41k RPG: In Transit

[Pcm979]

(This covers the five month journey skipped during the main RPG. It will hopefully give background information and character development that the main story doesn't have time for. Deleted scenes, if you will.)

[Pcm979]

It was dinner time. Apparently Novum insisted they all eat at the same table, for some reason even he'd probably forgotten.

Not that it was unpleasant. The food was good, served by gold-plated Servitors. The atmosphere was convivial, if subdued. These were people who had worked together for decades; Words often weren't required.

Cantor sat with her chin slightly bowed, eating quietly. Her upbringing was obvious, as she ate slowly, with small bites, and never allowed the food to touch her lips.

By her posture and the attention she paid to them, it wouldn't even be obvious that the young Interrogator was in the same room.

A tinkling laugh echoed down the table; Lillith, the Sororitas, was responding to some joke Gyllia made. Anghel passed a bread basket an impressive distance, and Deuce carefully separated his food into itemised portions. Pater ate and drank almost nothing, holding a small conversation with the Vindicare.

Joritu plucked a fruit from a basket and cursed as her talons sunk into it, juice dribbling onto the table. "Sorry." She said quickly, wiping her hand. "I shouldn't blaspheme."

Cantor offered the woman her napkin, as she wasn't needing it. She ate with the same precision she devoted to any other task.

"Thanks." Joritu said, taking it and carefully cleaning her augmetics. A servitor rolled over and took her plate with a brief burble in machine code.

"So." Deuce addressed Cantor softly, not disturbing the others. "You're green, I hear." He leaned back in his chair, spearing a portion of meat on his knife. "Ever used a gun?"

"Never on anything but a training range," she said. She'd gone with her father a few times in a bizarre parody of family bonding. She took a sip of her drink and eyed the man, her visor going clear as she studied him a bit.

He stared back with those startling violet eyes. If she'd ever seen a predator in its natural element, she'd recognise it in him. The Vindicare temple taught a man how to stay still for weeks without eating or drinking, just to line up a headshot. He slouched everywhere, but there was a subtle tension that indicated he was ready to move anytime, anywhere. And kill anyone.

"It looks like I'll have you for some time on the Range, then." He said finally, sucking the meat off his knife like a spit. At least he waited until he'd finished chewing to continue. "Burning 'Nids with your mind is just great, but when it really matters, you only need a single bullet." He waved the knife at Joritu negligently. "She can tell you."

"Deuce is the best shot I've ever seen." Joritu attested quietly, not wanting to intrude. "Throne, he taught me how to hit the broad side of a tank, so he's pretty good just there." A nervous laugh.

Deuce smiled lazily and ruffled her hair with his free hand. "That's my girl." He said affectionately.

Cantor smiled and said, "I'm looking forward to it."

Because in all honesty, she was nervous, as difficult as it was to gauge. Pater, no doubt, could sense it from a mile away, but most seemed to think of the young woman as uncrackable.

If only.

At the other end of the table, Gyllia stopped her conversation with Lillith and raised a hand to her ear. After a moment, she sighed: "Yes, of course. I'll be right down." She rolled her eyes and muttered "Give me strength, Omnisshia." She looked back across the table and stood up, handling her chair adroitly with her mechadendrites. "I'm sorry, but Magos Kell needs me to look at something." Pater nodded and sipped minutely from a glass of water.

Lillith turned and snagged Deuce with a hand on his shoulder. She was at the far end of the table, away from Pater and Théo; Even with her collar on, her Pariah status gave Psykers an odd, queasy feeling when they were near her.

The girl watched them quietly, finishing her meal without ceremony, and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. Although she had many questions, it wasn't her place to interrupt. That was how things had always been, and losing that method of thinking would take time.

A servitor leaned over her shoulder and hefted her plates and cutlery, burbling something unintelligible as it zoomed off on polished ball bearings.

The group began to disperse, with Deuce and Lillith leaving together. Joritu pestered the Inquisitor for a few minutes, but eventually left too, flashing a smile in Cantor's direction before exiting. Eventually, it was just Pater, Anghel and Théo left in the room.

[SirNitram]

(This covers the five month journey skipped during the main RPG. It will hopefully give background information and character development that the main story doesn;t have time for. Deleted scenes, if you will.)

(Like the musical number on the Eternal Will?)

[Pcm979]

Pater looked at her over his hardly-touched glass of water. "Come closer." He commanded, pulling a nearby chair out.

Théo raised her chin. "Me, sir?" she asked.

"Yes." He confirmed, and risked what he was reliably informed was a joke: "I am not in the habit of requesting my Servitors sit at the table."

She smiled a bit, or at least the best she did in public, and stood, pushing in her chair and seating herself beside him with obedient posture.

He steepled his fingers and examined her over them. "You are still used to the strict atmosphere of the Schola. It is not so here. If you have questions, ask them. If you have problems, they should be addressed. If you would prefer to confide in someone not obviously your superior, Anghel Mandruleanu is a good place to start." The rake-thin abhuman smiled thinly and adjusted himself with a whir of servos.

"I assure you that I don't have any problems," she said, "with my accommodations or our mission."

She nodded in Anghel's direction. "Thank you for the offer," she said with again, that tight-lipped half-smile. "We have long months ahead of us and I'm sure we'll talk."

She looked back to Pater.

"I do have one question, sir. In regard to the training mentioned earlier... I was not outfitted for a combat operation, as I wasn't sure what the purpose of my visit was, and while the majority of my armour is aboard, my weapons aren't."

Pater nodded. "Gyllia can attend to your equipment requirements. We have an extensive fabrication system on board."

She nodded. "Thank you. I hadn't expanded much beyond force rod training at the Schola, but it looks as though I'll be gaining some experience with firearms now." She sipped her water.

"We have ample time to determine your combat strengths and weaknesses." Pater said. "However, I suggest you do not simply cleave to what others determine would be best; The most important input in your training is your own."

She nodded. "Well said," she agreed. "Once I've had the opportunity to determine what feels intuitive, I have a feeling it won't be difficult to determine at least what wouldn't work." She chuckled a bit. Wow, two jokes in one night.

They were indeed scaling the heady heights of humour. Any more and there might be an accident. Pater nodded and asked if she had any further questions.

"Ah, I did have one, sir," she said, glad he'd reminded her. "Would there be an area of the ship where I might practice my... Abilities without interfering with anyone's duties?"

He nodded again. "The ship is equipped with combat training facilities for all eventualities; Psychic training is merely an aspect. Anghel can supply you with directions. Is that all?"

Yes," she said, "thank you."

Because she really needed to unwind, she'd ask Anghel as soon as possible about that. She glanced over to the man and raised her eyebrows.

Pater nodded once more and left, a Servo-Skull buzzing around his head.

Anghel smiled and fished a dataslate out of a deep pocket. "The ship's layout is rather confusing at first." He commented as he fiddled with the settings. "It's evolved organically over... Three and a half decades, now. But you'll get used to it. Everyone does." He reached a tremendously long arm over the table and handed it to her. "I've marked the training facilities on the map. You'll need to hunt up Gyllia to get your equipment in order; She's probably in one of the fabricatorums." He shook his head. "Better her than me. You'll want an escort the first time you go through there."

"Oh?" she asked, canting her head toward him.

He nodded, a procedure which looked perilous on him. "Most of the Techpriests can see in the dark and climb walls, so they don't usually bother with little things like proper lighting or safety procedures." He chuckled. "Besides, the whole thing gives me the creeps. Oh, they say they're liberal Mechanicus and there's a logical explanation for how all their equipment works, but it might as well be sorcery to me. Anyway, if you need to go through there, take a Skull. Or better still, Joritu. She knows this place better than most of the Priests."

She nodded. "Joritu showed me the librarium earlier; she and I got on well. I'll see if she has a free moment to show me."

As she spoke, she adjusted her robes, allowing the bruises on her neck some room to breathe. The sensation of not wearing the heavy collar was still entirely alien to Théo, and it was evident to Anghel by the way she constantly skimmed her fingers across her neck.

He noticed, but didn't feel it was his place to comment. "She's a nice girl." He agreed. "You'll probably find her in her room, just down the hall." He slapped his palms on the table and pushed himself up, ducking underneath a chandelier.

"Now, if you don't mind, I've got to sort out some Astropathic messages. If you need help, just grab a Skull." And with that, he loped off.

She nodded and sat for a moment, finishing off her water as she considered a few things. So far, the voyage had been... oddly pleasant. Cantor stood and brushed off her robes, sliding the visor up onto her forehead as she adjusted her hair.

Then she headed for Joritu's room.

[Pcm979]

Joritu's room was the closest to the Inquisitor's chambers, in case he had urgent need of medical attention. When Théo arrived, Joritu was busy shooing a tabby cat out of her room. It trotted off indignantly, brushing against Théo's leg on the way down the corridor.

"Oh, hello." Joritu said, looking up. "Lillith has a thing for cats." She explained.

