear,
> “How did a TROOPER get approved for a familiar?”

Redmore doesn’t say anything. The elevator doors open and you’re back in the reception hall, walking past the cantina and towards the landing platforms outside. It’s dark out, but the hive city’s just as loud as it always is, and through the green smog you can see bright lights pierce the haze above and below you. On the closest platform, there’s an idling Valkyrie, the same one that Redmore took you off-planet with. Its bay doors are open, and without a word, all of you climb on board, Marker hopping up from the platform into the ship with a surprising grace that confounds his clunky, boxy appearance. They close up and you feel the flier lift off. Redmore opens the door to the cockpit and sticks his head in. Groves shuffles next to you and admires Marker.

> “Nice dog. Shoulda taken the bet, you’d have him and my servo-skull.”

Groves holds his greatcoat open enough that you can see a skull poking out of his inner pocket. Its mechanical components look limited, there isn’t even an arm.

“Did you pick it out of the morgue? Where are its components?”

> “It’s an information-gathering servo-skull. It can record audio and play it back, send messages, you name it. You don’t need a giant mechadendrite or an auspex antenna to record audio, and besides, they wouldn’t give me one that did anything else- so how did YOU get this beast, Caskett?”

“I just asked, and was approved. Maybe they think I’m more qualified than you.”

> “Har-har. I’d just be worried about how it happened, is all. Not like the Arbites to hand out hardware capriciously.”

You recall being bent over the receptionist desk earlier today for asking a servitor for a new badge. Maybe Groves is right.

“Well, I’ve already got him, so we’ll see I guess.”

Redmore leans back from the cockpit door, closing it.

> “Well, I guess there’s eight of us after all. Since it’s your canid, Caskett, he’ll go with you, but it better not cause any problems tonight, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

> “Good. What are we calling it?”

> “Marker Secundus, sir. MK II for short.”

Charles makes a soft “aww,” prompting Redmore to look at her.

> “MK II it is. I imagine it got acquainted enough with our distinctive scents in the elevator, and we’ve all got our badges on, so it knows the order around here. Keep it in Passive State for now, just in case.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, not knowing what Passive State means.

> “> “All right, we’re en route to the rail junction we’ll be boarding from. The train has thirty-six cars not including the engine and caboose, so we’ll be splitting into three teams and taking responsibility for twelve cars each. Everyone following so far?”

Nobody says anything.

> “Two of us will start at the engine at the front, three will be posted in the middle cargo car, and two will be posted in the rear car, watching our backs. Conventional wisdom says it’s the rear of a train that’s easiest to rob, but if criminals HAVE been hitting the trains, we have no idea how they’ve been pulling it off, so stay alert no matter what part of the train you’re on. Cobbler, if you’d be so kind as to let everyone know what team they’ll be on.”

Everyone looks at Cobbler. He opens his mouth.

ENGINE TEAM: Take point at the front of the maglev with Redmore, patrol the front 12 cargo cars. You might get stuck staring at the instruments in the engine car, but then again there should be a conductor there as well.

MIDDLE TEAM: Get stuck in between Charles and Grist, and some other Trooper. Thirty-six cars stuffed to the brim with slab and grain. It’s not as exciting as the engine room, but those 12 cars in the middle contain the bulk of the shipment.

REAR TEAM: Hang back with Cobbler at the caboose. Conventional wisdom says the back of the train is the easiest to rob, but with no actual evidence the trains are where the robberies take place, all bets are off.

>>5510298
>MIDDLE TEAM: Get stuck in between Charles and Grist, and some other Trooper. Thirty-six cars stuffed to the brim with slab and grain. It’s not as exciting as the engine room, but those 12 cars in the middle contain the bulk of the shipment.
We can sniff out the trouble and respond to attacks on both sides or just stay put in case it's a distraction.

>>5510623
Ditto, MK2 is a good boy, can't wait until we can upgrade him, also can't wait till we sic him on some Heretic or Xenos

> “Me and Groves will take the Engine car. Cobbler, you’re on the rear team. Charles, Grist, you’re in the middle with Flayer and Caskett.”

You feel the cabin dip suddenly, and then level out. Then the bay doors open, and instead of up in the air, the Valkyrie is touched down on another landing platform.

> “All right, get moving. Our train’s nearly here.”

