All Guardsmen Party Storytime (in progress edition)

So, no shit, we'd finally delivered the requested Zoanthrope. It'd taken the crippling, marooning, and deaths of two squads of Space Marines, gratuitous use of heretical xenotech, an assault on a technically-friendly civilian space station, the second worst worst warp voyage in the history of the Imperium, our arrest on trumped up charges by a traitorous Inquisitor, yet another pitched battle when said Inquisitor tried to steal the Zoanthrope for his private collection, and the general maiming of yet another squad of Marines, but we'd FINALLY delivered it.

Admittedly the bug had suffered some wear and tear during transit; what with the theoretically-impossible Daemonic possession, and the way it'd been beaten to the very edge of death by a humorously shaped piece of wraithbone wielded by enraged Space Marine. But nowhere in our orders did it say that the thing had to be in good condition. It was Zoanthrope, it was alive (if only barely), and only the most ungrateful, pedantic, asshole would dare complain about the quality of the package after the sheer hell we'd been through to deliver it…

Of course "ungrateful", "pedantic", and "asshole" were just about the perfect words to describe Inquisitor Sciscitat, and if you added "bat-shit insane" it'd cover the Magos that ran the research facility as well.

The first thing the two of them did after the Inquisitor had been released from stasis was hold a meeting with us, the Diplomacy Adept, and a few their own minions. Supposedly, it was to catch everyone up on the overall situation and plan the next move, but it was really just several hours of people yelling, lecturing, and just generally blaming us.

Seriously, EVERYTHING was our fault.

It was our fault that several members of Sciscitat's team had died during the battle in the evidence warehouse.

It was our fault that the traitorous Inquisitor had died before he could be questioned.

It was our fault that several extremely rare and valuable xenobiological specimens had escaped, died, or been turned into squigs.

It was even our fault that a several lightyear wide shadow had fallen across the warp, disrupting Astropathic communication, causing sub-sector wide political turmoil, and prompting the redeployment of several Imperial fleets to protect against a supposed hive-fleet incursion. (Okay, in retrospect putting the Daemonthrope in an Astropathic Sanctum might not have been the best idea, but how the hell were we supposed to know that? The closest things we had to experts on psi were Fio and Fumbles.)

Oh, and finally, it had apparently been our "inexcusably reckless" actions which finally gave Oak's enemies the ammunition they needed to bring charges of treason against him. So the whole entire current mess: the arrest orders issued for all of Oak's teams, the attacks on his allies under the cover of official investigations, the seizure of the research facility and Sciscitat's own imprisonment, and even Oak being forced to take his battleship into hiding; it was all OUR fault.

Or at least that's what Inquisitor Sciscitat and his minions thought. Personally, we blamed a combination of bad luck, everyone else being stupid, Orks, and the perverse nature of universe itself for at least eighty percent of all that. As for the others, the Magos didn't seem to care about anything other than his specimens, and for all his complaining, he actually seemed very interested in the Daemonthrope. And the Diplomacy adept, who'd inexplicably wound up in charge of the discussion, claimed it didn't matter either way, and encouraged everyone to focus on the next stage of their respective missions.

Our role in these "missions" was that of hapless go-fers.

See, before the arrival of the traitorous Inquisitor and the Daemonthrope's astropathic jamming aura, Oak had sent orders which assigned us to Sciscitat's retinue for the duration of some vaguely-defined investigation. Since the Inquisitor thought of us as "a bunch of juvenile, tactless, indiscreet, and dangerously incompetent meatheads", and we considered him to be a socially inept cogitator weeny with delusions of genius, why we'd been paired up like this was a bit of a mystery, but the orders seemed genuine.

It belatedly occurred to us that our decision, back on our second-ever Inquisitorial assignment, to ever-so-slightly falsify then-Interrogator Scitatat's after-action report might have been a bad idea. Sure, before we'd edited it, the report had been full of accusations of incompetence and obstruction, and it had ended with a recommendation that we all be re-assigned to a penal legion… But maybe that was how all his reports were written, and the way we'd removed all mention of our antics and put our own performance down as "Nearly Adequate" had wound up looking like high praise in comparison. Or maybe, as Twitch now insisted, Oak had seen through the forgery on day one, and this was his punishment.

Anyway, whatever the reason we'd been assigned to the asshole, we had no choice but to stick to our orders. Well actually we could've told Sciscitat and Oak to stuff it and then went off to do our own thing, but there's nothing like knowing that the Inquisition has issued a warrant for your arrest to motivate a cooperative attitude.

So yeah, Inquisitor Sciscitat was our new boss, and his first orders were to "Stay out of my way, and Assist Magos Smith in any way possible." Which is why we spent the next few days fetching, carrying, and occasionally squig-wrangling for a tech-priest who, in a totally unexpected twist of fate, turned out to be completely nuts.

Well, maybe not COMPLETELY nuts, but that was only because the Magos was so far around the bend that he was re-approaching sanity from the opposite direction.

First of all, it turned out that he wasn't actually the tech-priest that we'd seen walking around with the Inquisitor and Diplomacy Adept. It took a while, but after the third incredibly awkward conversation with the inexplicably unresponsive tech-priest, we finally figured out that it was actually the oversized servo-skull that was calling the shots. The tech-priest-looking body, as well as that giant man-beast we'd seen in the warehouse battle and a fair number of other freakish looking things, were something like a cross between a servitor and a full-body augmetic. He called them "Meat Puppets", which should tell you everything you need to know about the state of his mind.

At first some of us (mostly Tink) were rather curious about how a tech-priest winds up as a disembodied brain flying around controlling a horde of servitors and flesh-sculpted monstrosities. When Tink tried to press the Magos on the why and how of his servo-skulliness though, all he got was a vague comment about having done it to himself for political reasons and an assurance that: "Getting the brain out was the easy part. The hard part was getting the brain out." Then the Magos flew off cackling, only to return a few minutes later to scream at us (for about the fifteenth time) for killing his prize Eldar test-subject. Or maybe he'd been angry about the death of the lizard thing, or the group Bendies we let escape, or how his entire collection of genestealer cultists had been squigged. It all sort of ran together after a while.

Putting the Magos' weirdness aside, the reason we were helping the crazy cogboy was that the brainy people had decided that the planet was no longer secure. The whole debatably-heretical research facility needed to be packed up and moved via the first available Imperial vessel. Which is to say, the Occurrence Border.

