Editing Bleeding Out (Warhammer High)

Freya Russ rolled her eyes in exasperation.  “Dad.  Enough.  Are you ready to go?”
“Almost, almost,” her father grumbled.  Leman tugged the little cloth band around his wrist irritably.  “Does this matter that badly?  I’m kind of hard to miss.”
“Believe me, I know.  Now come on!” the perky redhead instructed, pushing her father towards the door of the mansion.  “We’re going to be late!”

The man rolled his sleeves up to the shoulder, preparing to go to work.

“Jake, you feel like grabbing some air?” Venus asked, stretching.  Her boyfriend looked up from their homework.
“Sure.  Where do you want to go?”
“Eh, how about the gardens downtown?  Great day for it,” Venus suggested, gesturing at the beautiful pseudoweather out the window.
“All right, let me grab my keys,” the pale young man said, standing up.

The man opened the latches on his military spec case, rummaging around for his tools.

“I’m glad you could make it out, Morticia,” Kelly said, downing the rest of her drink, letting the warm spring breeze blow past her on the little café patio.
“A bit cold, though, isn’t it?” her chronically-ill cousin responded, hugging her shoulders against the breeze.
“Not really,” Kelly said, raising her voice a little over the traffic.  “You’re just always cold.”

The man slid the receiver of the weapon together, gently clicking the device into place.

Roberta huffed into her vox.  “No, I don’t need a ride, thanks.  My legs still work.”
“Just checking, young madam,” her father’s chauffer said placatingly.  “Will you be home for dinner?”
“Sure, I won’t be long,” Roberta said, walking down the bustling surface street.  Remilia was already waiting at the corner for her cousin to catch up.

The man looked over the stub rifle he was building.  It looked good.  Useful.  Ready.


“That, of course, assumes that the Navy can hold Corlsic against the greenskin filth on their own,” Warmaster Horus said.  “I assume they can, too, of course, but there is a force of Salamanders within dispatch range.”
“Unnecessary,” the Emperor responded, looking over the Navy dispatch.  “I suspect that battle will be over before our intervention is needed.  Speaking of battles,” he said, smiling faintly, “how’s Isis doing with that college hunt?”
“She’s dragging her heels,” Horus grumbled.

The man slipped a few rounds into the magazine, then looked out the window at the poster of the Emperor shaking hands with Eldrad Ultran, across the street.  The man’s jaw tightened, then relaxed.  He’d make it right today.

“No, she’s smarter than that,” Lyra said, leaning back at her table.  WD slid down her shoulder to the table, sitting on the edge and swinging his legs over it.
Isis shrugged.  “If you say so.  I never thought she was a particularly good listener.”  The two girls made way as the waiter arrived with their meals, throwing a disapproving look at the tiny xeno on the table as he did.

The man chambered a round in the rifle, ejected the mag, and refilled it, sliding it back into place.  He glanced over the cardboard box as he did so: the label read .402, HPFT FT1.  The man nodded.  That would work.

Angela laughed.  “Really.  Well, I’m not much of a holovision person, but if it’s that funny,” she said with a shrug.  Miranda nodded, counting the points off on her fingers.
“One, they don’t stop for commercials every fifty seconds, two, it doesn’t have any of that insipid pause-for-laughter crap that throws off every other comedy out there, and three, it’s actually funny, that’s more than most other shows out there,” she added wryly.


The man clicked the bipod down, carefully locking it in place.  He stretched out on the towel he had padded up underneath him.

Farah slowly spun her keyring over her fingers, waiting for the call.  At long last, her vox buzzed, and she snatched it up.  “Hey, is it ready?” she asked eagerly.
“Sure is,” Hana reported.  “Come pick it up.”
“Awesome,” Farah said, heading out the door already.  “Be right there.”

The man snugged his rifle against his shoulder, sighting down the highlighted scope.

“Nah, too far,” Furia said, flicking a butt into the trash.
Simon rolled his eyes.  “Fine, somewhere closer.  Reidel’s?  It’s quieter, at least.”
“Works for me,” Furia said uncaringly, shrugging her tattered leather jacket on.

The man slowly squeezed the first of the two double-set triggers.  *Click.*

Victoria paused in front of the store window, adjusting her hair in the reflection.  The Twins shared a weary expression.  “Vicky.  It’s still there.  We can go.”
“Not yet,” Victoria said absently.  “Hang on.”
“Fuck it,” Cora grumbled, walking past her cousins.  “Catch up when she’s done.”

The man slid his finger down the curve of the second trigger, pulling gingerly.  Such a light break…there.  *Click.*

“There you are,” Faith scolded, tapping her foot as Petra caught up with her at the door to the seminary.  “I thought you got lost.”
“That does not happen,” Petra said evenly.  She cocked her head, frowning.  “Did you hear something?”

*BOOM*

Kelly blinked as something ran into her eyes.  She wiped her hand over her face, and it came away red.  “What?  Where did that come from?” she asked aloud, then looked up as another dot of blood appeared on the white tablecloth in front of her…
As Morticia, daughter of Death Guard Lord Primarch Mortarion, slumped back in her seat, blood pouring from a hole in her chest.

The man nodded once.  A clean torso hit.  At that range, quite a feat.  He racked the bolt, chambering the next round, then decided not to fire it, setting the rifle down gently and waiting for the end.

“MORTICIA!” Kelly screamed, lunging across the table.  Half-remembered emergency protocols kicked in, as she ducked under the metal mesh surface, her eyes racing across the screaming crowd.  Half a dozen Treasury agents sprinted through the panicked group, one lashing out with elbows and pistol butts, forcing passers-by to the ground.
“Down, down, everybody down, now!” he screamed, sweeping the crowd with his bolt pistol.  The other five dropped into defensive positions around the hysterical Kelly and Morticia, who had slumped out of her chair to the ground.
“Dispatch, Code Red Seven, shots fired, package critical, need a lift lift lift!” another one reported crisply.  With a flash of light, both girls vanished, disappearing air with a crackling of displaced air.  All six Treasury agents leaped to, sweeping nearby windows and doors for any sign of a gunman.


The man quietly settled back against the bare concrete walls of the room, crossed his arms over his chest, and rested.

“SHOT?!  My daughter’s been SHOT?!”  Mortarion roared into the vox.  The eyes of every single one of the Navy officers in the tiny conference room shot open, as the breathmasked Primarch rose to his feet in horror.  “When?!  Is she…no?  WELL BLOODY FIND THEM!  I’m on my way!” he yelled into the speaker, running out of the room as fast as he could, leaving the Naval officers stunned in his wake.

A Treasury officer in the gold and black ‘beehive’ uniform of a security agent stepped up to the Emperor’s shoulder, as Horus and Lorgar Aurelian paused their heated discussion of the Ork encroachment on Imperial shipping.  “My Liege, Field Sergeant Carver reports that Lady Morticia has been shot by an unknown sniper, only seconds ago, in the township outside Hive Tetra,” the officer whispered urgently.
“Lock it down,” the Emperor said grimly, standing immediately.  “Send in the Seekers.”
“Aye,” the man said softly, pressing a few buttons on his wrist implant.

In a garage under the Hive Tetra airlock, a flock of hovering sensor servitors leapt from their racks, swooping out into the sunlight, spreading over the wooded, artificial township.  The streets below jammed up in an instant as Treasury officers and plainclothes Arbites fanned out over the community, encircling the entire area in a ring of police.