The team pours out of the Valkyrie, MK II hopping out and opening his maw. You’re not sure what he’s doing, but it looks kind of like a dog sniffing the air, minus the subtle twitching of the nose. You take your own look at the environment, and find yourself standing on a platform suspended amongst several, many above and beneath you, the complex stretching up and down for at least a whole level. Extremely luminous galvanic lights cut through the haze to illuminate the platforms, each of which vary in size and function judging from the equipment and machinery that hang on the edges.
Most of the platforms sit right next to the magrails, which slither up and down from different lines, snaking alongside several different platforms until they all culminate at a giant turntable in the center of the complex. The turntable, a giant disc that looks to be made of fascium, contains a giant spiderweb of magrails that intersect and branch out again within its approximate radius of three hundred yards.

A thundering roar penetrates even your Arbite helm’s decibel threshold dampeners. It’s from above, a maglev rail suspended twenty feet above your head quakes with a train rolling through it, causing the platform you’re standing on to shake. An ear-piercing shriek rings out as the train engages its breaks, raining sparks down through the gaps in between platforms. The gargantuan cars finally slow to a halt only a couple dozen feet before the rail cuts off into nothing, a seemingly dead-end in the tracks that’s suspended over the turntable. A much lower-pitched, but still very loud humming rings out from beneath the turntable, and you see the single pillar that supports its center start to elongate. It’s a hydraulic lift, filling in for the one axis that isn’t accessible by the magrail spaghetti junction. The turntable slowly rises until its rails are obscured by its bottom.

> “That our train?”
Groves asks excitedly, walking to the edge of the platform and watching the turntable ascend.

> “Sure is. It’ll be transferred to this line in about 10 minutes, so you all better get moving.”

Groves looks back at Redmore.

> “Get moving where, sir?”

Redmore scoffs.

> “The engine car’s stopping here for us, Trooper, but the rest of the team need to be boarding at their assigned spots. Cobbler, Grist, you remember which platforms, right?”

> “Yessir.”
Grist responds, beckoning you and Flayer to follow him as he climbs onto a catwalk that bridges your platform with another. MK II trots alongside you, and Charles falls into step along with you two while Groves attempts to follow along before Redmore grabs his shoulder.

> “Oh, right- sorry sir, I forgot.”

> “Not a problem, Trooper. Why don’t you walk them to their platform and then come back when you’ve confirmed they’ve loaded up?”

> “Sir? Aren’t we on the clock here?”

> “We are, so I suggest you double-time it back, Trooper.”

> “… Yes, sir.”

Groves climbs up the catwalk steps behind you, looking confused. You’re confused too- is Redmore just making him leg it to punish him for momentarily forgetting his team? Another thing- Cobbler, who’s got the longest walk out of all of you, being the single rear team member, is staying put beside Redmore. The pair watch as all of you walk the narrow catwalk to the next platform, and when you’re out of earshot, they walk back towards the Valkyrie.

“Are Redmore and Cobbler leaving?”

> “Eyes ahead, Janus! Don’t want to fall!”
Charles’s voice sounds cheery enough, but you can’t help but detect an implicit warning.

You traverse two more catwalks before Grist says you’ve all arrived. Groves immediately turns and tries to run all the way back to Redmore’s platform, but Grist stops him.

> “What? I need to get back before the maglev gets here!”

> “Hold tight for a sec, Trooper.”

The Valkyrie flies over your heads, and you see it touch down a couple platforms down the line.

> “That was ours! What the hell is going on?!”

Groves protests, but Grist pats him and gives him a light shove towards the catwalk.

> “All right, Trooper. Double-time, train’s almost here.”

Groves and you exchange a confused look before he turns and dashes up the catwalk steps, his boots clanging against the metal walkway. You think about asking Grist and Charles what all of that was about, but you haven’t been succeeding in your lines of questioning with your superiors lately. You wait for a few more minutes, Flayer sitting on some pallets, Grist crossing his arms and staying still, and Charles stroking MK II’s angular snout. The turntable descends to your level, bringing your train with it. The engine roars to life, but departing the turntable at a much more reasonable speed, its volume is likewise much less extreme. The front of the train chugs past you, pulling much larger, bulkier cars in tow until one of them hisses to a stop right in front of your platform.

> “All aboard!”
Charles says, stepping off the platform and onto the massive coupler between cars, large enough for two people to walk in lockstep across without fear of losing balance. She opens a door and steps inside, and you, Flayer, and Grist join her, with Marker hopping up and stepping inside.

The interior of the car is exactly what you’d expect from a cargo train carrying rations. Boxes with the mark of the Administratum stacked up on each other up to the ceiling, with only narrow spaces for human occupants to squeeze through. Unlike the high-powered galvanic lights that lit up the junction, there’s only a few halogenic lights in the interior, washing over the car with a dim, piss-yellow hue.