She bent and scratched the cat on the head, smiling a bit. In her amusement, she forgot about replacing the visor, and when she glanced up, Joritu would notice that her eyes were striking, almost frightening. It was an uncommon but documented Terran defect, but that didn't mean it didn't make even Cantor herself anxious.

"That's fine," she said with a smile. "I'll tell her I don't mind them."

"Well, I do." Joritu laughed, scratching the cat with a shoe. "They're always getting into my bottles." She glanced at Théo's eyes with clinical interest, but didn't linger. It wasn't that they scared or upset her; Gazing a Genestealer in the eyes was far more disturbing. It was merely that she didn't want to make an issue out of them.

"So, what can I help you with?" She asked, moving back into her room and gesturing for Théo to follow.

The girl followed and replaced her visor after realising what she'd done. She didn't mention it, however.

"I was wondering if you might show me to the combat facilities," she said.

All of the rooms were built along the same lines, with a desk, bed, wardrobe recessed into the wall and a Cogitator in a niche. An ablutions chamber led off near the entrance. Joritu's was filled with portable medical equipment and a few momentos, including an ancient-looking stuffed toy bear.

"Of course. I probably need some time on the range, too." Joritu said, and walking over to her desk, hefted two silver bolt pistols and holstered them at her sides. Drawing her hood over her head, she turned and gestured for the door before sliding her arms back into her robes. "It's just this way." She said, almost instantly leading Théo down an unmarked passage.

Cantor followed closely behind her, her vision somewhat enhanced in the dark due to the augments in the visor.

"I take it the ship is an ever-evolving project," she said with a hint of a smile.

"They're always tinkering with it." Joritu agreed, ducking under a pipe that was at her already-diminuitive head height. "It seems to be tailing off, though. I'm told it's pretty much been rebuilt from stem to stern."

Cantor walked under the pipe easily.

"Oh, they'll come up with something," she said. "After all, some would be dreadfully bored without a project."

"Too true." Chuckled the young Hospitalier, hesitating at a ladder before turning and ending up back in one of the ship's corridors. "They're perfectionists, the Mechanicus; It's their religion. They're busy trying to squeeze as much out of the reactors as possible." She stopped infront of a pellerator and kicked the hatch open.

"Indeed," she said as she politely waited for Joritu to enter first, regardless of their rank. She was on a tour, after all.

After they'd gotten inside, Joritu asked for them to be taken to a complicated address. The machine set off quickly, and Joritu took the opportunity to relax, lying back in the seat. Her augmetic breathing filled the compartment.

Cantor raised her eyebrows, watching as they were transported. She then dared to ask a rather personal question, although she by no means expected Joritu to answer.

"So, how long have you been on Inquisitor Novum's crew?" she asked.

Joritu rearranged herself, yanking her arms out of their holsters and settling them on her lap. "It's been..." She thought. "A decade now."

Cantor smiled thoughtfully. "You've done well for yourself," she commented.

Joritu laughed softly. "I suppose I have, really." She said after a moment. "Yes, I've been lucky." She mused. "In hindsight, more lucky than it looked at the time."

She wouldn't pry. However, Cantor laughed a bit. "A decade ago..." she chuckled again, the most she'd laughed since coming aboard. "A decade ago, my parents were still supressing my powers and training me to be a diplomat."

"I was in a convent." Joritu supplied. "On a planet called Relatius." She waited for a sign of recognition; Théo might have come across the name, tagging along with Pater and Ronathal's fleet as she had been.

"Wasn't it destroyed?" the young Interrogator asked.

Joritu nodded. "Like I said, I didn't feel lucky at the time." She chuckled. "But it really got better after that. The Tyranids orphaned me twice, but the Inquisitor took me in." She shrugged. "I don't know why."

"Better than losing your parents to their own stupidity," she said. She thought for a moment, then added: "I can see why he did. You've a level head and a kind heart. Emotion and common sense rarely go hand in hand."

Joritu smiled at that. "Thank you." She said. She looked out the window at the running lights. They were slowing down. "I owe it all to them, really. I grew up here."

"Well I'm sure you'll get more than your chance to repay them," she said. Regarding the danger they were flying into, that is.

"I'm sure I will." She agreed.

[Pcm979]

They pulled to a halt, and Joritu unlocked the hatch and pushed it open, getting out and offering Théo a rather dangerous-looking hand.

However, Théo was unfazed by the augments. After all, many of the nobles on Terra were retired Imperial forces, and of those there were many that had seen... Better days, so to speak.

A while later, they arrived at the training centre. It was, as was the norm with Imperial structures, large and cathedral-like. Servitors whizzed to and fro, attending to the needs of the scattered naval Bosuns and still mainly organic Techpriests who occupied the area. One figure stood out, however. One of Pater's Deathwatch was cleaning an enormous Bolter with fanatical attention to detail.

She scanned the area attentively, memorising as much as she could. She eyed the Bolter--easily two or three times her size--and the man cleaning it for just a tad longer than the rest, her way of showing interest in a subject.

"Brother-Apothecary!" Joritu exclaimed, heading over to the gigantic man as though he couldn't step on her without noticing. "It's been a while." She seemed to be on friendly terms with everyone, including the most powerful killing machines Mankind had devised.

"Battle-Sister." The armour-clad posthuman replied. The voice was the giveaway- This was the same Astartes who'd been short with Théo earlier.

Staying back, Cantor observed the two. They appeared to be friends, and although she'd honestly wanted to apologise, it was by no means her place to interrupt them. Instead she eyed one of the Bosuns, still a few metres away.

Distantly: "... And this is Interrogator Théo Cantor. I'm showing her around."

"We've met." The Astartes noted.

Théo nodded and approached as her name was spoken. She nodded deeply in his direction, looked to Joritu, then met his eyes. Well, his visor at least.

"You'll have to forgive me for earlier, sir," she said, "I believe I misunderstood you."

"Apology accepted, Interrogator." The black-masked figure said impassively. With a swift movement he stood to his full height and racked his enormous weapon. "I see you're taking her to the Range." He said, addressing Joritu again.

"Well, yes. And I figured I could do with some practice too, so." Joritu shrugged.

"Prudent. A steady hand and a sharp eye are the hallmarks of the Devout. Saint Duran." The gigantic figure recited.

She eyed the enormous gun as he racked the slide, but didn't comment. The pistols like the medic's seemed far more her size. But she supposed when it came to firearms that Deuce would have the final say as to what would benefit the team the most.

The Space Marine left to test himself and his weapons against the best the ship's training facilities had to offer. The Techpriests running the range were already firing up the cloning vats; The Deathwatch marines rarely left enough of the Combat Servitors to scrape together.

Joritu watch him clomp off. "I think I confuse them." She said with a little chuckle. "They don't know what to make of me."

"Why?" Théo asked.

"They're used to people being at least a little intimidated around them. Even the Inquisitor treats them carefully. But here I am, half their size and one hundredth their weight, and I'm not." She shrugged. "It puts them off a bit." They talked as Joritu hailed a Servitor.

"At least you're half their size," Cantor said, gesturing to her own body.

Joritu smirked at the joke. A Servitor rolled up to them and burbled inquiringly. "Um. Was there anything in particular you wanted to do here?" She asked.

"Ah, I was really just looking for a place to stretch my mental muscles, so to speak," she said. "It's been a few weeks."

Joritu nodded. "A chamber with dampeners." She instructed the robot. "And bring me some ammo. Adraxis-pattern." The Servitor burbled dutifully and rolled away. A moment later, a Servo-Skull approached them and directed them to a suitable chamber.

"I'll leave, if you like." Joritu said, loading her pistols.

"Actually," Cantor said, "I've been working on my defensive strategies... Perhaps you'd like to spar a bit?"

Joritu looked puzzled for a moment. "Okay." She said slowly. "I'm not that good at hand-to-hand, though." She said carefully.

"Ah, no," she said with a chuckle. "What I meant was I want you to fire at my shields. I want to see how strong they've gotten without the force rod."

"You want me to shoot you?" Joritu said, as though wondering when the punchline was coming.

"That would be the objective," she said.

"Okay." Joritu said slowly. "Okay." She said again, this time more confidently. "Skull, rubber rounds." She ordered the little attendant. A moment later, the non-lethal ammunition arrived. She loaded her pistols and, readying the gun, raised her eyebrows.

Cantor smiled, this one a full grin. It had a somewhat off-putting predatory quality to it that most definitely didn't suit her childlike appearance.

"Hold on just a moment," she said, stepping back and readying herself. She lowered the visor and it darkened as she began to concentrate.

Joritu holstered one pistol and held the other with both metal hands, sighting the Interrogator's centre of mass. She breathed deeply. Her face hardened, her eyes grew duller. She'd been trained well.

Once Cantor was ready, she fired. The noise was tremendous, even in the high-ceilinged room.

Although the shield itself was transparent, a tiny white burst of energy seemed to reflect across Cantor's chest as the rubber projectile impacted, then fell to the floor. She remained passive, nodded.

Joritu fired again, this time twice in quick succession. Cantor wanted to test her shield, after all. The worst the bullet could do if it got through was give her a welt.