“Of all the days to NOT wear my teleporter to work,” Mortarion snarled, angrily clenching his fists in the back of his aircar.  The driver had the pedal floored, and an escort of Treasury agents in their airtrucks were clearing traffic ahead.  They weren’t going fast enough, though.  They weren’t going fast enough.


Freya pulled up in her aircar to the curb, bounding out and slamming the door.  Her father stepped out behind her, grimacing at the milling crowds outside the school.  “Why are the crowds here so huge for such a small student body?” he asked in genuine confusion.  “It baffles me.  It’s a season game.”
“Compliment my driving,” Freya instructed, tossing him her keys.
“You didn’t get us killed,” Leman noted after a seconds’ thought.  Freya had just enough time to glare at him before a tidal wave of black and gold uniforms swept over them both.
“Wha-?” Lord Russ started.
“Back in the car, sir, NOW,” the nearest Treasury agent said quickly, guiding Freya into the car’s passenger seat.
“What the hell’s going on?” Russ demanded, planting his hand on the roof of the car.
“Morticia’s been shot,” the guard said brusquely.
“…Understood,” Russ said, climbing back in and letting the Treasury agent start the car back up.

Jake glanced out the side window of his air car and groaned.  “Shit, it’s the cops.  Was I speeding?”
“Not police or Praetors,” Venus said after a second’s appraisal.  “Treasury?”
“What did I do this time?” Jake grumbled, sliding over to the side of the airlane.
“Not you, I don’t think,” Venus said softly, staring at the car.  The aircar stopped over an emergency service strip and the Treasury car slid to a halt in front of it.  Several beehives jumped out and ran up to the windows, pulling the doors open as Jake hurriedly unlocked them.


“Lady Venus, come with us at once.  Code Red has been declared,” the first beehive said, pulling Venus bodily out of the car.
“All right,” Venus said.  Jake stood up to follow her, but another beehive pushed him back in to the car, cracking his head on the doorframe.
“Venus, what’s going on?”
“Sergeant, let him come with us,” Venus said, trying to shake the beehive’s arm off of hers.
“No,” the beehive said flatly, grabbing Venus by the collarbone and pushing her down into the Treasury car.  The car lifted, the other beehives jumping into the closing doors, and took off, lights and sirens blaring.  Jakes stared at the receding car, cradling his swelling head.
“What…the hell?” he muttered, climbing back in.  He took off for his apartment, hoping the news holos would provide some answers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt our program to bring you a news break,” the pile of clothes behind the news desk said, reading the date stream across her retina.  The cameras broadcast her message across the Sol system.  “As of fifteen minutes ago, Lady Morticia, of the Imperial Royal family,” as if there were any others, “has been shot.  The Arbites have cordoned off the area, and the Lady has been transported to a hospital, where she is undergoing emergency surgery.  We will keep you updated as news arrives.”

Mortarion stared at the thick glass separating the operating room from the viewing room, his knuckles white.  The glass obscured all details; all he could see was a cluster of humanoid shapes around an operating table covered in blue gauze and sheeting.  Kelly and her father, Lord Curze, were sitting in the chairs behind him, Kelly still reeling, and Curze seething, shooting acid glares at the beehives guarding the door.


A doctor tapped on the glass, making Mortarion jerk his head back.  The robed surgeon jerked a thumb to the side, and Mortarion nodded, opening the door next to the window.  Before he could come in, however, the surgeon rounded the corner, poking the Primarch in the chest with an angry finger.
“Lord, you’re not helping.”
“It’s my bloody daughter,” Mortarion snarled.
“And she’s got more problems than a bullet in the lung, Lord,” the surgeon said coldly.  “If you REALLY want to be of help, go get about five doses of that medicine in her inhaler and the prescription card.  Quickly.”
“Her medicine?”  Mortarion blinked his dead, gray eyes.  “It’s not-”
“QUICKLY, Lord, we may have to go to intravenous and do so with little forewarning,” the surgeon said, closing the door before Mortarion could protest.  The Death Guard watched the door in quiet rage for a long second, before his shoulders slumped.  He wearily dug a vox out of his pocket and tapped his butler’s speed-dial, muttering instructions into the microphone.
“…Dad?” Kelly asked quietly, squeezing her hands together.
“Kelly?” Konrad asked, his attention drawn back to his daughter.
“She’s alive, right?” the black-haired girl asked, her voice tight and confused.
“She is, Kelly, don’t worry,” Curze said, lowering his voice.
“It was a sniper,” she managed, her eyes tracing the hairline cracks between the floor tiles, finding security in the pattern.  “I didn’t even hear the shot, he must have been…”
“Baby, it’s OK, you don’t have to talk,” Curze said, glancing at the clock, and cursing every single traffic light between his wife’s car and the hospital.


“A sniper?” Remilia asked, paling.  The beehive driving the truck with her and Roberta crammed in the back nodded.
“Aye, ma’am, don’t know more than that.”
“Is she going to make it?” Remilia asked in shock.
“Don’t know more than that,” the driver said again.
“Where are we going?” Roberta asked, eyeing the row of beehives along the passenger bench of the truck.
“The Palace bunker,” the driver said, swinging the wheel to round a blockade, lights ablaze and sirens squealing.

“I understand,” Andrew said wistfully, listening to Hana explain the circumstances of her abrupt departure.  “Well…I’ll talk to you later, huh?”
“Sure thing, Andy,” Hana said.  “You take care, OK?  This could go on for a while,” she added, glaring at the mass of beehives and Arbites guarding the tiny bunker.

The surgeon returned, sliding his gloves off and dropping them in the trash inside the door, closing it behind him with a sigh.  Mortarion was on his feet in an instant, walking over to the window and staring through it at the tableau of surgery beyond.  “Well?” he demanded.


“Lord Mortarion, your daughter will probably not agree with me, but…she is the luckiest girl I have ever seen,” the doctor said tiredly, tugging off his mask.  He grimaced as the sterile air washed over him, loosening his scrubs’ collar.  “It was a stubber shot, flatpoint.  The round impacted on the top of her seat back, and fragmented.  Only a small piece actually hit her.  The rest lodged in the chair,” the doctor said, straightening up.  “The frag passed clean by her sternum, and somehow did so without pulping her heart.”
Mortarion sagged against the wall, hanging his head in relief.  The doctor continued.  “It will be a good long time before she can speak, though, sir, it clipped her lung on the way through.”  The Death Guard Primarch nodded, holding out the little metal tin of medicine from their house.  The doctor took them silently, slipping them into his pocket.  He waited a moment longer.  “Sir?  Any questions?”
“No, no,” Mortarion said slowly, staring through the thick glass at his daughter’s table, clenching his fist in helpless emotion.  “…thank you, Doctor.”
“Certainly,” the surgeon said, bowing back into the operating room at the dismissal.
Curze stood, stepping back from his daughter as his wife arrived at full speed, slamming into Kelly.  The leather-and-gauze-clad teenager snapped out of her trance to look briefly astonished before she vanished into her mothers’ panicked embrace.
“KELLY!  Oh god, honey, are you hurt?!” she gasped out, a cadre of Treasury agents filing in behind her.
“…Not really,” Kelly said, shuddering.  Her mother pulled back a few inches and stared at her anxiously.
“Honey, what happened?”
“I think she needs to rest up a bit before she’s ready to tell us,” Konrad said gently.  Kelly nodded, once.
“I…need a little time,” she said flatly.