You can just imagine how thrilled the Captain and Ol' Bill were to find out their ship would be playing host to a xenobiological research lab, completed with an insane Magos Biologis, numerous psychically-gifted specimens, and the damned Daemonthrope they'd only just finally gotten rid of. The only reason they limited their complaints to bitter grumbling (as opposed to orbital strikes), was the Occurrence Border's supply situation and the awkward tactical problem which had resulted from it.

See, after such a long and hard journey without resupply, the Occurrence Border was out of just about everything. So when it finally used the last of its fuel (and the recoil from its macro-turret) to slow down enough to dock with the small refuelling station orbiting above the facility, its Captain was in a rather ruthless state of mind. The ex-naval officer, having had it up to here with politely asking, begging, and (Emperor forbid) paying for supplies that were rightfully his to requisition, had broadcast his ship's Inquisitorial credentials and announced his intention to commandeer EVERYTHING. Not everything as in "everything you can spare", literally everything. As in down to the crew, atmosphere, and the station itself.

The locals objected to this of course, complaining loudly that this sort of looting wasn't even remotely within the legal limits of the Captain's Inquisitorial charter, and called for aid from the only other ship in the system: the light cruiser which had brought the recently-squished Inquisitor and his arrest team.

The light-cruiser was a standard naval vessel that had been commandeered by the traitorous Inquisitor to provide transport and overwhelming fire support for his arrest team. After the initial excitement of its arrival the ship had just sat in orbit, serving as protection, Astropathic communication provider, and storage for items that were too large to fit in the evidence warehouse; such as the facility's shuttles and a small cogitator-filled normal-space vessel that had been in orbit when they'd arrived.

It'd been a nice boring assignment for them right up until their Astropaths lost contact with the rest of galaxy. Then, while they'd been off at the edge of the system, futilely attempting to outrange the Astropathic jamming we'd unknowingly been broadcasting ahead of us, the Occurrence Border had arrived. By the time they managed to get back to the facility their Inquisitor was very dead. Left to their own devices, they probably would have just destroyed the Occurrence Border and blockaded the research facility until the arrival of further orders. Fortunately for us though, the Deathwatch Apothecary had claimed command as the technically-ranking survivor of the dead Inquisitor's retinue, and told the ship to stand down.

The light-cruiser had sat in orbit, waiting for the Apothecary to finish his business on the planet, until the Occurrence Border started its looting spree and the Station requested their aid. The ship's captain, being mindful of all the Inquisitorial bullshit going on, voxed the Apothecary for orders, and the Space Marine kicked the problem over to Scicitat, who probably made some sort of smug "just as planned" comment before voxing the Occurrence Border. The Captain was basically asked whether he'd prefer to transport on the Magos and his lab, or go toe-to-toe with a ship ten times more combat-capable than his own. The Captain went with the former, but it was a close thing.

So, while shuttle after shuttle carried xenobiological specimens, techno-heretical research equipment, and bizarre servitors into orbit, the Occurrence Border's entire crew flooded into the little station, and under the guidance of Ol' Bill and his engineers, set about looting the place more thoroughly than even the most determined Freeboota could manage. Every scrap of fuel, supplies, and equipment aboard the station was commandeered. The entire crew, down to the dependents, servitors, and family pets, was rounded up by the press-gangs and given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to earn their passage out of the system as an indentured voidsman. Finally, the handful of backwater tech-priests and Administratum scribes that ran the place (and who were technically exempt from naval conscription) were given a choice between "voluntarily" joining the crew or staying behind as Ol' Bill and his engineers sucked out the atmosphere, cut the station into manageable chunks with lance-fire, and then strapped the pieces to the Occurrence Border's hull like hunting trophies.

Of course we weren't personally around to see the entirety of the looting spree: we actually only stayed in the system for a few days before our new boss decided it was time to go, and during that time we were all very busy helping the Magos move his lab. Well, I say "we", but honestly, certain members of the team didn't pull their weight during the whole packing process.

For instance, Aimy dodged her fair share of the work by collapsing in a heap about ten seconds after the Astartes-grade painkillers she'd been given for her MASSIVE scalp wound wore off. She wound up spending the rest of her time in the facility lying around alternately moaning and swearing at the rest of us, and rode up on the first shuttle back to the Occurrence Border.

>hmmm it's been 30 min since i checked for AGP
>better check now just in case
>AGP front page

HYPE
Y
P
E

Doc, no doubt encouraged by Aimy's bad example, announced that he was too busy with medical things to do an honest day's work. At first he insisted that keeping Aimy's head from getting infected and falling off took priority over carrying boxes and herding squigged genestealer cultists. Then he just had to help the Apothecary reattach his arm and get Heart and Grumpy Marine into stasis. And after that it was all "I've got to transfer my information on Sergeant Gravis' condition, and fix the scalpel wound in my face", the lazy bastard.

Sarge wasn't any help either: he kept running off to chat with the Diplomacy and Cogitator Adepts about "conspiracies" and "politics" and "how did you know the Xenology Adept was a traitor before you shot him". This newfound laziness was a perfect example of what promotion over the rank of sergeant does to a guardsman.

The worst of all were Tink and Jim: they were so desperate to avoid some honest work that they actually left the whole planet, taking our shuttle back up to the Occurrence Border before the ship had even finished decelerating. Jim claimed he had to go warn Hannah and the tech-acolytes that someone called "The Fleshsmith" was still alive and would be coming aboard, so he might've had an actual reason, but the only excuse Tink had was that he needed to go hide Fio before the annoying little xenos wound up in the Magos' specimen collection. Of course that turned out to be a load of bullshit. Firstly, the Magos found his super-secret hiding place all of ten minutes after arriving on the ship. Secondly, all the Magos did upon seeing the annoying little xenos was point out that Tau were genetically uninteresting, and ask whether the room was the xenotech garbage dump. He then tossed the battered remains of Spot (sans-wraithbone, he was apparently keeping that for himself) onto the floor and left without waiting for an answer. So yeah, time well spent.

The point is that, despite it being our Inquisitorialy-assigned task, the only members of the team that actually did any real Magos-moving were Nubby, Twitch, and Fumbles. While everyone else made up excuses, the three of them slaved away, carrying boxes and recapturing escaped specimens while being screamed at by a crazy cogboy's disembodied head. They even used their own personal free time to collect desperately needed supplies for the team, and did they get thanked for their efforts? No! It was all:
>"We're not going to PAY you for returning our pulse weapons."
>"Deathwatch-issue hand weapons and wargear cannot be claimed as legitimate battlefield salvage."
>"That bolter wasn't 'gifted' to us. 'Gifting' is not, and never has been, an ancient Space Marine tradition. If you know where it landed, go get it and give it back to the Apothecary."
and
>"It doesn't matter if they're not going to need them anymore, we're not taking any of the facility's anti-orbital missiles with us. Even if, no, ESPECIALLY if Twitch says he can convert them to be man-portable."