You hear a crackling, and a voice appears over your head.

> “Hello, Arbitrators. My name is Chelsea Foghorn, I’m the conductor for the train this evening. I have proudly served the good people of Icarus and my Emperor for twenty-six standard years. You’ve just boarded on the 26th Junction in the Icaruan Rail Network, and will be accompanying this ration delivery to the 2nd District Wharf and Distribution Centre. Our journey will take us over 30 miles of track, where we will make almost a ½ circumference of Hive City Icarus! Three-quarters through our run, we will be travelling over a waste canal with heavy radiation, so I’ll give you ample warning to secure yourself in a car, any of which will provide Mechanicus-rated protection.”

The intercom buzzes and you hear a more familiar voice, Redmore’s take over.

> “I’ll assume you’re all in position by now, so good luck, and keep your eyes peeled. I’m told every odd car has an intercom panel within, so if you need backup, look for one of them.”

You hear the receiver click, and after a few more moments, you can feel the train start to move. Grist, Charles, and Flayer all look around idly, and MK II just sits, looking up at you.

>What’s the first thing you should do, guarding a train’s contents?

>>5515381
Do a full inspection of the carriage, then see about locking windows and doors, also just be prepared for a firefight in case

>>5515468
+1

You figure it would be a good idea to open up the boxes and make sure that the cargo the train’s hauling hasn’t already been stolen. Walking up to a wooden box, you try to open up the lid to no avail. Grist approaches you.

> “Checking the cargo? Good man.”

“Yeah, but- can’t get the damn thing open.”

You look at the box closer, and find it’s nailed shut. Grist makes the same discovery when he tries, and shrugs.

> “Well, they’ve got Administratum seals, so we can be sure they contained rations when they were nailed shut. Just to be safe though…”

Grist picks up MK II’s tail and jams it under the lid. MK II looks at Grist passively as he uses his tail to pry the lid off.

> “There-! Thanks, uh, Marker.”

Grist managed to pry the lid up enough that he can slip his fingers underneath, getting enough leverage to pull the rest of the nails up. They aren’t very big, only designed to keep the container shut during transit. Charles and Flayer join you as you peer into the box.

It's just a box filled to the very brim with granulated wheat. Certified grain ration, enough for probably 50 or so ration packs, though eyeballing volumes were never your strongsuit.

> “We should do this for a handful of random boxes in each of our cars. Any more, and the Administratum Adepts receiving these will throw a fit. Well… They’ll probably still be angry that we opened a few up, but we’re conducting an investigation here.”

“While we’re at it, we should see about securing the doors to this train.”

The cargo car doesn’t have any windows in it, but it does have doors on either end that allow access up and down the train. Presumably due to the extremely high speed of the train, there aren’t any locks on the doors. Grist shrugs.

> “Might be tricky, that. This cargo’s not the type to leave sitting in a car at the depot, only locks that guard these boxes are waiting for it at the wharf. We can ask the conductor if there are any sitting around, but let’s check some boxes out first.”

> “Are you gonna use poor Marker’s tail to open up every box?”

Charles laughs and pets Marker.

> “Not if we can find some crowbars or something that can open these up. Alright, maybe we should message the conductor after all.”

Flayer pipes up,
> “I have a knife.”

Grist turns to Flayer.
> “Oh yeah? That issued to you from the armory?”

Flayer shakes his head.
> “No, I kept it from Schola. It’s a pretty good knife.”

Grist sighs.
> “So you stole it from your Schola’s armory. You know, Ulbryn smuggled a dagger from Schola and Redmore made him toss it.”

Flayer walks over to another box and slides the blade under the lid, popping the corner nails out and then lifting the rest out. There’s more grain inside, filled to the brim.

> “Should I throw it off the train, then?”

> “All right, smartass, just don’t flaunt it at the HOJ. Let’s split up between our 12 cars and use the Mastiff’s tail and your knife to check boxes out. Obviously, you’ll use your knife and Caskett can use his Mastiff’s tail, so Charles, who do you want to-“

> “I’LL GO WITH JANUS AND HIS DOG!”

> “… Yeah, alright. Let’s go, Flayer. Meet back here when you’re done, we’ll figure out a patrol pattern.”

Grist sighs and walks to the door you entered through, heading towards the back of the train. Charles beams down at you and Marker. Getting approved for a mastiff is already paying off, it seems.