As the second rubber projectile hit, she seemed to stumble a bit, the translucent disc of the shield appearing to flash into visibility. She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, then nodded.

"Again," she said.

Joritu nodded back and double-tapped again, this time firing so the second bullet would impact about an inch away from the first.

Cantor grit her teeth on impact, the shield remaining. However, she was beginning to show a bit of strain, one hand clutched into a fist. Of course, in actual combat, the hits wouldn't all be so dead-on... Or at least she hoped. It wasn't as though she knew.

"Last time," she said. "One more."

The problem in combat would be quantity, not quality. But Joritu obliged, firing even as she prepared one of her arm's medical syringes to deliver an anti-inflammatory.

Cantor put her hands up before the impact, the shield shattering. However, there was still enough to slow the impact of the rubber slug. Théo fell straight onto her ass, but was grinning. She held the rubber bullet in her hand, stood up.

Joritu clapped, metal ringing against metal. The syringe stowed itself again. "Seven shots, that's pretty good." She said with a smile.

"Pretty good as in good or just good as in a first-timer?" she asked with a smirk. "And you're an excellent shot."

"Thanks. It's the arms." She said, gesturing to the servo-controlled augmetics. "They keep my grip steady. And I meant pretty good, you don't get that close a spread in combat. Throne, most of the shots don't even come close." She said as she holstered the gun and then her arms again.

"You can have a steady hold and still not be able to hit anything," she pointed out. "That's how my father was."

"I was trained by the best." Joritu said affably.

"Well hopefully I'll end up similar, then," she said with a nod of affirmation.

[Pcm979]

(This covers the five month journey skipped during the main RPG. It will hopefully give background information and character development that the main story doesn;t have time for. Deleted scenes, if you will.)

(Like the musical number on the Eternal Will?)

(I was so sad to see that hit the cutting room floor...)

[Pcm979]

"This is a Laspistol. A6-pattern, one hundred shots." Deuce explained to the girl, hefting one of the weapons. "Get a feel for it." He said, handing it over.

They were at the range the next day, scorch marks from the Astartes' little 'practice' still not fully removed.

She reached out to take the weapon, then lurched as his hands left it. She managed to keep from doubling over, concentrating a bit to use some of her psychic energy to aid her.

"Heavy," she said, "that's how it feels."

"It does at first." Deuce agreed, handily omitting the fact that he'd first handled a similar pistol at the age of three. "You get used to it. Try not to use your powers to lift it, either." He added as an afterthought. "In the heat of battle, you'll need every bit just to stay alive." He picked up a similar pistol and quickly did a diagnostic on it, his hands moving almost impossibly fast.

She did as instructed and yelped as she nearly teetered over, unable to hold the weapon in correct position and simply grabbing onto the barrel and the stock with a bit of a nervous laugh.

Deuce holstered his pistol and slouched over, rearranging her hands on the gun. "Your first hand goes here-" he placed it on the grip "and, in your case, the other hand goes here." He wrapped her second hand around the unfoldable grip at the front. Stepping back, he had to stop himself from shaking his head. She could hardly lift it, even with both hands.

She caught what appeared to be a bit of disapproval from him, frowned a bit. Mustering all her strength, she looked up and forced her body to lift the damn gun, holding it with quivering hands.

"I'm trying," she said. "Really."

"You're trying too hard." He said, plucking it from her grasp and putting it back on the table. "We're gonna have to start smaller." He continued, picking up a miniscule Needler and handing it to her. "Give that a go."

She lifted the Needler and held it evenly, checking it out with an authoritative eye but making sure to keep it in proper position.

"This... I can handle," she said with a smirk.

Deuce snorted. "It's a start. Now, basic safety tips. Keep your finger off the trigger, point the gun at the ground and make sure the safety is on when you holster it." He said, illustrating with his own weapon.

She checked, rechecked the safety, then holstered the weapon, drew it, holstered it again. She was an adept learner and copied his movements with accuracy.

"Good." He said, somewhat impressed. "Now the clip is in the handle. You release it with the button just above your thumb, like this." He demostrated. "The ammo counter is on the back, underneath the protective grille." More demonstration. "Don't touch the barrel for at least a minute after firing, it gets quite hot."

She nodded and mimicked his movements.

"I'll remember that," she said with a smile. She liked Deuce and liked his lack of bullshit. As she watched him handle the gun, she realised for a moment that this was real, wasn't it?

"Now, of course, in a firefight you won't have time to think this shit through. You have to do it until it's second nature, in your bones." He said, once again doing the movements blindingly fast. "That means repetition, repetition, repetition."

She nodded. "I know," she said. "That's why I'm here," she said with a grin. "I've been told that you're the best to come to."

She drew the Needler and inspected it a bit more, careful to keep the barrel pointed toward the ground.

"Right. Now to use the thing." He pointed her to the shooting gallery. "Keep both hands on it, the recoil's more than you'd think, especially given how quiet it is."

She nodded, assuming the firing position. She wouldn't fire until he told her to.

"Nothing fancy, aim for the chest. Headshots aren't usually worth it." He continued. "Breath in, hold it, release the breath, then fire. Practise it a few times, then go for it."

She nodded, doing as he instructed. After a few deep breaths, she braced herself and fired. The quiet hiss of the Needler's projectile followed by the clatter as it hit the target filled her ears, and when she looked up, she smiled. She'd hit the target straight through the neck. It wasn't where she'd been aiming, but a hit was a hit!

"Mmm." Deuce said, leaning against the wall behind her. "Very good for a first time. But," he raised a finger, "You should look at the target while you're firing. Moving your head down moves your shoulders and therefore your aim."

She nodded, taking in his advice, and tried again. This shot was a bit to the right, but still a torso hit. He would note that this was the first time he'd ever seen her smile: a full grin, although a bit predatory in nature.

"This isn't as difficult as I thought it would be..." She paused. "Although this is the easy part, eh?"

"It's a bit more difficult when they're shooting back, yeah." He said with a sly grin.

She grinned back at him, unaware that she was even doing so. "I'd imagine," she said. "I took a few shots from Joritu a while back. I could only take eight or so."

"That's seven more than most people." He pointed out. "Anyway, in combat, you'll be under fire, probably in rough terrain, with your opponents running around as much as you. But we'll get there in time."

She nodded. "I'm looking forward to it," she said truthfully. And then she even added a bit of a joke, just to gauge his reaction: "Perhaps I'll even be able to handle a regulation pistol by then, hm?"

"Could be." He said with a small chuckle. "Actually," he continued seriously, "Laspistols don't have much going for them. Only ammo capacity and ease of use. The Guard nickname them 'flashlights' for a reason." He shrugged. "They're a good backup weapon, though."

She nodded. "Well I haven't ever been taught to rely on firearms for combat," she said thoughtfully. "Most of the time I've been told to use my psy-abilities..."

He shrugged again. "You might not ever need a gun. But you probably will. It's best to have the option, anyway."

"I'd rather have it than not," she said, nodding. "I don't want to be dependent on any one thing. I've seen what happens to those who don't have any sort of contingency, after all."

He nodded. "Keep it with you 'till the next time." He said. "Get used to it."

"Keep it?" she asked, then looked to him. "Thank you..." Even though it wasn't his.

He shrugged again. Not a very vocal man. "Draw it every now and again, practice changing the clip. That sort of thing. It helps it sink in."

She nodded. "May I have an extra clip?" she asked, as though a child asking a parent for a favour.

He obliged. "Remember." He said at last. "Finger off the trigger, safety on, pointed down."

She nodded and switched the clips, then flicked the safety back on and holstered the weapon.

"Like this, right?"

He nodded. "That's the one."

Pleased with her performance, she smiled and nodded, extending her hand. "It's been a pleasure," she said cordially.

With a slight hesitation- Assassains don't get much of an opportunity to shake hands- He reached over and shook her hand the same way he did everything else; With a langourous ease that spoke of the power he had at his command.

[SirNitram]

"The muscle remembers." Malkamar muttered, as he snapped through the motions of close range combat. His poweraxe was a fairly unique design; not a touch on the mysterious techno-blades of the Inquisitors, but a telescoping metal which stowed conveniently at his belt when not cleaving foes. The huge weapon suited him; it carved, not sliced. Getting hit meant you were generally history.

The problem was, as muscle remembered, so did mind. He hadn't fought like this since the Feral Orkz on that bumfuck primitive world. He thought about the Exodites; he had spent quite some time amongst the aliens. Had he changed? Did he have any place seeking redemption after willingly living amongst Xenos? Did it count as 'willingly' when he was shot down?

The targets hit the walls with the excessive force behind each swing. Even without his armour, Malkamar was putting enough strength behind each axe blow to slay an Ork or powersuited Eldar in one swipe. He was agitated. Concerned.

And the Craftworlders were involved. Because of him? The Eldar did move in mysterious ways. But surely he wasn't that important to them. He was, as he remembered with some scorn, 'just Mon-Keigh'.

A marker meant to indicate a head hurtled across the room with the force of the blow.