Anyway, putting aside matters of laziness and ingratitude, after a few days almost everything was packed up and word came down Sciscitat had finished digging through the dead Inquisitor's underwear drawer, or whatever he'd been doing, and it was time to get ready for our mission. Not that we knew what the mission even was: the closest thing to a briefing we'd gotten was our initial meeting with the Inquisitor after we pulled him out of stasis and collected those of his retinue who'd survived the evidence-room battle.

That meeting had been singularly unpleasant. Aside from all the aforementioned yelling, realizing Sciscitat was our new boss had come as a nasty shock; he'd been an Interrogator last we'd seen him, back when he'd led our second ever Inquisitorial mission. Back then he'd been a self-important data-analysis weenie, who sat around on a small normal-space corvette stuffed to the bulkheads with cogitators, while his team did the dirty work of gathering intel and executing the over-complex he cooked up. Picture the most arrogant, annoying intellectual you've ever met, then add a fondness for self-praise filled meetings and berating his minions, and finally top it off with just enough analytical genius for him to get away with all this. On our previous mission he'd done a decent enough job of unraveling the mystery we'd been sent to solve, but in our opinion he was a terrible Interrogator, and never should've been allowed to lead field ops.

Of course that had been a while ago, and time changes everyone. He wasn't an arrogant little shit of an Interrogator anymore. Now he was an arrogant moderately-overweight shit of an Inquisitor. Oh, and this time he was convinced that we were dangerously incompetent from the outset.

Along with his charming self, the Inquisitor had also brought some of our former teammates along. The psychic eavesdropper, Snitch, was just as weasel-like and eager to report our thoughts to his boss as we'd remembered, though he'd acquired a nasty skin affliction somewhere along the line, possibly due to way he constantly used his psychic powers. The other psyker to survive that mission, Face, seemed little buffer than we remembered and carried a force-sword now, and he'd added a prissy little mustache to his pretty-boy look. Finally, noble-born social infiltrator chick was just as posh and assassin-y as we'd remembered, but had also acquired a bunch of Cyber-Mastiffs and been promoted to Interrogator.

On top of the familiar faces, the Inquisitor's retinue included several combat specialists. Well, at least it had before the whole evidence-room battle, now it was down to just a Cleric with a brand-new augmetic arm and a Sororitas-style bolter instead of the usual flamer, and a wiry guy with far too many knives who literally had "Deathcult Assassin" tattooed on his forehead. The final member of the team was the Tech-Priest who maintained the Inquisitor's surveillance toys; his chief distinguishing feature was that he hated us.

Actually, hating us was pretty universal. Snitch, Face, and the Interrogator all shared the Inquisitor's theory that were completely unfit for Inquisitorial service, and the Assassin and Cleric bore a serious grudge over how those of us in the evidence room had just edged around the big battle instead of chipping in. We tried to explain about how important dealing with the Daemonthrope had been, and how we totally would've helped them if we'd known we'd have to actually work with them later, but they didn't seem interested in listening. Their hatred was more of a mix of disgust and resentment though; the Tech-Priest's was the real deal. See, he was one of those hardcore religious types, and our collection of xenotech weapons (especially Tink's Tau-hybrid plasma gun) did NOT go over well with him. He fervently believed that we should all be killed in horrifically violent ways for our blasphemy, and while he wasn't quite crazy enough to act on that belief, he did make sure to regularly remind us that we were all damned to robot-hell.

So yeah, these people who respectively thought we were dangerously incompetent, blamed us for the death of their comrades, and wanted to burn us at the stake (or whatever the cogboy equivalent is), were the guys we were supposed to "accompany and assist on their mission". Thanks Oak.

As far as what that mission was, all the Inquisitor was willing to tell us was that he had been sent to investigate an Imperial world that was believed to be a stronghold of The Conspiracy. This wasn't exactly a wealth of information, but it was enough to convince us that we wanted absolutely NOTHING to do with it.

Seriously, he was proposing going to a world that was under control of what had been described to us as cabal of traitorous Inquisitors, you know, those guys who can requisition everything up to and including an EXTERMINATUS? I mean, as nasty as Inquisitors (especially ones mucking around with daemonic powers) can be on their own, it's their massive, nearly-unquestionable authority that really makes them really scary. Having that on your side is great, not only not having it, but actually going up against it? Not so much. What Sciscitat was proposing wasn't a stealth mission, it was a "if someone even suspects you an entire planet will hunt you down" mission, and that was just the BACKDROP. Emperor knew what sort of crazy shit the actual investigation was supposed to be centered around… oh and let's not forget that our teammates, the only people on the whole planet we could trust to watch our backs, actively hated us.

Okay, maybe that's overselling things a bit, but it really was an unpleasant sounding mission, and we responded to it in the traditional guardsmanly fashion, which is to say that we desperately attempted to weasel our way out of our orders. Sadly, the entire situation turned out to be remarkably weasel-proof. Oak's orders attaching us to Sciscitat they were far too simple and direct for us to get away with creatively misinterpreting them, and we didn't have any better luck trying to get Sciscitat to dismiss us: as distasteful as the man found working with us, he seemed to consider a "suggestion" from Oak roughly on par with a divine mandate.

Of course divine mandates tend to be open to a bit of interpretation; while Sciscitat was dead set on bringing us along, he made it clear that he wouldn't trust us to organize a piss-up in a brewery, much less perform an Inquisitorial investigation. This had led to our official designation as dumb muscle, which was just fine with us, but it had also led to The Rules, which were less so. Sciscitat had described them to Sarge's face as an attempt to "idiot proof" our part of the mission, and almost gleefully put the tech-priest in charge of writing them. That of course led to a lot of arguing, Tink's little aborted attempt at mutiny, and a desperate scramble to find where all of our old weapons had gotten to, which ended in even more yelling.