Jake sat on the couch in his apartment, staring at the holoscreen in his living room, more or less the same way half the human population of the planet was, at that moment.  His parents sat on either side of him, watching in silence as news anchors and reporters repeated the same few static lines the Treasury had stated.  “As of now, the shooter has not been apprehended,” the reported said for the tenth time, showing a looping holo of a Treasury vehicle parking at the scene of the shooting and a team of forensic officers examining the site.
“What the hell…” Jake muttered.  “How have they not caught the guy?”
“They probably have, and just don’t want to air it,” his father said.  “How else could they know how many there were?”  The vox rang.  Jake leaned forward and grabbed it out of the cradle, muting the screen.
“Hello?” he asked breathlessly.
“Jake, hey, it’s Freya,” the voice on the other end said.  “Venus just arrived here, and she wanted me to call you and say she’s OK.  She left her cell in your car.”
“Oh, yeah,” the young man realized, thinking back to the chaotic extraction.  “I have it.  Uh, how are you doing?  And where are you?”
“We’re fine, we’re at the Palace,” Freya said, putting her hand over the mic for a second.  She looked over the small crowd of nobles and royalty in the grim little bunker.  “They’ve got most of us here, but…well.”
“Yeah.  Well, thanks for the update.  How’s she doing?” Jake asked.
“No clue, I can’t get a hold of Kelly,” Freya said worriedly.

Hana leaned forward in her chair, staring at the little screen in the panic bunker, taking in the news.  Several of the other Royal Daughters clustered around, waiting for…for something, anything, that would explain the day they were having.
“So far, the Royal branch of the VIP Protection Office has refused to comment on the motives of the shooter or shooters responsible for this attempted murder,” the anchor said, a looping image of a forensics officer poking a bloodstained table in the background.  “However, sources close to the Treasury have stated that the search is intensifying as the lockdown of the township, Startseite, is now extending to the nearby hive entrances.”
“And by ‘sources close to the Treasury,’ of course, he means a different news channel, since they’re all saying the same damn thing,” Furia grumbled, balling a fist.  She stood from her chair and stomped angrily over to the bathroom, as Miranda slid into her seat.
“At least Morticia’s OK,” she said faintly, rubbing her eyes distractedly.  The psychic pressure of the whole planet reacting at once was overwhelming her.  Angela looked on in sympathy.
“And Kelly.  Have they-” she started to ask, before the news anchor suddenly touched his earpiece.
“E-excuse me, viewers, but we…we have a new development,” the anchor said, staring into the camera as more information poured into his ear and eyes.  “The shooter has been captured.”

The man sat on a steel chair in a windowless interrogation room, staring with mild interest at the inside of the two-way mirror.  He’d never been arrested before.  It was new.
A team of Treasury agents had swarmed in, kicked the rifle away from him, and zapped him with some kind of energy weapon.  He had woken up here, with a splitting headache and a group of Arbites staring at him coldly.
He’d been read his rights, curtly and clearly, and been offered a lawyer.  He had politely declined.  He had no argument to make.
The door swung open, and a man in a neat black suit walked in, a small recorder in his hands.  He sat down at the table, closing the door behind himself as he did.  He clicked the recorder on and started talking.
“My name is Arthur.  What’s your name?”
“Useless,” the man said.
“I can hardly converse with you if I don’t know your name,” Arthur pointed out.
“No, my name is Useless.  My father was very dull.”  Arthur stared at the man for a moment, then sighed and dug out the wallet the man had carried when he had been captured.
“Says here your name is Ulysses Keiter.”
“Maybe, but I’m Useless.  To my friends,” the man said, shrugging.  Arthur nodded slowly.
“All right, Siuer Keiter.  I’m the lead legal counsel to the Emperor’s Courts, representing the Treasury and VIP Protection offices.  They would very much like to know why you shot Lady Primarch Morticia this morning.”
The man’s mouth dropped open.  “I…did what?”
“You shot a Lady Primarch.  A sixteen-year-old girl.  Royalty too.  Why’d you do it?”
“I didn’t shoot a Lady Primarch!” the man exclaimed.  “I didn’t!”

“The slug we found in her back matched the ones from your rifle’s magazine perfectly,” Arthur said.
“But I didn’t!  I swear, I didn’t!  All I did was shoot some random bitch at the café!  Some greedy bitch!” the man said, slapping his hands down on the table and propelling himself upwards, voice rising to a desperate shout.
“The ‘greedy bitch’ you shot is the daughter of Lord Primarch Mortarion,” Arthur said, concealing his own surprise.
“NO!” the man said, paling.  He gripped his hands on the edge of the table in desperate fear, every inch of his body racing with adrenaline-fuelled horror.  “No, no, no, no, I didn’t, I didn’t!  I shot…I…she was just some rich bitch, some little moneyslut from Startseite, nobody who…no…”
“Nobody who…what?” Arthur asked.
“Nobody who…” the man sank back in his chair, his hands shaking.  “…nobody…”
“Just a nobody?  Why did it not matter who you killed?” the lawyer asked.
The man’s eyes widened, shock grabbing him and shaking him by the stomach, until he lurched out of his chair and violently emptied it into the drain on the floor, heaving until he felt like his sides were going to implode.
“No…” he managed, spitting the taste away.
“So, it did matter who you killed.  Just pick a rich girl and shoot?” Arthur said, shaking his head.
The man sank down to his knees, holding himself over the drain, eyes and skin white with shock.  He couldn’t answer.
“May I assume you want that lawyer now?” Arthur asked.  The man nodded once.

The Emperor opened the door into the bunker, taking in the tableau of anguish.  His grandchildren – and a few others – were arranged around holoscreens and tables, all looking angry or scared.  His son Leman was there, and spotted the Emperor first, gently shaking Freya’s shoulder.  “Hey.  Short stuff.  Look who’s here.”
Freya looked up blearily, and spotted the Emperor at the door.  She launched out of her seat and nearly tackled him, holding back tears.  “Grandpa, Morticia’s hurt,” she managed.
“I know,” the Emperor said heavily, as the rest of the room took notice.  The guards snapped off brisk salutes, the daughters generally queued up for a hug of reassurance, and the assorted boyfriends and others just stared or genuflected.  “I’m glad the rest of you are safe.  Where are Isis and Lyra?”
“On the way, my Liege,” one of the guards said, tapping his earpiece.  “They were in a café in the middle of a mall, didn’t want to start a panic.”
“Very well.”  The Emperor made eye contact with Russ, and jerked his head towards the hall.  Russ nodded and walked out discreetly, as the Emperor gradually disentangled himself from the flock of his granddaughters.  As he closed the door to the hall, Russ glared at the nearest guards until they edged off a few reluctant meters.
“Did they find the shooter?” Russ asked.  “The news said it was one man.”
“It was, and they did.  He’s being interrogated now,” the Emperor said.  He hesitated before delivering the next line.  “And it seems that Morticia was not the target.”
“What?  Who was?  Kelly?” Russ asked in surprise.
“Apparently not.  I’ll let you know when I have more,” the Emperor said, turning back down the hall.  “Take care of them, Leman.”