Why did he care? He was among humans again. Even some Marines, even if he had never spoken to them or looked them in the eye. He knew why though. When he had finally gotten his life back, when the path off that Emperor-forsaken rock had led him to redemption, it was leading him to the one place he knew he couldn't survive.

The Eye of Terror awaited, and it found fear in him.

[Pcm979]

The practice room was large, with adjustable obstacles and partitions to suit the occasion. In this case, a series of heavily-padded Servitors stood ready to trade blows, if they were required.

Pater twirled his halberd, the blade glowing a deep blue as eldritch energies played along it.

"You say you have some experience with Force Rods." He said at last.

"Very minimal," she said, "but it is required as far as training at the Schola goes."

She paused for a moment, not wanting to say it because she didn't want to appear as though she'd rejected any amount of her training. Finally, she let it slip:

"Although, truth be told, I believe I work better without them. And as far as melee combat goes, they're ineffective, sir."

"You are correct. Their primary purpose is to channel and enhance the Psychic energy of the wielder, not act as a close quarters combat weapon. For that, you are better with a Force Sword, Staff or Halberd. But that is a little advanced for this lesson." A roughly foot long sword hilt, missing its blade, flew from an equipment rack in the corner of the room and floated in front of her.

"Take it." Pater commanded, not having moved an eyebrow to summon the object.

She snagged the hilt with ease and held it, unsure as to what, exactly, he had planned for it.

"What you are holding is an Archaeotech Power Sword. They are extremely rare, and only available to the most wealthy and prestigious. I had it constructed two hours ago. Point the crossbar away from yourself and press down on the rune halfway along the grip."

She kept her eyes on him as he spoke, then her gaze slowly drifted down to the sword, and she did as he spoke. It took a moment to find the rune, the trigger she supposed.

With a whir and a crackle, the blade burst into life as a shining white apparition, a combination of force fields and coherent light. The air around it hissed, and she could smell ozone as it dissected the atmosphere it passed through.

Her eyes veritably bulged in her sockets. It was a weapon of pure energy, and the faint scent the humming blade and the air around it exuded was a bit unsettling. But the sight was mesmerising; she could hardly take her eyes off it.

"As I said, its like has not been seen in millennia, outside the hands of the Astartes and the Imperium's most favoured heroes. It is capable of slicing lesser weapons in two, and equally capable of going through an uncautious wielder's flesh." Pater drew his own and demonstrated by neatly bisecting a ceramite-plated Servitor in a single blow. "Of course, the one you are holding has been powered down for training purposes. It will give you nothing more than a nasty welt if you touch it."

She nodded to show that, despite her wide-eyed look, she was listening intently to what Pater had to say. She drew the blade slowly, holding it toward the floor, and waved it slowly, attempting to get used to the feel, smell, and sound of it.

"As a weapon it may not suit you, but one must start somewhere." Waiting until she had finished getting the hang of it, he placed his halberd to one side and held his own Power Sword in a two-handed grip.

"Attack me. Just try a simple swing." He ordered.

She nodded. Fortunately, she'd practiced a rudimentary amount as a child, as was the standard for most of her descent, so she at least knew how to form an attack stance. But other than that, she wasn't particularly trained in that area. She paused for a moment, then delivered a simple thrust attack.

Pater parried it easily, as would be expected when he had sixty years of experience under his belt. "Good." He said implacably. "You know more than you admit. We will try some simple combinations." He swung his blade in a riposte designed to knock hers out of the way.

She parried the blow more from reflex than anything, then stared. She was surprised that she'd done it.

Pater didn't let up his attack, however. He was, of course, being far slower and more obvious than he would were he not training her, but nevertheless he took the opportunity to thrust while her blade was outstretched.

Her sparring skills were by no means adequate, but she had excellent reflexes. She leapt back from the thrust, then readjusted the blade in her hand. She raised her eyes to his, attempting to gauge what his next move would be.

Unfortunately, one of his eyes was a blue diode and the other was utterly inscrutable. "Good." He repeated. "Try to take the offensive next time." And with that, a downward stroke that, in the battlefield, would split her from shoulder to hip.

She concentrated this time, trying not to think of anything other than their 'battle': gone were the memories of her childhood sparring lessons, gone was the apprehension. She dodged his blow and aimed low, arcing the blade toward his legs.

"Your grip is weak. Adjust your left hand on the pommel." He said, stepping back and parrying her strike.

She adjusted her hand and slid the blade along the parry of his, jerking her hand back in an attetmpt to knock his off-kilter and then thrust forward toward his torso.

"Better." He said, twisting his blade around his hand and intercepting hers again. "Now footwork." He began circling her, blade held ready for another strike.

She was light on her feet, facing him, and kept the blade leveled, ready to either strike or block, depending. After a few moments of tension, she feinted left and struck right.

He ignored the feint, seeing it for what it was and brushing the strike out of the way. Thrusting his blade over hers he attempted what would, if the blades had been set for cutting, have quite literally been a disarming strike.

She told herself not to let her pride get in the way. She wasn't expected to hit him. She also wasn't expected to be anything more than a beginner, because that's what she was.

Cantor locked the blade with his and kicked out at his knee.

That manouver produced one of the most startling things she'd ever seen on Novum's face- A smile. "Good." He said in that same toneless voice, but she could tell he meant it. Unfortunately though, the kick had no other effect whatsoever. With another intricate twist of his wrist their blades were seperate again, and he began pushing her back, his strikes subtly faster, more precise. A feinting jab to her shoulder turned into a blade-bashing parry and finally a thrust for her heart.

She knew she couldn't avoid the final attack entirely, so she moved the way she'd been taught and held up her forearm. Traditionally, were the blade to pierce her arm, the technique would be to trap the sword's blade between the radius and ulna bones of her arm, thus avoiding the fatal strike and opening for attack. Pater would know this technique from his training.

Pater broke off the attack at the last minute and stepped back, holding the blade in a ready stance again. "A classic move, Théo Cantor, unless the blade is composed of pure energy. Your arm was just reduced to a blistered and charred mass as the sword was driven right through it and into your heart." He flicked it off and inclined his head. "You are a quick and efficient learner."

She nodded a bit, more of a bow than anything, and thanked him.

"I'll remember that," she said. "It was more reflexive than anything."

Although it didn't show, she was rather awed to see him smile. It didn't look right... awkward somehow.

"Good." He said, all traces of emotion gone from his face once more. "Reflexes will save you on the battlefield." He clipped the sword to his belt and summoned his halberd to him once more. It almost seemed to become a part of him, an extension of his body and will. "Sister Lillith and the Servitors will continue your melee training from here. I will supervise the development of your psychic talents and eventually their integration into a seamless whole."

She nodded and held out the blade, assuming he wanted it back.

"Keep it." He said. "Practice with it when you can. You most likely will not use it when we finally face an enemy, but discipline is vital."

She nodded.

"As far as refining my psychic ability," she said, "I have yet to fully harness the Firestorm and Blood Boil techniques... I'm assuming you know them, yes?"

"I do," he answered, "although my specialites are Telekinetic, Mental and Machine Empathic. We will address this tomorrow; I believe your firearms training is due to continue in a matter of minutes."

"Oh," she said. She looked down to the Needler holstered at her side and nodded. "In that case, thank you, sir," she said with respect, nodding deeply.

He nodded back and left at the same efficient stride he used for everything.

Moments later a hulking figure entered the room. As luck would have it, it was the same Marine Théo had crossed paths with twice now. He appeared to virtually live in the training facility, as the still-steaming Bolter clutched in a gigantic paw attested.

She walked over to one of the racks and placed the sword as well as her outer robe and cape upon it, drawing the needler and practicing switching the clip absently, more or less ignoring him.

"A power sword." Boomed the giant abruptly, setting the Bolter down and entering some commands onto a Cogitator near the door. "I’ve seen the way you move; It does not suit you." Advice from one warrior to another, it seemed.

She holstered the needler and looked to him, studying the hulking posthuman for a moment before replying:

"It was what Inquisitor Novum gave me, so I wasn't poised to reject."

She appoached him and crossed her arms over her chest loosely, peering with curiosity up toward the visored face.

"What would you suggest? You're vastly more experienced than I in these matters."

Brother Siades turned from entering the commands and stared down at her from behind his gorget.

"You are small and weak." He stated simply. "No matter your Psychic skill, battle with a Xenos abomination would result in your death, were you to wield that trinket." He gestured to the sword with his smaller gauntlet, festooned with the same type of equipment as Joritu's arms.

Nearby, a hulking robotic construct was activated. Something to challenge the Astartes.

"My recommendation." The figure seemed to muse. "A pair of these." He clenched his other hand, wrapped in a gauntlet that was roughly the same size as Theo. Four blades sprang forth, crackling with lightning-like energy. "A demonstration." Siades walked over to the construct and simply clove through it like a knife through warm butter.

She watched, raised her eyebrows as he tore the target to bits. Impressive.

"But do they come in my size?" she asked.

"On this ship, anything is possible." He replied with what could almost have been amusement as another robot was wheeled out. It looked like the Servitors would be doing a lot of cleaning by the time he was done.