You and Charles pop open two more boxes, both filled with grain to the very top. Satisfied, you head towards the other door, heading in the direction of the engine. Upon opening the door, you’re battered with the deafening roar of the engine, the infernal humming of the maglev propulsion, and an apparent wind of 300 miles per hour. That thick coupling looks a lot less inviting now that the train’s moving, and you hold onto the doorframe for support as the rapidly-passing cityscape hypnotizes you for a moment.

> “Scared, trooper?”

You can hear Charles’s voice right next to your ear. She’s leaned down to your shoulder. Fuck.

> “Scared? Me? Watch this!”
> “It’s just- a little faster than I imagined.”

>>5517678
>write in: Of course I am only dead men are not scared of anything.

>>5518438
Ditto, Bravery is is the conquest of Fear

A profound feeling comes over you, and you share it with Charles.

“Of course I’m scared. Only dead men aren’t afraid of anything.”

A regrettable feeling of embarrassment comes over you, and you can’t bear to look back at Charles’s reaction to your words. You use this feeling as a springboard and walk out onto the coupling, reaching for the handles next to the door on the car in front of you. With your free hand, you shakily pull the handle down and push the door open. Every ounce of your being screams at you to jump inside to the safety of the car, but you suppress it. Still holding onto the handle, you turn back and hold your hand out for Charles. Smiling, she takes your hand, and you pull her into the other car.

Not bad, Caskett.

Marker waits until you and Charles are in the next car before trotting across the coupling. You close the door behind you, and only then do you notice you’re still holding Charles’s hand. Confidence high after such a slick maneuver, you give her hand a squeeze before letting go.

“All right, let’s check out these boxes.”

Your engorged confidence deflates, and you can’t bear to look at Charles again, but you swear on Holy Terra that there was an impressed quirk in her grin when you helped her across, and decide to hold onto that rather than dreading any and every possible scenario where she thinks you’re embarrassing yourself. Approaching a box that happens to be sitting by itself, you call MK II over and try to grab his tail. Instead, he flicks his tail away from you and bites down on the lid, yanking it open with ease to reveal yet another crate stocked to the brim with grain.

“Good boy!”

Charles is equally impressed with Marker, and gets on her tiptoes to tap a box that’s stacked just high enough that she can only reach the bottom with her hand. Marker stands on his hind legs and climbs the rack the boxes are stacked on, biting the lid and opening it up.

> “Clever little hound, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s learning fast! Only problem is we can’t see into the box. Down, boy.”

> “Oh, right. Oops!”

Marker hops down and returns to his four-legged posture. Carefully, you set your boot on his back, and he adjusts his legs to make his spine parallel with the ground, making it easier for you to stand up on top of him so that you can look into the other box. Full of grain to the very top, once again. You step off of him and pat him on the snout.

“Good boy, MK II!”

He makes a high-pitched whine that almost sounds organic.

> “So you named him “MK II after the Marker from Harvestfall?”

“Yeah, it seemed appropriate.”

> “That’s so cute, Janus! I wanted a cyber-mastiff when I was a Trooper, but Redmore wouldn’t hear it. How’d you convince him to let you get one?”

“Uhm, I didn’t. I just asked the armory servitor for one and got approved.”

> “That’s odd. Troopers definitely can’t get mastiffs on their own without their CO’s approval. Maybe the prison riot provided special dispensation for materiel requests?”

“Maybe. I thought for sure Redmore would make me take him back, but I’m glad he’s tolerating it, at least.”

> “Me too! I love animals, even the ones with metal bits.”

You grin and nod, checking two more boxes from random areas and verifying they’re also filled. When the time comes to cross cars again, you’re much less hesitant, wanting to take Charles’s hand again. She lets you, and the three of you proceed to the next car. More opening boxes, more grain, the next car, holding Charles’s hand again. Three down, three to go. The conversation between you has died, and you both quietly point out boxes for Marker to open up.

> “About that night on the Inquisitor’s voidship…”
> “I’m glad you made it through the riot alright.”
> Keep it professional.

>>5519927
>"I’m glad you made it through the riot alright.”
Some information about this and if the conversation goes really well.
> “About that night on the Inquisitor’s voidship…”

“I’m glad you made it through the riot alright.”

You turn back to Charles as Marker hops up and opens another box. Charles waves her hand dismissively.

> “Aw, it wasn’t all that horrible. By the time we had gotten back to the HOJ the Proctor teams had already pushed the prisoners from High-Sec Level II down to XV. We were hanging out behind the wall of suppression shields, just taking pot-shots at any prisoners who were throwing stuff over the line.”

You look in the box Marker opened. Rather than grain, this one is full of vacuum-packaged meat slabs. You can see print on the packaging that indicates these slabs originated on Harvestfall.