The man huddled against the surface of the interrogation room table, trying to die.  Arthur kept pressing.  “The woman you were trying to shoot, you’d never met her?”
“I don’t know anyone,” the man said, his head reeling.
“Listen to me, Ulysses, you need to focus, here,” his lawyer said, trying to get his client to pay attention.
“No, no, no, no, I’m nobody, I didn’t, I couldn’t,” he mumbled, squeezing his fingers against his skull until the knuckles turned white.  “No no no…”
“All right, then.  Tell me why you decided to shoot someone this morning,” Arthur said, hoping that it would be enough to break the man from his chattering.
“…I had to do it…” he whimpered.
“Had to shoot someone?” Arthur pressed.  The public defender glared at the Emperor’s counselor, but the reedy voice from the tabletop kept going.  “…It’s too much; they have to be stopped…”
“Who has to be stopped?” Arthur demanded.
“…those selfish vermin…” the man muttered, then shot bolt upright in sudden rage, his teeth clenched.  “Those self-centered TRASH!”
“Who?”
“Those PARASITES!” the man roared, then lowered his voice to a hateful whisper.  “Those Startseite and New Arks and Albiona parasites…”
“Those are the three richest cities in the entire system,” Arthur said.  “I assume that isn’t a coincidence.”  He leaned back in his seat, glaring at the man.  “Was it?”
“Of course not!” the man shot back.  “They’re a DISEASE!”

Arthur nodded slowly, thinking.  “You know.  I was a senior DA for Startseite for two years.  One thing I learned, is that there’s really only six reasons that someone ever, ever commits a high crime.”  He raised his fingers and counted along.  “Money, compulsion, madness, ideology, ego, and conscience.  You’re not completely insane.  So that’s madness gone.  Which other one are you?  Hmm?  Compulsive?”
“Stop trying to provoke my client with such juvenile arguments, Sieur Hane,” the PD said tartly.  “Ulysses, we’re leaving.”
“No,” the man said, jerking his arm away from his lawyer’s grasp.  He turned to glare back at the counselor.  “I’ll tell you.  This was payback.”
“Ah.  Ego, then?  Were you trying to kill someone who had insulted you?” Arthur said, playing the role a bit longer.
“Insulted me?” the man said coldly, leaning forward, his remorse melting away.  “No.  DAMAGED me.  Like I don’t matter.  Like I don’t have a place in this Imperium.  Me, or anyone else who wants things to get fucking BETTER around here!”
“Do tell,” Arthur said patiently.
“This Imperium…it’s straining at the seams,” the man said angrily, his eyes turning to the table, staring right through it to some unknown destination.  “The parasites and the real people.  Can you even tell us apart?”
“ ‘Real people,’ eh.  Define ‘real.’”

A pair of forensics officers gingerly lifted the rifle, carrying it over to the air-tight evidence case in the back of their truck.  Neither of them saw much point, since the killer had already been caught, but the media had this strange idea that the more famous the crime, the more twists and turns there were in the trial, so they did it anyway, both studiously avoiding the literally hundreds of reporters and on-lookers outside the police cordon.  At the edge of the ring of Arbites and beehives, a small cluster of formally-uniformed Treasury officers were briefing the press.
“No, ma’am, we do not yet know why this attack was launched, but I have been authorized to report that it does not appear to have been part of an assault on the Royal Family specifically,” the officer at the front of the cluster said, before raising his hands to head off the surge of questions.  “I will say that the shooter seems to have been working alone.  Lady Morticia is stable and undergoing treatment.”
“Major, do you know how long this attack was planned?” one reporter yelled, brandishing a microphone like a cudgel.
“No comment,” the Major said.  Another reporter stepped up, waving their hand.
“Major, for the people elsewhere in the Imperium, what can you tell us about the attacker?”
“It was a male, working alone, Terran, and that’s all we have to say so far,” the Major said.  A beehive stepped up to his ear, whispering a new dispatch.  The Major nodded slowly, then turned his attention back to the anxious blob of reporters.  “That’s all I have time for, folks, thank you for your patience.”  He stepped back within the cordon, two more beehives brandishing riot shotguns stepping up to fill the empty spot.

Arthur stepped into the bunker, eyeing the sorry crowd.  The guards had been forewarned of his arrival, and silently lined up against the walls, as the lawyer nervously cleared his throat.  “Forgive me, Lord Russ, Ladies Primarch, but I wanted you all to hear the news.”
“Who are you?” Furia asked bluntly, as the other girls took notice of their visitor.
“My name is Sir Arthur Hane, madam, Chief Counsel to the Emperor’s Courts, and I was present for the interrogation of the man who shot Lady Morticia,” Arthur said, drawing the immediate attention of nearly everyone in the room.  Before he could continue, the door swung open again, and Isis and Lyra walked in, completing the set.  The others welcomed them in, as Arthur took advantage of the pause to collect his thoughts.
“I suppose I should say…first and foremost…I’m sorry you all had to go through this.  I can’t imagine what it’s like,” he said solemnly.
“Don’t try, either,” Lyra said.  “What happened?”
“Apparently…” Arthur hesitated as the enormity of what he was about to say held him up.  “Apparently, he wasn’t aiming for Lady Morticia at all.”
“WHAT?!” Roberta snapped, as most of the other people in the room shared a look of astonishment and various other proclamations of disbelief.  “Then what the hell was he doing?!”
“Apparently, he thought that killing a random passer-by in the richest city on the planet would…break the Imperium free of cultural inertia,” the lawyer reported uncomfortably.  “He’s a long way from rational.”
“So this was a political statement?” Roberta pressed.

“He himself said that he was proving a point,” the lawyer replied cautiously.  “However, I must repeat that Morticia was not the target.”
Cora sank down into her chair, head in her hands.  “She…was just unlucky?  How…”
“How did the shooter not know who she was?” Victoria demanded.
“Well, his roost was over two klicks off, madam, it would have been almost impossible to identify someone at that range.  Especially since he wasn’t specifically looking for her.”  Arthur shrugged uncomfortably.  Why, he wondered, was he having more trouble talking to a room full of young women than he did a room with a hardened killer in it?
The door swung open again, and the guards on either side snapped to attention.  The Emperor walked back in, eliciting a chorus of confused questions from the Royal daughters.  He greeted them in turn, before turning to his counselor.

“My Liege,” Arthur said, bowing respectfully.
“Stand up, Hane.  We need to talk about this revelation you’ve had regarding the man who shot my granddaughter,” the Emperor replied.
“Yes, Sire,” Arthur said, straightening back up and marshaling his thoughts.  “Well, I can’t run it as a murder case since he didn’t actually kill anyone, but I could try to get him on the Attempted Murder charge.  That said, Sire, I suspect I would find more success if I offered him a plea, of Attempting an Act of Terrorism.”
“And what’s the sentence for that?” Remilia asked.
“The sentence for accepting a plea of guilty would be seventeen years per act,” Arthur reported, “and since it’s his first charge, did not resist arrest, purchased the gun legally and didn’t break into the building where he fired from…it may be the best I can do.”
“Seventeen years in prison for trying to kill a member of the Royal Family?” the Emperor asked quietly, his face darkening.  “Unacceptable.”
“Sire…he wasn’t trying to kill a member of the Royal Family,” Arthur said, shrugging helplessly.
“Then do as you see fit, Sieur Hane,” the Emperor said grimly, turning away before his disgust became too evident.  He addressed his granddaughters next.  “You are, of course, all welcome to stay here, but since the threat seems to have abated, you may choose to return to your homes, instead.”
“I’ve sure had enough of this place for one lifetime,” Roberta said heavily.