[Pcm979]

After Deuce was satisfied that Théo's accuracy was up to par- "It's a start" was the way he put it, lounging against a wall -they continued on to moving targets, in this case Servitors specifically designed for the task, with Théo using 'dud' needles.

"Under the circs, using your freaky senses is fine." He said as the 'enemy squad' fanned out behind preset obstacles. "Just don't forget that if you need to use that little peashooter" he gestured to the Needle Pistol "then it's probably because you don't have another choice."

She nodded, then said: "What should be my approach?"

"Take out the squad leader. Deny them the initiative, force them to regroup." Deuce said succinctly, moving into a little control room. "When you're ready." He said, finger hovering over a rune.

She moved into a diagonal from the main group, then gave him the tiniest of nods. She then shifted her attention to the servitors, hoping to pick out which was the leader.

Deuce pressed the button, and the Servitors sprung into action. Three provided covering fire for a fourth, who dashed behind an obstacle closer to Théo. They were equipped with Laspistols turned down so low they were effectively laser pointers, and padded batons. The leader hung back, his identity obvious to anyone with rudimentary mind scanning powers; As the command Servitor, he was essentially running the other four's brains for them.

She ducked behind a padded block and estimated the distances between them, then leaned out and fired three quick shots toward the exposed part of the servitor closest to her before sliding back behind her cover.

Even when combat grade, the needles were disgustingly bad at penetrating anything more than standard carapace armour. What they had going for them, however, was their number and their toxic ingredients; A single needle contained enough poison to kill an entire regiment. Unfortunately, her shots failed to penetrate. The Servitor ducked behind a barrel and began supporting the approach of another. Théo might notice the supporting fire was dropping off a little; Probably an attempt to flank her.

She tried to remember what she knew regarding the servitors' structure, seemed to recall something about the joints. Théo dashed behind a barrel to the right and edged around it to view one that was attempting to flank her. She watched the way it moved, studied it, then fired a burst of needles for its knee joints.

The Servitor danced out of the way, a little too late; At least one needle caught it, and it came crashing to the ground as the joint locked up. Lurching onto three limbs, it attempted to scrabble behind cover. Meanwhile, the closest drone seized the opportunity and ran for Théo's position, firing its weapon erratically in the hopes of forcing her to stay low.

Fortunately, Théo was already low enough to avoid the strikes. The training servitors seemed to be designed for someone far more substantial than herself. After a moment's thought on the subject, she kicked the barrel over, using a wave of psychic energy to propel it forward harder than a normal kick. She then ran for a low bunker-type obstacle on the edge of the arena.

The Servitor was bowled off its feet, crashing to the floor in a manner that was almost comical. The other Servitors tried to take her down as she ran, but she was too far away for them to score a hit. They collected themselves and moved to help their fallen comrades. The one Théo had shot couldn't walk, and was set up to harass her with cover fire. The other was still functional. One effectively down, forcing the others to follow her instead of selecting the killzone- Deuce was impressed.

The leader moved out with 'his' troops, distinguishable from the others by a red armband. Of course, at this distance 'he' may as well have been behind cover.

Cantor, now on the offensive, was faced with too many options. She cursed a bit in her head, searching the environment for something she could use to her advantage.

She then realised she had all the advantage she needed within herself and stood, eyeing the servitors. The leader began to hover above the others, and she spun him so as to keep him from being able to get a lock on her. However, she lacked the adequate machine empathy skills to just shut it off, so she attempted to come up with a solution that wouldn't permanently damage them, but would still--in her momentary lack of concentration, she backed up against the wall and let out a startled squeak. The head servitor seemed to waver for a moment as 'his' body heated up, then melted entirely, splashing down onto the others.

That was the end of that, as the entire group combusted. Deuce coughed as he came out of the command booth. "Now, that'd be great, he chided quietly, "if this wasn't firearms training."

"I didn't mean to--" she started. It was the first time she'd gotten genuinely upset since arriving. "Please don't tell Inquisitor Novum..."

Deuce sighed as he plopped himself on an obstacle near her, watching as a group of cleaning Servitors fussed over the mess. "Why not?" He asked, genuinely interested.

She seemed to shrink a bit, looking down to the floor. Her shoulders sagged.

"He's the one who removed my limiter... If he doesn't think I can adequately control myself, I'll probably have to wear it again..."

"Ah, but you'd be wrong." Deuce put his hands behind his head, looking on with interest as the Servitors did their best to cool the molten metal. "It's your first combat situation, even if it's fake. You make mistakes. What you do then, see, is you learn from them. And he's the only other Psyker on board, who else can help you get it under control?"

"If it can be controlled," she said quietly, but with a flinty tone to the words.

"He's got fifty years' experience of it on you." Deuce said, flicking dirt from his fingernails. "Lord Ronathal has seventy. They think it can. They've never been wrong before."

"I hope so," she said in a timid voice. "It's the end of the line for me, after all."

[Pcm979]

The door to Novum's quarters was much the same as those anywhere else on the ship, Théo would find. The only hint that it was more than just another cabin was the lack of doors for a considerable distance along the corridor, indicating that his suite was large.

The girl approached it timidly,a bit curious as to why she'd been summoned to meet him in his personal quarters as opposed to where they sparred or the bridge or... Any more public place, really. And when she arrived at the door, she wasn't sure whether or not to simply go through or to await word from him.

A Servo-skull hovered outside the door and beeped as she approached. After a moment, the door slid open.

Théo stepped through, unsure of what to expect, really. She knew very little of Inquisitor Novum's private affairs.

The room... Was rather ordinary. It was more a workspace than a living space, with the most well-worn area a large workshop that took up at least a third of the chamber. It didn't look like the room had been lived in, more... Used. The only thing which stood out was a series of glass cabinets on the wall, the light from the glowglobes obscuring their contents from this angle. The door slid shut behind her.

She strode into the centre of the room, glancing around for Pater. She couldn't see him.

He didn't appear just yet, either. There were several doors leading off from the room, including one heavy metal one, but no sound came from behind them. It looked like the Interrogator would have to amuse herself for a few minutes.

She looked around the room for somewhere to sit.

She was spoilt for choice- A very plush chair in front of a Cogitator, a highly uncomfortable-looking contraption near the workshop, and a desk surrounded by some ordinary chairs, near the cabinets.

She took a seat at one of the chairs near the cabinets, crossing her legs daintily as she waited.

From the cabinets, a series of burnished metal faceplates stared down at her impassively.

She eyed them with a bit of curiosity.

There were a series of different designs, some bulkier, containing powerful equipment. A few smaller and more ornate, designed to look more like a real face. But despite the Inquisitor's resources, none of them even bothered to look convincing. A long spike protruded from behind the optic on all of them, leaving little to the imagination as to how they interfaced with Novum.

There was a similar arrangement with prosthetic arms, only more combat-oriented, mounting a variety of weapons in various grades of concealment.

To put it bluntly, they looked... Brutal. She surveyed the 'collection' with more than a little fear.

A muffled thump from behind her.

She glanced back over her shoulder, more than prepared to handle another of Gyllia's cats.

The steel door hissed open, steam curling from it's base. The Inquisitor exited, pulling a cloak on with one hand. His right arm was missing and his shattered skull was on full display, held together with metal and ceramite. Behind him, indistinct shapes shifted.

Théo might have seen plenty of corpses and skull-fragments, but there was something undeniably frightening when said skull fragments were part of a still-living being which talked to you.

"Interrogator." He said calmly.

"Sir," she said, "you summoned me?"

"I will be in control of your psychic tutelage from now on." He said, a clear fluid bubbling from the remains of the left side of his face as he talked. "Tyran has grounded you in the basic use of your powers; It is my duty to teach you their proper utility on the battlefield." He stretched out his remaining hand, and a prosthetic floated over to him. He affixed it to the stump with a hiss as pinions drove into his bone.

She nodded, watching the process with interest. She'd never seen prosthetics such as his before. After all, the point of prosthesis in the realms of nobility was to make it look seamless, real.

He flexed the arm, testing its reactions. Apparently satisfied, he gestured again and a faceplate floated towards him. Quickly, brutally, he shoved the spike down his vacant eye socket.

She had to hold back the urge to wince a bit at that. "Sir," she asked, "doesn't that hurt?"

He looked at her with what seemed to be puzzlement. The diode that was his left eye flickered on. "It has been fifty years." He said at last. "I suppose I have merely become accustomed to it."

But that didn't mean it felt good. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, not really sure why she was apologising other than her need to please.

That seemed to confuse him too. After a moment he dismissed it. "Your training." He began.

[Pcm979]

She nodded. "Sir," she began, keeping her head partially bowed as she spoke, still afraid she'd somehow offended him, "I know Tyran Ronathal, my mentor and tutor, knows you well. If he believes that I can learn under your hand, then I'm willing to do whatever it takes."

"Good." Pater said. "Although," he continued, showing an unusual ability to discern the hidden meanings behind what people said, "I note that you make no mention of your own beliefs on the matter." He raised an eyebrow as he summoned his Rune Halberd to his side.