“Still, though… With what happened to Ulbryn…”

> “Ulbryn charging past the line was… unfortunate. We tried to stop him, but we got stopped ourselves by the Marshal and her bodyguards, and had to helplessly watch Ulbryn lose his melee with the bastards and get dragged into the primary stairwell. I thought the Marshal was just gonna let him get dragged, which- I love Ulbryn of course- but would be fair enough. She had the Proctors lob gas grenades into the stairwell, though, and we were able to collect him in pretty good shape, albeit spasming from the gas.”

“How did the riot even start? Do you know?”

> “Well, what I can tell you is that the deeper into the prison you go, the less security there is- or at least, the less MANNED security. There are turrets with crowd-foam, rubber stubs, all the way up to live ammunition that’s supposed to keep the high-maintenance prisoners in check. At some point, the buggers realized the servitors controlling the guns had a blind spot, and were able to shimmy their way up the walls and detach the guns for themselves.”

“Wait- they had ARMS?”

> “Wasn’t the first time a penal backwards-engineered the gun out of a turret trained on him, that’s for sure. Definitely the first time they were organized enough to do it to every turret within a ten-minute window on twenty floors.”

“Throne… How many turrets to a floor?”

> “Six or seven, I’m not too sure. The servitors are programmed to report any unauthorized tampering to the Chasteners and their Warden, but I imagine they took a pause when they saw how many guns got pulled out of the walls on their cogitator.”
“Are prisoners allowed to walk between floors?”

> “No. They get sent further down the more severe their crimes are, so naturally they aren’t allowed to interact with “softer” or “harder” criminals. After the low-security floors, there’s only one way up or down, and that’s the primary stairwell, locked away from the floor with two doors and a gate, every level.”

“That’s inconceivable, then... How did they organize with different prisoners?”

> “I’m sure the Chasteners are pulling fingernails and asking the ones they got alive that very same question. Off the top of my head, I can imagine some ganger forming the plan on the outside and then sending a bunch of men to get arrested for varying crimes, getting locked up with a countdown in their heads that would give them plenty of time to organize local support by floor. The alternative solutions are… much more troubling to think about.”

“However it happened, it took a lot of planning. That must be why they called other Arbitrators besides Proctors off the streets.

> “And out of orbit, too.”

Charles gives you a smirk. You look up at her.

“Speaking of that…”

Charles taps another box for Marker to open.

“That time we spent together up there, uhm… Did I drop the ball?”

> “Pardon me?”

“I mean… Did you ask me to stay with you for any particular reason?”

> “You seemed a little shaken from the Warp jump. I thought it would help you feel a little safer. You obviously felt pretty safe when we got there, no?”

Your stomach drops.

“I- I feel embarrassed at having lost control. I think- I think that’s not what you intended when you invited me.”

Charles sighs and walks past you to another crate, giving your pauldron a nudge on the way.

> “I wouldn’t dwell on it, Janus. I’m certainly not.”
You watch her pat Marker on the head and have him open up the last box. When she confirms it’s full, she turns back to you with a grin.

> “You gonna help me cross the cars some more, or are you gonna keep dwelling?”

You shake your head and walk over to the door, grinning yourself. You just pull the handle down when the intercom panel beside the door beeps and you hear Cobbler’s gruff voice.

> “Empty boxes in Car 29! I repeat, there are empty boxes in car 29! Grist, Charles, get back to car 29!”

You and Charles look at each other. Redmore’s voice crackles over the intercom.

> “Confirmed, Cobbler- We are going too fast for anyone to disembark- if somebody’s unloading it then they’re still on the train!”

When you aren’t stopping to check boxes, it’s actually much faster moving between cars. When you make it to car 29, you see Cobbler standing in the middle with Grist and Flayer already having made it, as expected. On the ground in front of Cobbler’s boots is an empty box identical to the ones you’ve been opening, except that instead of being filled with grain, there’s only a little bit at the bottom. Several more boxes in a similar state are littered on the walkway in the car, bits of grain littering the ground.

Cobbler nods.

> “Good, there you two are. Er- three. Anyway, we’re going to do a sweep of all the cars, no more sticking to the 12 we were assigned. Any box that looks big enough to fit a human, check it, but otherwise, stop checking boxes for now. Get your weapons ready.”

Charles, Grist, and Flayer all unholster their pistols. Cobbler’s is already out.

> “Caskett, you take point with that dog.”

> “Yes, sir!”
> “Before we go… [write in]”

>>5526364
> “Before we go… Which direction is the most likely they went?"