Several hours passed.  A small ocean of reporters lapped at the base of the Palace gates, waiting for a chance to grab the images of the Royal Daughters.  None were so fortunate, since they left as they arrived: in Treasury vehicles or their own cars, flying back to their respective families’ homes.
Andrew had been nearly pacing in his room hen his vox finally rang, with Hana’s tone.  He snatched it off the table.  “Hana?” he asked breathlessly.
“Hey, Andy.  I’m back home.”
“Thank God.  Is it cool if I come over?”
“No, sorry.  The Treasury guys are still swarming the place, and I don’t think they’d let you in,” Hana said regretfully, looking out the window to the street, where a Treasury vehicle was parked in nearly every spot.
“Ah, damn.  Well, call me as soon as you can, all right?”
“Of course.”

The next day, for the people of the Imperium, couldn’t have been much farther from a normal Monday.  The entire Palace district, and the towns around it, were still crawling with Arbites and Treasury, but the airlanes had been released, and the sky was thick with people trying to catch a glimpse of where the shooting took place.
The lockdown continued. Though Imperator High was open for classes, the place looked like a firing range, with beehives and local police at every corner. None of the Royal family even attended, but the paparazzi was still clustered at every corner, catching shots of their neighbors and boyfriends and distant relatives, dispersing after the bells.

Jake made his way back to his car, wondering if it was too soon to call, and deciding that he didn’t care.  Sitting down in the cab of his aircar, pointedly ignoring the reporters clustering outside the parking lot, he flipped his vox open and called Venus’ number, then jumped a handspan sitting down when it went off from the cupholder next to him. He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed, turning off the vox where she had dropped it the previous day.
Idly, he started up the car, wondering if the Treasury would let him return it. A thought struck him, and he dialed her house. The vox immediately turned off in his hand. “Thought as much,” Jake said to himself, starting the engine.  The autopilot lifted him smoothly off the ground.
“Let’s try…this,” he said, dialing the house again, this time with Venus’ vox.  The cell buzzed once, and an unfamiliar voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Uh, hello.  I’m trying to return Lady Venus’ vox?” he tried.
“Excuse me?” the voice on the other side said, chilling about seventy degrees.
“She left it in my car yesterday,” Jake said, suddenly placing the voice, “after you pulled her out of it.”
“Sir, the Royal Family is uninterested in solicitation,” the voice said flatly.  “Lady Venus will be free to retrieve any property of hers after the lockdown ends.”
“Solicitation,” Jake said.  He stared at the vox for a second.  “All right.”  He tapped an extension number into the vox and waited.  A moment later, the vox sounded another dial tone.

“Hello?” Lord Vulkan’s voice said on the other end.
“Hello, S…Vulkan. It’s Jake.  I found Venus’ vox in my car,” Jake said quickly, before the no-doubt-enraged vox operator could cut him off.
“Oh, yes, hello, Jake.  Yes, she was wondering where it was.  Are you offering to drop it off?”
“I’m in the neighborhood, yeah,” Jake said, glancing out at the ocean of red, gold, black, and orange uniforms on the ground beneath him. “But I doubt they’ll let me in.”
“True. Can you just bring it back to your apartment, and I’ll send someone to pick it up?” Vulkan asked, from the line in his office.
“I certainly…could,” Jake said.
“Ah.” Vulkan was quiet for a moment, then snorted. “What the hell. Come on by. I’ll waive your car for the security.”
“Thanks. I’ll be by in a few minutes,” Jake said, then tapped his finger against the microphone. A moment later, he heard the *click* as the Treasury agent on the main line hung up, and smiled. “Vulkan?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“No problem, Jake.”

Several minutes later, Jake parked his aircar outside the now-familiar mansion, grabbed Venus’ vox, and clambered out, noting the cluster of beehives at the door.  Slipping the vox into his pocket, he walked up to the sealed door, reminded subtly of the last time he had seen Treasury agents standing outside a locked door, and glad that his previous verbal sparring partner hadn’t returned.
Before he could even reach the door, however, one of the Treasury agents at the door spoke up.
“Be aware, sir, that your presence here continues at Lord Vulkan’s sufferance.”
“The house is ringed by bolter turrets, Sergeant, everyone’s here at his sufferance,” Jake shot back, tapping his pocket.  “I’m just here to return Venus’ vox.”
“Then you won’t mind when we keep this entire visit of yours under recording, just for the sake of clarity,” the beehive said crisply.
“I can think of four or five different, very good reasons why you really shouldn’t do that,” Jake said on a moment’s reflection. Before the beehive could reply, however, the door creaked open, and Venus launched out of it, squeezing Jake in a bear hug.
“Mmmph, tookyousolong,” she managed, burying her face in his neck.
“Sorry, baby,” Jake said, squeezing her back.  “How are you feel-”
“Get in here,” she cut him off, pulling the door back open.  He followed her back in, ignoring the glowering beehives behind him and shutting the door.

Venus’ arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him into a vice-grip.  “I needed to see you,” she muttered darkly.
Jake turned around and returned it, directing a stare of malice at the beehive loitering at the bottom of the stairs.  “I’m here,” he said softly, returning his attention the girl clutching his shirtfront.  “How are you feeling?”
Venus tilted her head back and glared at him, red-hot light bathing his face.  “Guess,” she said bitterly, then immediately turned her eyes away from his hurt expression.  “I’m sorry.  That…damn it.”
“It’s all right,” he said, gently disentangling her from his clothes and directing her towards the couch in the sitting area.  “Have you heard?  The Heads are just repeating the same things over and over.”
“She’ll make it.  When?  Don’t know,” Venus said, dropping heavily on the leather sofa.  Jake sat down next to her and threw an arm across her shoulders.  “But she’ll live.”
“Good.  Good.”  Jake leaned back on the sofa and searched for something to say.  “Here,” he said, digging the vox out and dropping it on an end table.
“Mmm.”  Venus dug her fingers into the couch, clearly at a loss as much as he was.  “…guards give you any trouble?”
“A bit, but I don’t blame them.  Thank your dad for me, ok?  For letting me in,” Jake added, rationalizing that his odds of actually talking to Vulkan himself were pretty low.
“Yeah.”  Venus sighed, leaning back into his arm and closing her eyes.  “…What do you have planned this weekend?”
“Uh, just the last Senior Project report…what did you have in mind?”
“Well, a few of us were planning to go visit Morticia if we could.  It would mean a lot to me if you could go,” she said.

“Sure thing, I’ll go.”  Jake said.  “When should I be here?”
“I’ll have to pick you up.”  Venus sighed again, squeezing the leather until it creaked in her hands.  “This is not a fun way to be reminded of your own mortality.”
“There’s a fun way?”  Jake quipped.
Venus managed a snort of laughter.  “Probably not.  Uncle Mortarion called from the hospital, this morning.  He said she was still out cold, but she’s recovering.”
“Good,” Jake said.  Venus shook her head.
“Why Morticia?” she asked of nobody in particular.  “Why her?  The poor thing barely even sets foot outdoors at the best of times, and then…” She opened her eyes and stared into space, lighting up the corner of the room with a diffuse red glow.  “It’s just not fair.”
Jake grimaced.  “No.  It isn’t.”  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in.  “But what can we do?”
“I dunno,” she said sadly.  “I dunno.”  Her eyes slid shut again as she leaned into him.  “…you’d think I’d be used to this happening by now.”
“It’s happened before?”  Jake asked.
“Yeah.  I told you, someone tried to shoot Grandpa once,” Venus said.  “Back when-”
“When the Fiat was imposed, right,” Jake said, remembering.
“Yeah.  That was…scary too,” Venus said, grinding a palm against her eyes.  “Agh, fuck.  This is the worst!”  She turned her head up to look at him, her blank red eyes dim and sad.  “Did the Treasury tail you to your house again?”
“Not visibly,” Jake said dryly.  “And there was no door-to-door solicitation this time.”