"I have no beliefs on the matter, sir," she said with a hint of emotion to her voice. "Even if I did, they would be irrelevant. If I do not take part in what T--what Lord Ronathal wishes of me, I could be sent to execution. Thirteen people have met death or injury in my wake, sir, I can't be allowed to have opinions."

"Théo Cantor." Pater said with the slightest trace of amusement. "If Tyran or I counted every innocent who has died as a result of our actions, we would never be finished. Get used to it." The last with a trace of harshness to it. "If you are righteous, the Emperor will forgive."

"With all due respect, sir," she said, "it's your position, and Tyran's, that gives you that leeway. Devout or not, I was eleven when I first killed a man." This was something she'd never admitted, something that not even her parents knew of and therefore couldn't have messily covered.

"So was I." He replied calmly.

"He was an important man back on my home world," she said. "A candidate running against the candidate my parents supported for a High Lord of Terra. I'd heard that there were frequent assassinations; my parents had me attend, of course. I wasn't even consciously willing it to happen..."

"No one ever does. Follow." As he passed her, the door opening before him, she'd catch the metallic tang of blood and other fluids that were better served remaining inside someone.

She sniffed lightly, but turned and followed him, her strides long despite her short stature.

"My father suspected I was a Psyker since an incident when I was five." Pater said, his measured tones almost obscuring the fact that this was an amazing personal revelation coming from him. "He used his considerable power to supress that knowledge. It almost worked." Tap, tap tap as the bottom of his halberd rapped against the floor with every step.

"My parents did likewise," she said. However, she was more interested in hearing what he had to say.

"It would have been a blow to the family's prestige had it become known that their third heir was tainted." His voice was as characteristically emotionless as ever. "My aptitude with machinery could be passed off as a budding awareness of the Machine Spirits. No doubt I would be wearing the red robe of the Adeptus Mechanicus now, were it not for my father's assassination."

Subconsciously, her hand reached out to rest on his arm as they walked. "My parents were executed," she explained, "I turned myself in. Their actions were treasonous... I didn't want anyone else to be hurt."

"The assassain was from the Callidus shrine." Pater mused. "His contractors wanted me to suffer before I died. It was his loss. There were not sufficient remains to discern his identity."

"As should have happened," she said with a nod.

"And yet, it succeeded beyond the opposing house's wildest dreams." Pater continued. "The Patriarch dead, a massive scandal- Today, House Novum is a minor, chastened power. It may never recover."

"My family faces a similar situation. Or, what's left of it. The shame of my parents' execution was more than enough to truncate the influence of anyone that shares our blood."

Pater snorted. "Fear, intrigue and suspicion. They do not understand us, so we are feared. They live in their own worlds where nothing matters but that those worlds say the same. They do not trust anything. These are the people we are sworn to protect."

And for once, Théo was the only one around to defend the position of optimism. She wasn't used to that.

"However, aside from them," she spoke slowly, "we protect each other."

"I am not complaining." Pater said, turning his head slightly inside the cloak. "The strong protect the weak. It is the foundation of our society. It is merely a shame that more do not see it that way."

"To do so would require them to adjust their whole manner of thinking," she said a bit wistfully. "To do so on a large scale would be devastating."

"Mercifully, the Astartes see it our way." Pater noted as they reached their destination. "At least, the ones outside the Eye of Terror do."

"Indeed," she said, pausing.

The door hissed open, and Pater strode inside to another training room, this one optimised for Psychic abilities. After she had entered, he began. "I noted that you managed to destroy five Servitors during firearms practice yesterday."

"Ah..." She began, but decided to hold her tongue. "Forgive me, sir."

"You will best perform penitence by analyzing the situation, determining where you erred, and fixing the problem." He said, gesturing to a group of chairs set around a desk.

She moved and sat at one of the chairs. "I know what happened," she said. "I was merely trying to lift one, but I startled myself."

"Resulting in the Servitor in question almost instantaneously melting." Pater supplied, taking a seat himself. Sitting back in the folds of the chair, the light of his augmetic eye was all that could be seen of his face.

She nodded. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Due to my... Rough start, my abilities haven't developed as they should have."

"That is what we are here to correct. Servitors are cheap. High-powered Psykers are not."

"And as I stated, I'm willing to learn. I'll do anything."

[Pcm979]

"Learn to focus your hate, your anger." Pater said, once the range was set up. The targets were little more than vat-grown blobs of flesh, easily replaced. "Master it. Force it to bow to your will. And then unleash it upon your foes."

"... But sir," she said quietly, glancing up to him. "I'm not angry."

"Anger, fear, revulsion, hate, despair. Negative emotions are your tools. So, tell me: What makes you angry? What do you fear? What do you hate?" He asked with a hitherto-unforseen intensity.

She was a bit taken aback by the intensity of his voice, but she held her ground.

"I don't..." She closed her mouth, thought for a moment. "I don't get angry much, sir."

"You have trained yourself not to, due to your outbursts." He paced around her, his halberd tapping against the floor. "But you have thrown the proverbial baby out with the bathwater. Your outbursts were motivated by fear. Blind terror. It controlled you, where you should control it."

"My parents," she said after some hesitation. "They tried to stifle my gift when I was a danger to those around us. Their foolish behaviour cost several people their lives and their health. And then, when I reported them, they were the ones that accused me of betrayal, when their betrayal was not only of me, but of the Empire itself."

"Very well." Pater extended his halberd towards the constructs, its blade beginning to crackle with supressed power. "They are your parents. More than that, they are the qualities you despise. Look at them. Pathetic, useless. They believe they know better than the Emperor, and through their hubris they destroyed themselves and all around them." His voice built in power and resonance, seeming to reverberate around the room. "Hate them," his voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, "and destroy them."

Cantor looked up toward the targets, looking calm for a moment, but then her eyes narrowed. As he spoke, she clenched her hands into fists, trying to build up the anger that had fueled her childhood outbursts. She rolled her shoulders, releasing the tension in the muscles of her back.

Without warning or even cue from her, the targets imploded.

"Now." Pater's voice seemed to slip into her mind, calm and commanding. "Freeze this moment. Step back, view your anger, your hatred. See what you have done, and how you have done it. Examine every facet of your rage, your disgust. Know it for what it is. Once you do that, you can call upon it and dismiss it at will."

She closed her eyes and listened to the drone of his voice. It was... Comforting, somehow. She nodded, then remembered the moment the targets had burst. But nothing happened: the room didn't burst into flames, nothing melted, nothing exploded.

The room was deathly silent, the only sounds those of the remains of the targets hissing and popping wetly. He continued: "Do you see it? Your anger, frozen in space. Your fear, hanging there like a crystal. Despair, disgust. They are tools, Théo Cantor, and this is your first step on the road to wielding them."

"Yes, sir," she said in an odd, subdued voice. And for the first time, she did. She realised that now she was in a place where she no longer had to fear what she was capable of.

[Pcm979]

Lillith swung her spear in a complex arc, ending with it grasped in both hands and pointed towards an invisible enemy. Her hair was cut into a bob and bleached in the traditional Sororitas fashion, and her dark eyes were quick and calculating. Her attire now, as usual, was a sleeveless black bodyglove with the almost invisible collar which dampened her abilities and fingerless gloves. Her feet were bare for the training session. She didn't seem to notice Théo enter the room.

And so the young Interrogator simply observed for a few minutes, resting against the doorframe in a fashion that appeared idle upon first glance. However, if an observer was to look closer, they'd see that she was actively, astutely absorbing what she saw. She was looking for clues to the woman's fighting style, analysing her actions.

Though Cantor was by no means an experienced fighter in terms of combat, her diplomatic training had taught her a few things about reading people.

The problem with analysing Lillith's fighting style was trying to slow her actions down enough to work out what had actually just happened. She moved quickly, very quickly, her spear a blur as she whipped it into Close Combat Servitors like a club then reversed it and speared them in their throats. One thing was obvious however, apart from her skill; Lillith was willing to take risks. Several times she let the Servitors strike a blow against her in exchange for a killing shot. As she stood up, surrounded by supine robots, the bruises on her arms began to fade before Théo's eye. A final flourish and the haft of the spear tapped against the floor with a cling.

"Interrogator." She said with a small bow. "We've only been formally introduced; I'm Sister Lillith. You can call me what you want, I don't mind."

She nodded deeply and offered her hand. "Théo Cantor," she said cordially, giving the Sister's hand a firm shake.

"It's refreshing to see some action on this boat," she said with a smirk. She'd been working on conveying a more relaxed nature than before, mostly due to the fact that she'd decided once and for all that she was happy with Tyran's decision. That it was good for her to be in such a place.

Lillith shook her hand firmly, the grip almost painful. Her collar kept her psychic dampening abilities down to an almost unnoticeable level, thankfully. "It can get frustrating after a while." Lillith agreed. "In fact, I'm not sure how I managed before the range was constructed." She gestured behind her with the tip of her spear.