All of us had known that our supply of non-rechargeable munitions had been running low for ages: the grenades and detpacks had lasted almost to the end thanks to Twitch's hoarding, but the existence of things like krak-missile launchers was just a vague memory, and Sarge's ammo-less grenade launcher had been traded away to some tech-acolyte building a combat servitor long ago. What had been less well-known, was that the hotshot lasguns which had been shelved in favor of our pulse-weapons had been marked as "extra-knee-us" and left in the possession of a certain Ratling black marketeer in favor of more lucrative items. Nubby's justifications about how he'd been planning to just buy us new ones if we ever needed them didn't go over well with any us. Long story short, we wound up armed for our upcoming Inquisitorial mission with nothing but our sidearms and standard-issue lasguns from the Occurrence Border's armory, which sat especially poorly with Tink, who hadn't used one since basic.

Anyway, word came down that the Inquisitor had finished his pre-mission whatever and it was time to move out, so we packed up our measly armament, and for the first time since we'd left Tau space, said goodbye to the Occurrence Border.

While we weren't going to miss the horrible pile of warp-tainted scrap we'd been riding around on, its crew was another matter, so on our way out we paid a few visits to say goodbye (and make sure all of Twitch's little "surprises" had been disarmed, or at least documented).

The Captain and Ol' Bill were too busy to do more than tell us not to get killed, Jim promised to look after our stuff and make sure nobody dissected Fio, and Hannah thanked us for not trying to bring Jim. The Diplomacy Adept, who'd somehow wound up in charge of everything, asked Sarge to at least TRY to work with Sciscitat, and said he'd take care of our official report to Oak, since the Occurrence Border would be proceeding directly to the Inquisitor's hiding place. As for the other Adepts: the Cogitator Adept wasn't in his room and we didn't actually care enough to try and find him, and the Xenologist was still dead.

When we all visited the medbay Aimy wasn't really coherent enough to say goodbye. Unlike her previous two head injuries, this time every scrap of skin above her nose needed to be regrown, so her head was pretty much this giant pile of bandages and (this being a Sororitas-developed procedure after all) prayer seals. Aimy was too doped up on painkillers to really understand anything, but Sarge tried to fill her in on the situation. The rest of us just stood around speculated on whether the markswoman would still obsess over her hair, since this time her entire scalp would be regrown Sororitas-white, and whether there was some sort of energy-attack-attracting magnet embedded in her skull somewhere (Sister Valerie said she'd check). As for Doc's girlfriend, the two of them had already said their disgustingly sappy goodbyes, and all she had for the rest of us was a promise that returning without our medic would just be a very slow and painful method of suicide.

Our final stop was the poorly-hidden lab where Fio was setting all his gear back up with Fumbles' help. While Tink pulled Fio aside for a final go over of the plans for Spot's third rebuild (being used as a bludgeoning weapon by a Space Marine isn't as bad as a nuclear blast, but it's pretty close), the rest of us said goodbye to our favorite psyker. We'd really wanted to bring the little guy, but the Inquisitor had flatly refused, and we couldn't really argue. When you get down to it, a psyker who uncontrollably broadcasts his emotional state and has problems controlling his powers at even the best of times has no place on a stealth mission. Also, he didn't really get along with the Inquisitor's psykers, especially Snitch, who claimed that Fumbles was like a cross between a painfully-loud Vox unit and an unexploded artillery shell.

Anyway, it sucked leaving Fumbles behind, but at least he took the news better than we'd expected. There was some initial moping, but he actually seemed pretty relieved not to be going to a heavily populated Imperial world where he'd have to worry about religious fanatics lynching him for having oversized eyes or just being a psyker. Also, he said it would be nice to get a break from constant life-and-death struggles, or at least as close to one as you can get as a psyker on a warp-tainted scrapheap of a ship. We wished the little guy luck, Nubby tried to give him a list of not-quite-legal things to trade for if the ship made any stops, Sarge hit Nubby, and then we rounded up Tink and left the Occurrence Border.

It should've been a happy moment: there were few things we'd wanted more than to leave that horrible deathtrap… But honestly, given a real choice between whatever shit-show of a mission was waiting for us and a five year stint on the Occurrence Border, we probably would've taken the latter. It just goes to show that the Inquisition can, and probably will, ruin anything.

>Okay, all caught up. Posting speed reducing due to having to find images, proofing, etc.

To the planet, though the basic pre-combat investigative footwork, and hopefully up to where shit starts to hit the fan and the actual ops start. (I desperately want to get to where we actually start rolling dice in earnest, as opposed to just checks and scenery, but we'll see.)

The shuttle that took us to the Inquisitor's ship was one of his. Officially this was because all of the Occurrence Border's were busy strip-scavenging the station (even Tink's repaired and de-fungused stealth shuttle was used, though everyone on it kept their void-suits on), but it probably had more to do with how much harder that made it for us to sneak anything aboard. It was unnecessary of course, we had given our solemn word to follow their stupid rules after all (and we knew from experience how hard it was to get stuff past Snitch), but that didn't stop that damned Tech-Priest from inspecting our gear and baggage before he let us onto the Inquisitor's ship

The Inquisitor's ship was the same one he'd had back during our previous mission: a little corvette that was mostly just there to carry his massive cogitator array. It was small, cramped, unarmed, and didn't have a warp-drive, all of which seemed like major design flaws to us, but for some reason we hadn't been consulted when they'd built the thing. Unlike a proper ship, it was crewed by only a couple dozen professional voidsmen and tech-priests, who generally treated us like a visiting friend's incontinent little yappy dog (We got the distinct impression that they were still unhappy about the time we'd propped a dead psyker up in one of the bathrooms).

Anyway, lacking a warp-drive, the Inquisitor's ship depended on larger vessels to carry it between systems. Unfortunately, the only such ship present (aside from the Occurrence Border, which wasn't going our way) was the light-cruiser which had brought the arrest team into the system. This led to the very awkward situation where we had to ask for a lift from the ship that had recently boarded and impounded our vessel. Well, that is to say it was awkward for the Inquisitor and his minions, we dismissed the whole situation as "Not our problem" and set about making ourselves as comfortable as possible in the cramped quarters we'd been assigned.

>no, ESPECIALLY if Twitch says he can convert them to be man-portable."
Sounds like a great reason to do anything, really

Your Skitarii use nothing BUT blue guns you hypocritical robo-manchild!

Lovin' it Shaggy! Keep up the good work!

I'm really really hoping that Inquisitor Shitscat dies painfully on the coming mission. If he hadn't gotten the brilliant idea to bring Giggles the insane psyker with him on his first misson, heavy wouldn't be dead right now.

Our time aboard the Inquisitor's ship was pretty unpleasant. The problem wasn't that he and his crew did anything to antagonize us, they just ignored us in the sort of put-upon way usually reserved for racist old relatives visiting for the holidays, and we did likewise. So really, it was just like all of our missions before Sarge's forced promotion, except for one big difference: nobody let us do ANYTHING.