Both of them managed a brief laugh.  Venus settled back against him as the sound faded into the cavernous sitting room.  “Nothing keeps you down for long, does it, Jake?”
“Nope,” he replied, wrapping his arm around her back.  She snuggled back against him.  “But then, I didn’t get to see you at all today.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.  Here,” he said, sliding down the couch a stretch and lying down sideways, jutting his lower elbow out.  She settled down in front of him, resting her head on his arm and draping his free arm across her stomach.  With one pointed glance at the two beehives visible from the seat, they had the room to themselves.  “I’m here now,” he said, and gently kissed the top of her head.
“Yep,” she said, clasping her hand over his.  The room went silent.  They had both run out of things to say, after all.
Jake closed his eyes and tried to relax, to let the stress of the past day fade.  Slowly, the little knot in his stomach unwound.
“That girl can fall asleep at the drop of a hat, can’t she?” a voice asked quietly.  Jake cracked an eye open to see Lady Misja, Venus’ mother, standing over them, her expression between maternal indulgence and exasperation.  Jake peeked over his girlfriend’s head to note that she was, in fact, fast asleep.
“I didn’t need this arm for a while,” Jake murmured.
“Poor thing didn’t sleep a wink last night,” Misja sighed.  She looked up to Jake, now pinned between her daughter and the couch.  “Stay a while, will you?  Keep an eye on her?”
“Count on it,” Jake said softly, settling back down.

Michael stood in Angela’s doorway, all but radiating his nervousness.  Angela herself was face-down on her bed, which was really the only way she could be comfortable.  She was just as morose as she had sounded on the phone, too, and Sanguinius hadn’t even hesitated to let her boyfriend through the cordon.  But then, he lived next door.
He sank down on the bed next to Angela, who lifted her head to stare at him, pain evident on her face.  The shock Morticia’s attack was still fresh enough, but as news spread, the surprise and fear –and worse: derision and glee from the insensitive and indifferent – were slamming into her mind, over and over.
Michael wasn’t a psyker.  He couldn’t comprehend the pain she was going through, as fear and uncertainty compounded days of exhaustion and waiting by the vox for news.  But he still had to be there.  He couldn’t NOT be there.
Angela reached out and squeezed his hand, pulling him closer.  He lay down next to her, kicking his shoes off and wrapping his arm around her shoulders, propping himself up on his side and looking down at her.
“Thanks for coming,” she said.  She sounded weak.  Tired.  Angry, maybe…and hopeless.  Michael nodded, leaning down a hair to whisper.
“I wish I’d been here earlier.”  She managed a snort.
“I think you’re too heavy to jump the gutters these days.”
“Probably.”  They both lay in silence, letting their words hang on the air.  “Angela…I thought about what you said before.”
Angela didn’t respond, but she did cross her arms under her chest, leaning on them to stare at Michael sidelong.  “You want to try again?”

“Not if you’re too tired,” he said, remembering what had happened last time.  Angela rose up on one arm, her sadness fading a little, behind a mask of intense focus.
“If you mean it…” she said quietly, her eyes locked on his.  “I nearly hurt you last time.”
“That was scary,” Michael admitted, “but if ever you needed it…”
“True,” she said softly, sitting upright, her wings folding back against her back as she let her head sink a bit, lost in thought.  “…You know what?  Alright.  I hope your schedule’s clear,” she said with sudden mischief.
“I have all night.  My parents aren’t expecting me,” Michael responded, getting up and locking the door.
Angela stayed on the bed, staring at her boyfriend as he shucked his jacket, sitting back down on the covers.  Shrugging the shoulder pieces off of her custom version of the school uniform, designed to accommodate her unusual anatomy, she paused as her hand reached the lower row of buttons.  “Are you sure about this?” she asked suddenly, turning to face him.  “I mean…this isn’t particularly safe.  I’ve only done this twice.”
“I want it, though, and I can tell you do,” Michael replied, sliding his own shirt off and tossing it aside.
“I do,” she said, low and thoughtful.  “You know Dad might find out.  He’ll ruin me.”
Michael shrugged.  “Your call.”  Angela bit her lip, smiling at last.
“OK.”

She tugged her shirt and bra free, lying down next to her lifelong friend, and more recently lover, who brushed her hair out of his eyes, looking up at her contentedly.  “Go ahead…” he said softly.
Angela’s eyes rolled shut as she sank down, half-on top of him.  In the instant before she landed, Michael felt the first, faint tug of something at the edge of his mind-
-Then he was gripped, for a fraction of a second, in the most horrible agony he had ever experienced, as his soul was literally ripped from his body.  His radiant being drifted forth from the meat body that carried it, invisible to all but the most gifted psykers.  Like Angela.
With exquisite care, she cast herself out as well, their souls instantly meeting in the void of the Warp, bound in place by their living bodies.  Michael’s soul drifted in place, a tiny spark next to Angela’s roaring, deific bonfire.
Their souls met, linked.  She flickered, ethereal as the Warp itself, gently wrapping around his, pulling him closer.  He allowed it, spreading across hers in turn, insignificant next to hers and all the more noticeable for it.
Raw, jagged rents of emotions in her psyche raced around her spectral body like mobile wounds, leaking anguish and self-recrimination and terrible, terrible uncertainty.  Michael’s soul sidled up to hers, looking, no doubt, like a calving whale, following its mother.

His faint presence approached hers, his own raw, frightened mind dwarfed by hers.  He could see himself for an instant, there in the roiling void, next to her, faint and insubstantial, incomparable to her brilliant, vivid outline, and invisible next to her father, down below.  In the distance, the torrent of burning light of the Emperor and Astronomican flared, too far to see and right next to them at once.
He didn’t care.  He slid a faint thought across her mind, slowing the pain racing through her.
His body, still tied to Earth and reality, twitched and moved, wrapping an arm across her lower back, just below where her wings erupted from her back.
Her mind flinched, racing and frightened and impossibly crowded.  She withdrew, her fear for her family lending her soul a reddish purple hue.
Her body bit its lip, so hard it leaked a drop of blood.  It landed on Michael’s chest, staining the skin red.
Michael did not relent, extending his thoughts to hers.  She relaxed, a tiny bit, gingerly accepting it.  He slipped his soul’s membrane across hers, trying to soothe the anguish.

Far off, too far from the Emperor for him to see, a tiny sliver of malice drifted through the Warp.  A remnant of the darker realms of Chaos, it was fleeing a stinging defeat of its own, a humiliation that had cost it its form and minions.  Seeking refuge in the Emperor’s vast shadow, it came across the spectacle, and paused, watching.
Michael’s soul drifted across hers, trying patiently to calm her, ignorant of his audience.  Angela’s godlike presence slowly shrank, still weeping from a thousand nonexistent cuts, and so walled-off that nothing could get in or out.  Michael traced a slow circle, trying to get her to relent, to let him in.
She paused, her psyker’s light burning evenly, illuminating the nothingness.  With the greatest of care, she extended a thought of her own to him, allowing him closer.
He accepted, moving up against her, his empty light nearly invisible against her.  She flared instinctively, her emotions racing again, but he wasn’t afraid.  She wouldn’t harm him.
The daemon lurked, gliding closer, drinking in the new sights.  What was this?