"The Schola was similar," she said. "It was designed to tutor students, although apparently the architects and planners didn't realise that to tutor students, they'd need to house them as well. So unless actually training, there's little to do save for sleep and read." And the tone of her voice coupled with the slight wrinkling of her nose would tell Lillith what Cantor thought of that.

Lillith made no comment. The Convents had been very different; Holy shrines in themselves, almost every part was given over to training for combat in the Emperor's name, from the youngest age. "It's good you feel that way," Lillith said instead, "because you'll need dedication to learn everything over the next few months. The Emperor's enemies aren't courteous enough to adjust themselves to your skill level, after all." A smirk.

"Fortunately, I received a great deal of duel and melee training before my powers were discovered," she said, "so you won't have to start with absolute basics."

Lillith shook her head. "There's a problem with classical duelling, namely that there's only one type of enemy it's good against- Another classical duellist. It doesn't work on Eldar, on servants of the Ruinous Powers, and it definitely doesn't work on Tyranids. Still, I could be underrating you. There's only one way to find out." She waved the Servitors, who had finished picking themselves off the mat, away.

"What I meant by that was at least we don't have to start with the first level. I already know basic moves and stances. That'd be a bit tiring for you, I know."

Lillith shrugged. "We won't spend that much time on the basic sword, unless that's your preference. I don't suppose you have one yet?" She asked, summoning the weapons rack.

"Actually, one of the Astartes suggested something to me," she said. "Inquisitor Novum and I trained with blades, but my best melee attribute is probably my speed and reaction time, and a shortsword doesn't complement that. He suggested lightning claws, I believe."

"Lightning claws." Lillith murmured, her eyes narrowing as she imagined it. "Hmm. That'd be a significant investment to make; They favour a completely different fighting style, and you'd have to train for the weight." She shrugged again. "It's a thought, but we aren't in a hurry. You should ask Gyllia about them when you get your equipment fitted." She laid her spear down and plucked a Power Sword from the weapons rack. "For now, I think we should stick with the basics."

"Sure," she said. "And regarding the weight, from what I remember there are fabricator specs for a smaller, lightweight version. And if not, I'll simply continue my light-regimen weight training."

She pulled her robe from her shoulders and hung it, then unsheathed the sword she'd used with Pater.

Lillith put Théo through her paces, testing her reactions, speed and skill to their limits. As they fought, more became apparent about Lillith's fighting style; She was almost unthinkably fast when she wanted to be, even without the benefit of Warp-accelerated speed or precognition. She was used to using the spear, and favoured a two-handed grip. She was light on her feet and not averse to taking damage in return for a superior striking position. It was becoming depressingly obvious that, with their decades of experience, she, Pater or Deuce could defeat Théo without thinking.

And one thing Lillith would notice about the young Interrogator was that while she had no match for the Sororitas' skill, she managed to match Lillith in sheer tenacity. No matter how many times they sparred only to end in Cantor sprawled on the floor, she was driven like no other.

"You're getting better already." Lillith said as she swung the blade low, forcing Théo to dance back. "I'm impressed." Indeed, the Interrogator's movements were already tightening up, her moves more instinctual now. She was a quick study, a natural fighter, or both.

"It would be foolish to become discouraged so early on," she said. "Some of my colleagues at the Schola had issues with that when their instructors bested them in spars." She stepped left, anticipating. "However, I never understood that mentality. After all, if you trained with someone you could overcome in combat, you would hardly learn."

Lillith nodded as she twirled her blade at the last moment, driving it towards Théo's unguarded chest. "My old tutor had a saying." She mentioned easily, nodding in satisfaction as Théo turned the blow aside. "Lillith," she'd say." Parry, slash. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." She jabbed, feinted, swung for Théo's leg. "Unless it cuts your legs off. Then," she pretended a weakness and disarmed Théo when the younger woman struck. "Then it just makes you shorter." She finished with a shadowy smile, picking Théo's blade up and handing it to her, pommel first.

The girl laughed a bit, taking the sword and nodding. "I suppose she's right."

"Even then, Gyllia could set you up a pair of Augments." Lillith added wryly, beckoning to a duo of duelling Servitors, stripped down and rebuilt for this type of combat. "We'll try multiple enemies. Don't show them any mercy, there are thousands where they come from." She stepped back, observing as the Servitors circled Théo warily. Suddenly, they struck at the same time, one aiming high and one low.

As they struck, she managed to avoid the low blow altogether while blocking the high one with her blade, sliding the Power Sword along the bot's arm and finally swiping at its head. She kept herself moving, never forgetting the position of the one to her left although she was focused on the right.

These Servitors weren't the usual clumsy ones designed with taking tank shells in mind; They were perfectly balanced and very agile, easily rolling around Théo to get a better position. The one on the right danced back, swinging the sword up to trap Théo's blade as the one on the left leaned forward for a jab at her back.

She turned, taking a light hit to the hip, then struck hard at the processing unit of the one who'd jabbed at her.

It swung around, taking the cut on an arm, which fell to the floor with a clang[i.]. It shuffled backwards, turning itself into a fencing posture as the other relentlessly swung for her waist.

She swung her blade down to block the strike at her waist, then kicked at the bot's leg. As it buckled a bit before shifting to take the extra weight, she used the slight moment of hesitation to stab downward toward its head.

The blade went right through the metal carapace around the thing's brain. As it shuddered and stopped, the damaged-yet-still-functional Servitor darted forward, trying for a cheap shot while her blade was lodged in place.

She sloppily dodged, but was unable to offer a retaliatory strike. As she yanked her sword free, she flipped around to face the bot.

Facing her sideways, its profile was reduced to almost nothing. It advanced in a classic fencing pose, sword held out straight. It danced forward, jabbing for her midsection.

This was where she had the advantage. She was light on her feet, parrying the blow and striking immediately for the wrist-joint that held its blade.

The servos whined and the robot moved with preternatural speed, scurrying back and flicking her blade aside. It was now a test of Théo's reflexes and Warp-powered speed and precognition against the Servitor's lightning-fast cogitator and whipcord-quick servos.

Fortunately, reflexes were something she was keen with. Things like training, emotion, fatigue were gone from her mind as she moved into full-on intuitive mode, striking and parrying and dodging with a speed that was more than a little impressive for someone her size. However, because of aforementioned size, one of the main areas she'd trained in while at the Schola was evasion.

They were matched evenly, with the Servitor's precise, speedy strikes almost making up for Théo's talent and skill. Its onboard cogitator knew it had to gain the advantage somehow, break the deadlock. In a sudden and unexpected move it swept Théo's blade aside as if to lunge and instead swung its body around, bludgeoning her with its other, damaged arm.

She took the hit, sprawling to the floor as the stump of an arm clubbed her in the side. But she was up almost instantly, diving between the thing's legs and slicing upward with the Power Sword's blade as she passed.

The Servitor twitched, burbled, and neatly slid into two halves that clattered to the floor.

"Good work." Lillith said, nudging one of the pieces with her spear.

Cantor stood from the crouch, rubbing at her side a bit.

"Those hit harder than I'd anticipated," she said with a smile, still riding the combat high.

"They're very heavy," Lillith agreed, this observation proved as a group of cleaning robots struggled to haul the mangled Servitors away, "and you're very fast." She noted. "I think the Battle-Brother might have been right; If you had a pair of Lightning Claws with your speed..." She trailed off.

"I've never used them," she said, "but he seemed to favour the idea."

"It's worth considering, but it's an investment, like I said." Lillith pointed out. "They favour a completely different style of combat. You should ask Gyllia if she can mock a pair up for you. So you can see if you like the feel of them."

She nodded. "That sounds like the right course."

"We're off to a good start." Lillith said, wrapping up. "I think you've got firearms practice next, is that right?"

"I believe so," she said.

"Good. You're doing well, Théo. Keep it up."

She smiled honestly, then said: "Thank you. To hear from an instructor as yourself."

"I give credit where credit is due." Lillith said with a small smile.

[Pcm979]

"WE ARE LOOKING FOR MAGOS XYNG." Joritu yelled over the clamour of machinery. "MAGOS. XYNG." The Mechanicus peered at them out of robotic eyes, its Mechadendrites and hard-vac construction making it look like some giant metal insect.

Joritu was taking Théo into the heart of the ship's fabricatory centre in a hunt for Gyllia, the Interrogator having decided to get her equipment issues sorted out. It was cold, windy and very, very noisy. Joritu was hunched in her robes even moreso than usual, although ironically her metal hands were unaffected by the temperature. Locks of flame-red hair rippled in the breeze.

Cantor remained outwardly unimpressed, but she too was rather hunkered down, despite her usual indifference to environmental factors. She looked to the gigantic metal man-beast-looking-thing and watched his exchange with Joritu, interested.

Théo was amused by the conversation between the bright, smiling Joritu and the apparently sulky robot. As they entered the cavernous room, her eyes immediately sought the exits, counted heads, sought the nearest weapon. Sometimes she wished she weren't so adept with such things; it felt almost like she was betraying the crew when she did so.