We'd gotten used to being on a ship that suffered near-continuous warp-phenomena, equipment failures, xenobiological infestations, and minor daemonic incursions during even the smoothest of transits. There'd always been something that needed shooting, fixing, or fortifying, or a mission to plan for, or some sort of Nubby-related scam going on. Compared to that, travelling on the Inquisitor's ship was just, well, boring. Not that we were against being bored mind you. Life in the Guard is pretty much long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror and Orks. So we were used to boredom, in fact we loved it, because the alternative tended to involve xenos, heretics, superior officers, or some combination of the three trying to kills us. It was just that we didn't have enough space to enjoy our boredom.

See, since the Inquisitor thought we were borderline-retarded and therefore a massive hazard to operational security, we weren't invited to his stupid meetings. This was fine by us: we'd hated the meetings, and were perfectly okay with him just handing us a briefing when we got to wherever we were going. Unfortunately in addition to not-inviting us, Sciscitat ordered us to stay in our quarters during all hours in which a meeting might be held, presumably in case we overheard something and somehow managed to blab it to the enemy despite being in the middle of bloody warp space.

Said quarters consisted of a single shared bunk-room and the Inquisitor's "working hours" lasted from 0700 to 2300. It was a miracle that nobody was killed.

>it's and

L I V E
I
V
E

I KNEW I was forgetting something abotu the weekend!

Let me tell you, twenty square meters with low ceilings is NOT enough space for five guardsmen. Well technically, according to the Astra Militarum regulations book which the Inquisitor gleefully cited when we complained, it's enough space for either eight standard-issue Guardsmen, twelve Ratling auxiliaries, four Ogryn, or twenty-six and a half Kriegers, but those regs are "ideal circumstances" Munitorum bullshit and everyone knows it. Except the Krieger part.

Anyway, sixteen hours a day confined in a small room with Nubby, a chronic whiner relearning basic las-gun use, a hyperactive paranoid with no perimeter to secure, Nubby, a man who just would not shut up about his absent girlfriend, the grumpiest noncom in several cubic lightyears, and Nubby was just too much. The one small mercy was that Aimy and Fumbles weren't along, otherwise we might not have even made it through the first day. As it was we were all just about ready to strangle each other by the end of the third.

Of course we didn't just sit around waiting for things to reach that point, it was obvious from the get-go that we weren't going to survive the trip unless we got a little more space. Sarge wasted a fair bit of time trying to talk Sciscitat around, but when that failed we decided to just quietly annex a few rooms which we felt were… underutilized. Unfortunately, some of ship's crew noticed us hauling our stuff into the rooms of the guys who'd gotten themselves killed during that shit-show at the research facility (C'mon, it's not like they needed all that space anymore). When the Inquisitor and all his minions showed up to yell at us Sarge made some very good points about about efficiency and the importance of keeping morale up, but since Nubby and Tink were rooting through the deceased's stuff behind him, his arguments didn't go over very well.

>it's an AGP thread

Why would you ever bring half a krieger with you? Was his death not efficiant enough for your liking?

So you can beat the next one you find to death with it, of course.

>Astra Militarum

ITS IMPERIAL GUARD YOU WONDERFUL NIGGER.

...he's crouching? Like you do when the trench you're in is too shallow to properly stand in, in-between shooting the incompetent traitor who dug it and re-digging it properly?

In that case it would fit 27 kiegers

Meat sheild obviously. Dreadnoughts aren't the only ones who still serve even in death.

He'll bite the heretics legs off!
Half a krieger can operate an emplaced gun with his feet and if he survives the deployment, he can be turned into a useful servitor.

by .5 they mean two rather short or young kriegers.

Our second attempt to expand our quarters was a bit more direct, and consisted of Tink rigging up a lascutter and cutting through the wall between us and a the storage room next-door. Sadly, he only got a quarter of the cut done before that damned tech-priest burst in and started screaming at us, and the rest of the retinue showed up before we'd decided whether we could get away with shooting the cogboy and blaming it on our combat reflexes.

That little incident ended with yet another painfully long lecture from the Inquisitor, which was capped off with a promise to kick us off his ship if we disobeyed orders again. Sarge, who was reaching critical levels of grumpiness at that point, began to respond with something along the lines of "You can try", but reconsidered as the exact nature of that threat dawned on him, and wound up struggling to maintain a poker face (and mind) while the Inquisitor ranted. When the lecture finally ended with Sciscitat and his minions storming out to return to their meeting, Sarge asked the rest of us how we felt about taking the Inquisitor up on his "offer".

That night a note was taped across from the Inquisitor's door, regretfully informing him that we'd violated his orders against screwing with the ship's systems by disabling the forward airlock's alarms, and since he was asleep at the time, we'd undertaken to kick ourselves off the ship for him. Then we'd gathered our gear, donned our voidsuits, and one short walk through a depressurized assault-shuttle bay later we were arguing with a bunch of confused navy armsmen about whether we honored Inquisitorial guests or a hostile boarding party.

>I'm aiming to post the full chapter the weekend before Thanksgiving, probably Friday the 18th.

But Thanksgiving was last month.

...

First time catching a live thread, fuck yeah.

Sorry to hear that real life shits getting in the way. Hope you make it through whatever has gone wrong, and that you can get back to 100% writing efficiency or whatever. AGP helped me through a rough patch of my life, so you have my sincere thanks.

...

After everyone stopped pointing weapons at eachother (except for Twitch), it only took us showing off Sarge's Interrogator rosette to convince the armsmen to kick the problem upstairs. Talking our way through the succession of Navy officers wasn't too hard (even if they are unquestionably inferior to the Guard, the Navy does at least speak the same language), and before long we were escorted to the section of ship that had been claimed by the Deathwatch Marines.

The Apothecary, who'd traded his damaged Power Armor for blue and gold comet-embroidered medicae robes, greeted us at the door. The Marine obviously wasn't overjoyed to find us on his doorstep asking if we could crash on the equivalent of his couch for a few weeks, but we'd apparently earned some respect from him and his team during the battle, because he let us in with no more than a pained sigh and a comment about how "Monitoring for stowaways does not fall under the purview of the Deathwatch". The Apothecary directed us towards the quarters which had belonged to the squished Inquisitor and his retinue, told us not to bother him or his patients, and that was it. No request for an explanation, or rules about what we could or couldn't do, just that special brand of apathy that is the hallmark of a good barracks-mate. If he'd been a Guardsman we'd have bought him a crate a beer, but since he was a monastic super-soldier older than all of us put together, we settled for staying out of his way.