Angela’s body moved, clenching its fists so hard the nails nearly but the skin, muscles tightening in helpless frustration.  Her soul did the same, expanding in the nonreality of the Warp, pushing Michael back.  Her form changed, sprouting her father’s wings, and deep, oozing reds of anger and regret and bitterness pouring out of her hands.  He slid his thoughts across hers, pushing away her fear and self-loathing, finding her need, her uncertainty, and covering them with himself, sharing them a little.
She paused, feeling her anguish fade, and shrank back to her normal size, the fearsome wings and blood-soaked hands of her soul’s form fading away.  Michael kept going, pushing the inadequacies of her persona back, and her body sobbed aloud, a pair of teardrops joining the blood on his chest, running down onto the covers, and her soul turned the blues of remorse and pity.
Michael paused, reaching out to hold her, and she collapsed, her instinctive anger vanishing as she confronted her regret.  Guilt brought weakness, and her soul shrank further yet, its brilliant light fading in tune with her emotions, until there was almost nothing left.  His soul crossed hers, enveloping her, glowing faintly in the ether, giving her some modicum of shelter.

The daemon shifted silently, weighing its options.  Should it strike?  Or wait, to see what happened?
Angela’s body went limp, guilt and recrimination cutting her puppet’s strings.  Michael’s soul caressed hers, eliciting a sigh of primal familiarity from hers, and she slowly moved away, pulling herself back from his embrace.  Her light returned, expanding to fill her mind’s shape, and wrapped herself back around him, seeking his stability.  He returned it, sliding around and through her more intimately than a physical hug ever could, and the blues of her remorse faded away to a dull, exhausted gray.  The thousand crawling wounds closed, one at a time and all at once, fading into faint scars on her soul, as her physical body slumped aside, rolling off of his chest onto her flank.
Relief, like a thousand doors opening, rushed through him, and his own soul flared, bright and passionate for a moment, throwing a shadow across hers, and her soul responded in kind, finding solace in his love.  His mind moved against hers again, satisfaction lending him playfulness, and her glorious form replied, the faintest hue of pink coloring it as she moved back.
As one, they woke.  Angela hissed as blood flow returned to the hand she had fallen on, and Michael blinked groggily, unused to the feeling of projection.
The daemon sighed in disappointment, sliding on the through the void.  It would have found nothing if it had struck, it decided, nothing but sour grapes.

Angela smiled, slipping her legs astride her boyfriends’, resting her ample breasts against his chest.  She glanced down to where her blood and tears had fallen on his collarbone, raising her eyebrows.  “No wonder my lip’s sore,” she said, rubbing them away.
“…Yeah,” Michael said with an effort, his vision swimming.  Angela looked up at him in sympathy.  The feeling of soul-stripping, even at the best of times, hurt like nothing else could.  He tried to hold up a hand, and couldn’t do it.  He was shaking, head to toe, his breath thin and reedy.
“Sorry,” Angela said softly.  “I knew that would be a lot for you.”
“Forget it,” Michael managed.  “Are you feeling better?”
“Like it never happened,” Angela lied.  She knew the scars of her emotional trauma would take much longer to fade…but as far as she was concerned, it may as well have been true.  The horror of the ordeal was gone completely.  The ennui that had robbed the day from her was fading away, and in its place was a rock of certainty.  She smiled faintly, cocking her head so that a lock of blond fell across his forehead.  “In fact…”
“No,” Michael said flatly.  “Sorry.”
“I know.”  She grabbed his shaking jaw, holding him still enough for a deep, passionate kiss.  “Think of it as something to wake up to,” she whispered in his ear.
“I…will…” he said with a grin, before his eyes slipped shut.  His muscles went slack as he surrendered to the mental, physical, and spiritual exhaustion that the soul-stripping had brought about.  Angela waiting a moment longer before planting another, gentler kiss on his cheek, then carefully lifted herself free, grabbing the rest of her clothes and pulling them off.

She slid the covers out from under her boyfriends’ sleeping body, and pulled the covers up to his chin, before wiggling up next to him, lying on her side, and resting her head on his shoulder.  She snapped her fingers and the lights died, plunging the room into darkness.
The tanned angel watched in the darkness, Michael’s breath the only sound.  She slipped her free arm across his chest, hugging her bare skin against his body, the rough feeling of his pants contrasting with the soft warmth of his flesh.  Angela pulled the skein of the Warp back from her sight, and looked on in contentment as his ethereal form drifted next to hers, glowing a little brighter than before.
She smiled to herself.  The first time they had tried that, she had been so scared it hadn’t even worked.  The second, they had made the mistake of trying while he was bone-weary from work, and he had nearly gone into a coma.  That time, though…
“Third time’s the charm, hmm?” she asked the man asleep in her arms.  She smiled at his lack of reply, and let her own exhaustion pull her to sleep.  For the first time since the beehives had pulled her and Miranda aside, she slept; and it was deep, restful, and healing.

Freya leaned against the frame of her bay window, staring listlessly at the fields outside. The lights in the pseudosky were dimming as the hour turned late, but it wasn’t an impediment to her.  Her inhuman eyes looked out over the grass surrounding the mansion as if it were already morning, sighting every crevasse and shadow. The old-fashioned window creaked on its hinges as she pushed it open, and let the night wind blow into the room.
Her boyfriend stirred in the bed as the cold wind reached him. She glanced over her shoulder at him, but didn’t move from her spot.  The faint noise of ground cars moving along the distant road carried over the wind to her ultra-sensitive ears, turning into a distant background rumble.
The cold wind pushed the curtains back against her, silhouetting her naked form against the white cloth. The smell of the ash in the cup by the bed blew away, replaced by the smell of the outside’s fake, circulated air, and the more comfortable smell of the flowers in the field.
Freya stood, gripping the top of the bay and leaning over the seat, staring out at the field, looking for…something. The chill wind blew the curtains back on either side of her, flowing back like Angela’s wings, and, she hoped, was responsible for the tears in her eyes.

The breeze on his cheek roused Alex from his sleep. He squinted in the darkness, trying to find the source of the cold, and paused at the sight of Freya’s outline against the window, his breath catching in his throat. Fully awake in a moment, he drank in the sight in silence, before her hearing alerted her to his rising heartbeat. She let go of the window frame and turned around, smiling sheepishly.  “Hey. Did I wake you up?”
“No, you didn’t,” he mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You OK?”
“Just can’t sleep. Weed keeps me up,” she lied, pointing at the remains of the joint in the impromptu ashtray.
“Mmm. ‘Kay.” He blinked against the glare from the outside. “You comin’ to bed?”
“Nah.  Not tired.” Freya sat back down on the seat, looking back out over the grassy fields. “I just want to think.”
“Ain’t you afraid of someone taking a picture from the road?” Alex asked blearily.
Freya didn’t turn around.  “Holofield.  The house always looks the same.” She flicked one red dreadlock over her shoulder. “Go to sleep.”
“…You say so,” Alex said tiredly, rolling over to face away from the window, trying not to lie on the wet spot. “’Night, baby.”
“’Night,” Freya whispered.