"... Let me make the suggestion that the next items you pump out of this place are some things called guardrails. You might have heard of them." Joritu continued browbeating the Priest. "Safety precautions here are atrocious, and not all of us are willing to spend the rest of our lives inside a huge robot beetle."

A Servo Skull hovered down to them, and Joritu was distracted, to the Adept's evident relief. "Ah. At last. I'll be sure to mention the quality of service to the Magos when I see her." And they set off, leaving the multi-ton robot looking drained.

All the while, Théo simply followed along, listening to explanations when they were given and wondering when they weren't. The ship was definitely beyond anything she'd imagined when first arriving.

"They're basically given a free hand with this part of the ship." Joritu explained as they dodged gigantic servo-arms and skittering, only vaguely human Techpriests. "Sometimes they need to be reminded they're here at the Inquisitor's behest, not the other way around." A massive fan hauled choking smoke out of the chamber, drowning out what she said next.

As she passed through a doorway, she looked up, eyeing one of the Techpriests with a bit of curiosity. They were indeed agile things; it didn't take long to figure that out.

The Priest barely spared her a glance, his bright red optics swinging back to the servo-arm he was dangling from by four spiderlike legs. They were all pale, those that still had flesh anyway; Some of the rooms were barely lit, the only light coming from the machinery and the Priests' night vision optics. As they moved into one such room, a small yet long and winding corridor festooned with pipes at all angles, Joritu stopped in the pitch-blackness and peered ahead. "Can your visor see in the dark?" She asked, grasping the Servo-Skull in one augmetic paw.

"Yes," she said, "no need to worry. Do you need assistance?" she asked, offering Joritu a hand.

"Actually, I can see in the dark too." She said, glancing back with a faint grin. Her eyes were now a bright, glowing green. It was surprisingly easy to forget that they were augmetics.

"Ahhh," Théo said, smiling back. They continued, unimpeded.

In contrast, the passageway was quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the ship's engine and the noises the pair made as they moved along. A while later, they emerged in another cavernous chamber, this one vertical. Various mechanical components floated serenely in the centre of a gigantic shaft, the drop dizzying.

"You're really getting the full tour." Joritu remarked. "Unfortunately, the most direct route passes through the smelting facility. You'd combust just walking in there." They moved to a large industrial-looking lift.

She hopped up onto the lift, offering Joritu a hand up as well. Then she simply stared up, watching in a sort of awed relaxation as they began to move.

Joritu accepted, her hand ice-cold. She followed Théo's gaze as they started moving, watching the components move and shuffle seemingly in midair as invisible fields jostled them back and forth.

"Yes, it's all very impressive." She chuckled.

"Indeed," she said. "But not entirely unsettling, you know?"

"I don't know, most people would be having fits right about now." Joritu said, standing back from the edge and re-holstering her arms. As per usual, the Mechanicus had utterly failed to install even rudimentary safety precautions. "I mean, until a week ago you didn't know about any of this." She indicated the ship in general with a twitch of her head.

"I didn't know, but there is very little that surprises me since meeting you and your crew," she said with a smile.

Joritu chuckled again. "I'll take that as a compliment." She said good-naturedly.

[Pcm979]

Gyllia was in what could loosely be described as her office, a medium-sized, partially lit room set dead in the centre of the Fabricatory. In contrast to the almost insane clutter and activity in the main factory and the claustrophobic silence of the access tunnel, the room could almost be said to be... Homely. Almost. Machines whirred quietly in the corners of the room and a table, covered with components in various states of disarray, was set in the centre.

Joritu cleared her throat. "Gyllia? I-"

"Come in, my dear." Gyllia's voice preceeded her from the shadows, her Mechadendrites busily examining what looked like a Servitor's head even as she walked towards them. "I was told you two werre coming." She said with a smile.

Théo addressed Gyllia with a nod and a smile as well. "We would be hard pressed to keep things from you, wouldn't we?" she asked with a bit of a chuckle.

"Every single Servitor and Servo-Skull on this boat reports to me, in theory." Gyllia agreed, gesturing for them to make themselves comfortable. "In practice, I'm much too busy for that sort of thing. But I usually know about something important soon after it's happened." She cleared the table of the various junk on it with her six manipulators, revealing it to be a holoprojector.

"So, what can I do for you?" She asked, taking a seat.

She glanced to Joritu, then back to Gyllia. "I suppose I've finally gotten so used to this place that I'm to be outfitted for combat," she chanced a bit of a joke. "One of the Astartes suggested a pair of Lightning Claws, however I'd no sooner be able to use one of the regulation pairs than I could lift a suit of Power Armour."

"Hmm." Gyllia analyzed the girl, her surprisingly human face contorting into a look usually seen on the higher-class tailors. "It's certainly possible. Hold still for a second dear, I'm taking your measurements." Her mechadendrites pulled away from her body slightly and panned up and down, small red beams visibly playing along Théo's body.

The young Interrogator nodded, standing still, arms dropped to her side in a manner most passive--definitely more relaxed than she ever appeared on-deck. She was also dressed far less formally than usual, due to her anticipation of this trip.

Gyllia finished, her MDs returning to a relaxed position, the lower two planted on the tabletop. She blinked several times as she assimilated the data. "Hmm." She repeated finally. She tapped something into the projector as she spoke. "You're... Slight, that's for certain." She said with a smile. "That rules out a single, self-contained unit, but we still have some options..." The projector fizzled into life between them, a wireframe model of a human being rotating in midair.

"And whatever you can make, I can work with," Théo assured her. She relaxed her shoulders a bit.

"Well, that's always nice to know." Gyllia said with a wry smile. "Considering we don't have a complaints department." The holoprojector beeped. "First things first. What sort of combat equipment do you already have?" Gyllia asked, MDs poised to enter the data.

"I have some light armour and a force rod," Cantor said, "that's all. I came straight from my tutor's."

"A blank slate." Gyllia said approvingly. "I know a few of my Artificers will positively slaver at the chance to kit you out." She tapped a few commands into the holoprojector, bringing up a representation of the 'classic' Lightning Claw. "Now, the main problem is the weight." She repeated. "I wouldn't recommend using the standard pattern model, they can weigh up to fifty kilograms. The muscle strain would become severe over time." From the corner of the room, Joritu shook her head vigourously; She knew all too well about toting more weight than you could handle.

"Right," Théo said. "I can lift about the standard for someone my size, so if they're still a bit heavy afterward then I will simply train with a bit more vigour to it." She was eager to show how cooperative she was. After all, the last thing any retinue group needed was someone who may potentially be their leader being unagreeable and whiny. Although Cantor saw no indication that Pater would be keeling over any time soon.

"Well, we'll see." Gyllia said with a faintly amused smile. It wasn't cruel or superior, but somewhat parental. "We should have some mock-ups arriving.. Now." And on schedule, a group of Mechadendrites lowered themselves from the ceiling and carefully deposited a large container on the table. Gyllia opened it, her augmetic attatchments effortlessly removing a pair of massive gauntlets that, together, were about the size of Théo's torso. Gyllia's eyebrows arched.

"Well," Théo said with a bit of a whistle as she stared. She looked up to Gyllia with her own eyebrows up on her forehead.

"Somehow I don't think it'll work." Gyllia chuckled, lowering them back in. A moment later, she pulled out another variety of gauntlet; It still weighed the same overall, but it was divided into two sections; One for the lower arm, containing the claws themselves, and one for the upper arm, housing the power supply. While still bulky, the distributed weight and profile was much less intimidating.

She lifted the contraption with much trepidation, affixing it after a long few moments of testing the weight distribution. The combination of the gauntlet unit and the glove unit as individuals was much easier. While still bulky, she could train up to where it wouldn't be.

"That's more like it." Gyllia said with a nod. "Now, those are just mock-ups." She said, tapping her lips with a finger and eyeing the claw critically. It was an odd juxtaposition, with her Mechadendrites waving idly behind her. "The real ones will be tailored specifically for you. I'll get some artificers on it right away." She tilted her head for a moment, her eyes glazing, then snapped back to full awareness. "Done." She said with a smile.

The Interrogator nodded with a slight smile and a bit less of a crease to her eyes than usual. It was the closest she got to an expression of gratitude. "Thank you," she said. "Your efforts are much appreciated by my instructors as well, I'm sure of it," she said a bit jokingly.

"Oh, it's nothing." The older woman said, walking around the table, still with that enigmatic smile on her face. "It's my calling in life, really." Her MDs flinched back as the materials were hoisted to the ceiling again. "Doing anything less than my best would be verging on a sin." She passed through a shaft of light, lacing her fingers together as her MDs languidly traced patterns in the air. With her deep red robes completing the effect, she looked intensely like the ordained religious figure she was, privy to mysteries most of ignorant Humanity regarded as bizzare Technosorcery.

"I just hope I will be able to put them to good use," she said. "Your best deserves my best, in turn." Though she knew little of what enemies they would be facing, Théo was eager to prove herself in combat. Training with the new weapons would be no exception.

That ethos would probably save her life. It was, to put it mildly, a dangerous galaxy at the best of times.