WE'RE LIIIIIIIIIIVE

We made ourselves comfortable in short order. Twitch found a comm system and put in a requisition for a staggering amount of explosives, rations, and other supplies from the light-cruiser's stores. Nobody else had expected this to work, but since the ship's quartermaster was under the impression that the order was on behalf of the big scary Space Marines, the stuff was actually delivered. Seeing this, Nubby put in his own requisition for "all da money you got", which was met with a bit more skepticism. Sarge barely managed to bluff the Quartermaster off without the Apothecary finding out, and announced that the next person to even talk to someone from the light-cruiser's crew would be sent back to Sciscitat's ship.

Fully resupplied for the first time in ages, Twitch made a horrible, but very secure, mess of our new quarters. As a side note, most of this stuff was left in place when we reached our destination on account of the Inquisitor's silly twenty-kilo limit, and because nobody felt like cleaning it up. An official complaint from the ship's captain caught up with us a few months later, just in time to be used as evidence in fact, but it was really only a minor sidenote compared to the rest.

While Twitch fortified, Nubby and Tink gave our new quarters a thorough looting. Now, the previous occupants having been an Inquisitorial team (and a traitorous one at that), there was a fair bit of stuff that could be loosely described as "eldritch". Your average Inquisitorial team would've gotten excited and started sifting through the stuff search of intel or whatever, but honestly, when was the last time you heard of digging through a pile of eldritch shit working out well for someone? So per rule #38 of Greg Sargent's Guide to Not Dying in Inquisition, we employed The Big Box of Do Not Touch. (If you're unfamiliar with this technique, basically what you do is you take a big box, put all the weird stuff into it, and then Do Not Touch it. Very complex.)

Well, it is if yer Nubby, I guess.

I was nearly forced into observing your heathen holidays a few months back, but the owners eventually decided to to keep the US offices on a US holiday schedule.

I was sort of hoping they'd just let us have both, but oh well.

>Seeing this, Nubby put in his own requisition for "all da money you got",

you dont even need to be on the OB to have your sides taken by the warp

>Shoggy works at a Canadian-owned company

I feel this weird warmth in-between my heart and my liver.

Is this what national pride feels like?

No, that is indigestion.

Most of the stuff that wasn't Boxed found its ways into Nubby's grubby pockets, the only notable exception being an oversized plasma pistol that went to Tink, which the two of them claimed had belonged to the arrest-team's Ogryn. Upon seeing the weapon and hearing the explanation, Sarge weighed our need for a heavy-ish weapon (not to mention how annoying it had been trying to re-teach Tink basic lasgun use) against how angry certain people could get. In the end he decided not to ask any questions he didn't want answers to. Such as why nobody else had seen this Ogryn during or after the warehouse battle, or why anyone would ever give an Ogryn such a notoriously finicky weapon, or why: "PROPERTY OF THE LAMENTERS SPACE MARINE CHAPTER" was stamped along the pistol's side.

After the "cleaning" and fortifying we settled into a nice comfortable routine that mostly consisted of naps, PT, gear maintenance, a few personal projects, and more naps. Twitch and Nubby did their best to keep out of trouble and carefully planned out what supplies would be brought with us when we eventually arrived. Tink spent most of his spare time reconfiguring his oversized plasma pistol into something that could be used by someone with normal-sized hands and putting together replacements for all his Tau-tech toys. Sarge, along with being generally sergeanty, waited a few days for tempers to cool then started making regular visits to Sciscitat's ship to see how things were going. Most of the visits consisted of him just being told that there still wasn't anything he needed to know and to go away, but he was occasionally given little tidbits of nearly-useless information. Such as the fact that our destination was some shit-hole of a Hive World, that Oak still hadn't been caught, and someone or other had finally noticed the squished Inquisitor was missing. Sarge reciprocated by dumping the Big Box of Do Not Touch in Sciscitat's airlock. He was not thanked for this.

My cousin fell sick with national pride once, it was awful. See your doctor now just to be safe.

Well, not directly, it's this giant clusterfuck of franchising companies buying eachother, but the current top dog is MTY Food Groups out of Quebec. I had to go up there briefly to convince them that I actually had a purpose back when they first bought us out, but aside from that I haven't had any real reason to interact with them at all, which is what I consider an ideal working relationship.

>My cousin fell sick with national pride once, it was awful. See your doctor now just to be safe.

The lineups are to long.

It's wait in a line or spend two weeks vomiting your national colours while trying to sing your national anthem. Trust me, the line is worth it.

I had no line twice in the last year.

Theres a dead spot a little after 7 am on tuesdays. Whole place is empty.

The odd man out in all this was Doc. Instead of relaxing while he had the chance like a proper guardsman, the medic went and practically begged the Apothecary to let him assist in the treatment of Sergeant Gravis and the wounded Deathwatch Marines. Doc must've earned some actual respect from the Astartes for keeping Gravis alive, or maybe his display of fanboy-ism was just too much to ignore, because the Apothecary eventually accepted and our medic was temporarily promoted to Volunteer Nurse and Janitor. He was also made to swear this oath not never talk about any of fancy-pants medical procedures he assisted in (which the we were thankful for, since it spared the rest of us a whole lot of disgusting medical stories), but he was allowed to update us on the status of the three Space Marine patients.

According to Doc, Heart and Grumpy were out of stasis and being kept in an induced coma. Between them they were going to need four augmetics, a dozen replacement organs, over a hundred hours of bone-realignment surgery, and a few months of bed-rest, but were expected to make a more or less full recovery. Sergeant Gravis was obviously in worse shape, but had at least been cleared of the Tyranid biotoxin by some Space Marine techno-magic, and had finally been removed from his damaged Power Armor. Doc said the Apothecary wasn't quite sure if he'd be returning to duty (mentioning something about Gravis' chapter being undersupplied), but had started installing neural links for some type of specialized full-body augmetic anyway. We figured that sounded like as good an ending for him as was possible, though we were all a little unclear on what sort of augmetic a "Sarcophagus" was.

Anyway, asking about the Space Marines was the closest thing to work most of us did on the trip, so we were all in a pretty good mood when the light-cruiser finally reached our destination and we made our way back to Sciscitat's ship.

>Dreadnought Galvis

Thankfully, it only took a single day of cramped normal-space travel to reach orbit over our destination, the hive-world Haarlock's Wager. Or, to use its full name, Joseph Haarlock Sucks At Cards. We were advised not to discuss the planet's name or the names of its primary hives with the locals. It was apparently a touchy subject.

Upon reaching orbit we were subjected to that most wonderful of experiences: a customs inspection. Which explained all that stuff about what we could or couldn't bring, even if didn't explain why the Inquisitor hadn't just told us the reason beforehand. Maybe he didn't want us trying to solve the problem ourselves.

Anyway, on a normal mission the Inquisitor would've flashed his rosette and that would've been that, but Sciscitat apparently felt that wasn't discreet enough. By the time we'd hit orbit, he and his minions had done some sort of cogitator stuff to convince the locals that our ship belonged to a local asteroid-mining syndicate, and even dug out some business suits and scribe robes for everyone but us to wear. We were just given little insignias to put on our armor and asked not to accidentally kill any inspectors. Between all that and some gentle psychic manipulation from Face and Snitch, the inspection went off without any significant hitches. Though there were an awkward few minutes when they insisted on going through the pile of stuff Nubby had brought back from the light-cruiser. Luckily there weren't any laws against having a bunch of second-hand small valuables and expensive clothing (mostly of the feminine variety), and while there probably was one against ripping an all-in-one kitchen and laundry unit out of one's quarters on an Imperial Navy Vessel, transporting it was entirely legal.

Once the inspectors were packed away there was another day of cogitator stuff and meetings, and then we were handed our orders, packed aboard a shuttle, and sent down to do some Inquisiting.

I have to sleep and be up in four hours but I don't care. Shoggy, it is nice to have you back, my dude.

Well, actually it wasn't so much "Inquisiting" as "sitting around in a van". See, The Inquisitor's investigative techniques hadn't changed since his promotion. He still sat around on his ship with his precious cogitators, pouring through data gathered by his psykers, spy toys, and socialite minions until some clue or other caught his attention and he sent out his sneakier henchmen. Our role in this was that of emergency armed backup; "emergency" in this case meaning that they'd tried literally everything else short of an exterminatus.

Every morning four vehicles would exit the mid-level hab-block which served as our home base The first was the scan-van, holding Snitch, the Tech-Priest, and all their spy toys, and typically piloted by the Cleric. Then there was a pair of sporty little anti-grav vehicles which Face and the Interrogator used to get to whatever up-hive social event they were nosing around that day. The final vehicle was an acid-stained junker of a van bearing the logo of a Soylens Viridians collection service, which had apparently been sold after its cooling system failed while hauling a full load, and was occupied by five extremely grumpy guardsmen.

These elevated grumpiness levels had more to do with our assignment than the deliberate shittines of our vehicle. It wasn't that we particularly minded being relegated to backup, and we were only moderately unhappy about the fact that we were STILL hadn't been told what the actual mission was (after all, it wasn't like we wanted to go out there and do all the cloak and dagger nonsense ourselves). No, the thing that had our collective panties in a twist was that we were expected to spend about twelve hours a day DRIVING A GROUND VEHICLE around a HIVE CITY.

>dreadnought Gravis
This is something i want to see

>yfw he sees the AGP and screams in fear/anger/anticipation?

Unless you've actually been in a Hive it's impossible to truly understand how unpleasant navigating one via a ground vehicle is. If you want a general idea though, take the messiest, worst designed, most overloaded traffic system you've ever encountered and then make it three dimensional, fill any gaps with poisonous smog, and finally populate it with the most aggressive idiots this side of an Orkish Warband. Just navigating the place was a miserable experience, when you factored in our van's lack of seats, air conditioning, or proper filtration systems, it got downright hellish.

Of course hellish conditions are part of a Guardsman's job description, so we suffered through nearly two weeks of automotive torture with no more than a moderate amount of bitching. Day after day, we followed that damned scan-van around at a distance of "no more than six hundred and no less than four hundred meters", idly noting the way other drivers subconsciously made way for it but not us and how carjackers and other such bottom feeders always ignored the immaculate vehicle in favor of our obviously worthless van. Then, every night, we were summoned into the evening holo-conference with the Inquisitor to report that we'd done nothing but sit in a van all day and futilely request actual bloody seats for our vehicle. The requests were rejected of course, as were our ones for actual intel on what the mission was and orders that had an actual point aside from just pissing us off, and we were then kicked out of the meeting before operational security could be compromised by us overhearing the rest of team's reports or the Inquisitor's brilliant fucking deductions.

To be fair they did try rather hard to not let him die.

So NYC?

So, what amounted to our "day job" sucked. It was uncomfortable, stressful, and (as far as we could tell) completely pointless. Seriously, it wasn't like they the team was even doing any real missions, they were just sifting for data and were far better equipped to get themselves out of trouble than we were. Five heavily armed men opening up on an overenthusiastic carjacker, or launching an armed extraction into an up-hive fancy dress party for that matter, is the sort of thing that hostile Inquisition-types notice, and as we were repeatedly reminded by our boss, being noticed would be a BAD thing.

Honestly, it felt like every aspect of our assignment was purposely designed to piss us off, except we were pretty sure that the Inquisitor didn't actually care enough about us to rearrange the whole mission just to spite us. Well, except the shittiness of the van, that had to have been his idea, or the Tech-Priest's, we decided to split the difference and just hate them both, but not as much as we hated the van itself.

Not that our time outside of the van was any better. The Inquisitor had decided that we would "have to be as the sharks, swimming in the sea of humanity, moving silently, lest the ripples of our passage forewarn our prey". Which apparently meant that, instead of a nice securable warehouse or office complex or luxury apartment, we'd be making our base in the middle of a bloody hab block. Sarge had lodged a protest, citing the impossibility of properly securing a base surrounded on six sides by civvies without everyone and their mother noticing. This just earned him a lecture on how futile mere physical defenses were, as well as a reminder that absolutely no defensive explosives were to be used in our security measures. The ensuing argument about whether we'd been justified in blowing an entire floor of one of the Inquisitor's previous bases to shrapnel, along with the hostile hit squad that'd been on it, got Sarge ejected from the briefing.

So the entire ground team wound up crammed into handful of adjacent habs halfway up a lower-middle-hive block full of manufactorum workers, Administratum scribes, and far, far too many nosy little kids. We secured the "half" of the base which we were assigned as best we could without a proper killing field and left the rest of the team to handle their own security.

The problem of blending in was similarly divided. The Inquisitor's minions procured a wide range of disguises, complete with falsified documentation inserted into the local Administratum databases and perfect local accents. We just tacked our old Guard insignias back on and told anyone who asked that were on leave, and threatened to shoot them if they kept asking stupid questions. The rest of the team claimed this was "unprofessional" and "going to get us killed along with you idiots", but failed to provide a better alternative.

Anyway, the point is that our base was cramped, insecure, surrounded by non-guardsmen, and filled with teammates that we hated more with each passing day, and despite all that, it was STILL better than driving around in that bloody van. Really, when you get down it, a (still-populated) Hive City is just about the worst place for a squad of guardsmen, and it was a minor miracle that we made it as long as we did before things started to fall apart.

>it was a minor miracle that we made it as long as we did before things started to fall apart.

Hark, they're playing our song!

>it was a minor miracle that we made it as long as we did before things started to fall apart.

How did twitch not explode?

Literally or figuratively.

>Before things fell apart.

>it was a minor miracle that we made it as long as we did before things started to fall apart.

It started with Tink getting permanently relieved from driving duty due to a small incident involving a lack of merging room, an especially belligerent trucker, and Tink's oversized plasma pistol. Luckily, Doc was able to spoil Tink's shot, and Sarge was able to convince the traffic cops that:
>A: There was nothing sinister about a van full of heavily armed men, because
>B: We were obviously just a bunch of Guardsmen on leave, and therefore
>C: Tink's behavior was a matter for internal Guard discipline. Have a nice day officers, here's a little something for your trouble, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, please don't tell our CO.

So it really was just a minor incident with no significant impact on the investigation, and therefore not worth actually reporting to any of the very busy people on the other half of the team. Unfortunately, the police network was one of the ones being monitored by the scan-van, and the Interrogator (who was officially the ground-team leader, even though Sarge had a month or two of seniority on her bitchy ass) didn't see it that way.

We survived the ensuing lectures without murdering any teammates, though Snitch's fun habit of loudly reporting everything we were thinking made it a close thing. Further flak was then earned the following evening, when after our fifth request for vehicle upgrades was rejected out of hand, we decided to pay an after-hours visit to a "recycling" shop that Nubby had spotted. We exchanged some second-hand Imperial Navy cabin appliances for a set of totally-not-bloodstained seats and an air-conditioning unit and got a sweet "Heavily Armed Buyers" discount). We managed to get the parts back to base without any significant problems, but only got halfway through installing the stuff before the crazy tech-priest busted in, declared our upgrades to be "an abomination in the eyes of the Omnissiah", and started ripping everything back out.

Let's face it, hearing that fills us with hope. Hope that many keks will be had.

We might be bad people for this.

Higher than normal medication dosages, limited contact with civilians, and the buddy system.

It was Doc absolutely nailing his Medicae rolls more than anything though

This tech priest need to be Plan Q'd.

>It started with Tink

only had to read up to here before i started giggling uncontrollably.

>We might be bad people for this.

Maybe, but I'd rather be bad and smart than good and eaten by Tyranids. Because those are you're options.

>We might be bad people.
There's nothing wrong with laughing at the impending train wreck, right?

....right?

Tink and Twitch both lobbied hard for just killing the cogboy and blaming it on underhive mutants or something, but unfortunately he wasn't alone, and even more unfortunately, the man with him was Snitch, who called the rest of the team in and gleefully reported our murderous thoughts. Yet another painful lecture from the Interrogator followed, with our more annoying teammates chiming in to point out how useless, counterproductive, heretical, and generally incompetent we were. This was a bit more than even Doc and Sarge could put up with, and things devolved into a pointless shouting match that only wound down when both the upstairs and downstairs neighbors started banging on the floor/ceiling and threatening to call the police.

The rest of the night was a very tense affair, the high point being a private meeting between Sarge, the Interrogator, and the Inquisitor, which had involved a lot of yelling and detailed explanations of how unpleasant things would be for us if our "shenanigans" fouled up the mission. Sarge came back from that in an impressively foul mood, and was actually the one to lead us through round N+1 of the "can we get away with deserting" debate. Several ideas, most of which seemed to hinge on Guys that Nubby knew, were put forth, along with some rather over-the-top suggestions involving what could be left as a goodbye present for our teammates, but in the end cooler heads prevailed. It was agreed that, in the morning, the majority of us would go and actually apologize to the Interrogator, and see if Doc's idea to try buttering her up instead of Sciscitat would secure us some better working conditions.

Then, at around three in the morning, Twitch shot the Interrogator's dog.

>Twitch shot the Interrogator's dog.
Well, it's better than blowing it up. Kudos, Twitch.

>Twitch shot the Interrogator's dog

Here we go

>but in the end cooler heads prevailed.
>Then, at around three in the morning, Twitch shot the Interrogator's dog.

IT BEGINS

>Then, at around three in the morning, Twitch shot the Interrogator's dog.

Holy shit Twitch, what the fuck!? I bet he thought it was an Ork in disguise. Well at least they were only Cyber-Mastiffs and not actual dogs, right?

Only if the emperor laughs with you!

Aaaand here's where the Guardsmen Train leaves the rails and looses it brakes.

Well, it wasn't like it was actually a REAL dog, it was just Cyber-Mastiff. Those things have more in common with a toaster than an actual animal, and she had six of the stupid things. Well, five, but anyway, it wasn't like she didn't have a few to spare, and Twitch had TOLD her to stop having them patrol near our side of the perimeter. It wasn't that we minded having a bunch of animalistic murderous machines which only answered to a woman who hated us nosing around our quarters while we slept, no siree. It was just that the damned things had no sense of self preservation and would walk right into Twitch's traps unless specifically ordered not to. And while none of the stuff we'd been allowed to set up was lethal in and of itself, all of us had pretty violent kneejerk reactions to the sounds of a motion sensor alarm going off in the middle of the night…

Really, it had just been a matter of time, and we'd TOLD her. Frequently. With demonstrations…

For some reason she didn't appreciate it when we pointed that out to her over the smoking remains of Cyber-Mastiff F1-D0, or whatever she'd named the stupid thing. Maybe it was the way Twitch kept yelling "I TOLD YOU SO".

Anyway, that was final straw. The Interrogator claimed it had been deliberate, Sarge told her she was being delusional, the Tech-Priest suggested having us all killed, Tink said he could fucking try, several hands started drifting towards weapons, and things might've gone very poorly if the Inquisitor hadn't chosen that exact moment to call and tell us that he'd "cracked the code".

Glorious will be the day the AGP finally gives up on playing inside the system.

>its not a pet its an appliance.jpg

>Caught AGP live

Never change Twitch.

F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5F5