The next morning, Arthur Hane sat down in a cold, concrete room and stared a terrorist in the eyes. “Sieur Keiter, you’ve stated that your intention was to inspire panic in the civilian population, but only a select slice of the population. What exactly did you mean?”
The man stared right back. “What I said. The Imperium’s the best thing that ever happened to humanity, as a whole.  But not on the fringes.  What do you think most of the planet does, Sieur Hane? What jobs do they have?”
“According to the Bureau of Labor, nearly all Terrans either work for the Administratum, Munitorum, or various manufactoriae,” the lawyer responded from memory.
“Yeah.  The cogs in the Imperial machine.  Indispensable, don’t you think?  You think the Imperium can maintain its standards of living without them?”
“Probably not, no.”  Arthur sipped his coffee and thought about the conversation thus far. “So you think you’re striking a blow for the working man…against the wealthy?”
“Not specifically.” The man leaned back in his seat, grinning wistfully. “The nouveau riche.  The spoiled, the petulant, the knee-jerk reactionaries.  The parasites, Sieur Hane.”
“The new rich.  Industrialists,” Hane continued.
“No, no, the people who think the status quo is just fine, thanks, and doesn’t need to improve,” the man said coldly.
“But the nouveau riche are those who achieve wealth within the span of their own careers.  People who struck it rich through success and cleverness.  What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s WRONG?” the man asked, his eyes hardening.  “What’s wrong.  Oh, Sieur Hane, so much is wrong with them.  They think the Imperium is their cash cow, their machine to be ignored when it works and berated when it doesn’t, like some rank amateur techpriest.”
“And what do you believe?” Hane asked, his gut sinking.
“That the world needs a blooding,” the man said ominously. “That people who strike gold and forget their pasts need to be expunged.  That people who oppose the Emperor’s judgment are fools, and those who exploit His gifts…are…parasites,” he said, ice dripping from the last few words.
“So…people who forget the working man,” Hane offered.
“You’re damn right.”
“But you couldn’t have told the spoiled rich from the career humanitarian through a scope at two kilometers,” Hane pointed out.
“I took a guess,” the man said, misery cracking his mask of ideological rage. “I guessed wrong.”
Hane nodded slowly.  “So who got you the rifle?”
“I bought it,” Hane said.  “Hunting weapons are legal on Terra.”
“No they aren’t, actually,” Hane said.  “They’re legal to ship and store, but not to carry.  You can buy them for off-world safaris.  Using them on-planet is punishable.”
“Oh, what does it matter,” the man asked dismissively. “It’s over.  You have it.”
“Who got you into the building?” Hane pressed.
“I did.  I worked there,” the man said, glancing to the side.

“The room we found you in was empty.  Completely empty.”
“Remodeling,” the man said shortly, looking aside.  Hane perked up.  Had he hit a nerve?
“Why Sunday?  Any particular reason?” he asked, glancing down at the pad of paper he was using and making a show of writing, as if the question was barely even important.
“It just fit the schedule,” the man said.
“All right.”  Hane nodded, thinking over what the Treasury had told them of the preliminary background check they had conducted on Keiter.  He was a member of the Civil Honors Union, a volunteer organization that distributed mutancy testing kits in the hives.  No criminal record.  Civil rifle and pistol permits.  Membership in the Sons of the War, a veteran’s families’ support group.  “Sieur, can you tell me about the Civil Honors Union?”
“They’re good people.  We distribute goods to the lower levels.  The places the surface scum forget,” the man said solemnly.  “People down there are just as important as the rest of us, and forgotten all the more often for it.”

“Did one of them ask you to do this?”  Hane asked.
The man’s hackles rose. “Of course not!  They’re a humanitarian group!”
“Well, your definition of ‘humanitarian’ includes murder, so I’m not ready to rule it out yet,” Hane said.  The man’s lawyer bristled.
“Sieur Hane, that was un-called for.”
“I plead guilty to shooting a-’ the man’s voice caught for a moment.  He struggled on.  “-a Primarch’s daughter.  I have to live with that now.  But I damn well TRIED to do the right thing, SIEUR Hane, and nothing you say will change that.”
“But not for yourself, right?  You’ve stated several times that you did this for the forgotten hivers,” Hane said.
“Forgotten and abused,” the man said, his eyes growing cold with anger-by-proxy.  “We’ve covered this.”
“Yeah, but you’re dancing.”  Hane leaned forward.  “You still aren’t saying how exactly the new rich are abusing anybody.  You keep saying that the poor and the hivers are forgotten, but how can they be forgotten AND abused?  You think the Emperor isn’t doing enough for the common man?”
“I think the Emperor is the only thing the common man has left,” the man said tiredly, sinking into his chair with a sigh and looking wistfully at Hane’s coffee.
Hane nodded.  A very uncomfortable pattern was materializing in front of him now.  He decided to try one more thing.  “Sieur Keiter, tell me.  Why do you think the common man, the hivers, whatever you call them, need the mutancy kits from the Union?”
“Why?” the man blinked in confusion.  “Why do they need…mutancy testing

“Yes.  Surely not all the people in the hives have mutations.”
“No, of course not!” the man said angrily.  “But it must be found wherever it hides.  It must be expunged.  We don’t force people to act on the results, but they should know what they are!”
“Why?  Isn’t that their business?”  Hane asked.
The man scoffed.  “It’s the business of the pure humans who have to live with them.”
Hane nodded.  “Then why target someone topside?  Why not just kill one of the mutants?  Don’t they hold the Imperium back even more than the rich?”
“Of course,” the man said darkly.  “But who’d miss them?”  The man’s lawyer shifted slightly, shutting him up, but Hane was done.
“Thank you, Sieur Keiter, Counselor Felger.  I’ll be in touch,” Hane said, scooping up his personal effects and coffee.  Without a word, he turned from the table and left, wondering how in the world he was going to break this to the Emperor.

The sun glinted off the hive walls, so bright a normal human couldn’t look at it for too long.  Remilia was so used to it that she barely noticed.  She walked slowly alongside the inside wall of the courtyard of her father’s manor, rolling a soccer ball across the grass every few steps.  The small handful of guards on the courtyard wall stood sentry, occasionally glancing down to see if she was still there.
The lanky blond drew her foot back over the ball and flipped it up onto her toe, balancing it against the breeze.  The warming air of summer (such as it was) filtered through the wrought-iron fence of the enclosed athletic courtyard Dorn had had built in his manor, and carried the smell of cut grass, charcoal, and the sink of the ionic jets the Treasury cars used to get around.
Remilia kicked the ball up to eye level, tracking it and taking a step back, then slammed it with a side kick, bouncing it neatly off the crossbar of the goal at the end of the field.  She watched the ball roll to a stop, burning her angry glare into its plastic skin.  Goddamned cross-breezes.
Her father watched from the window of his study, several stories above, resting his chin on his fist, equally lost in thought.  Some part of him wanted to take the blame for this.  After all, had it not been his security systems, his instructions, and the training provisions he had created, that the Treasury had used that day?
With a heavy sigh, he stood from his desk and walked down the hall to the stairs, wending his way down.  He walked out into the courtyard, staring in silence as his daughter practiced.

One of the staff of the intensive care unit poked his head into the break room and coughed discreetly.  “Grant?  You awake?”
“Naturally,” one of the nursing staff replied, glancing over his slate.  “Which room?”
“Not a call, just a heads-up.  Your screening came back negative.  You’re cleared for the isolation wing.”  Grant raised his eyebrows and very carefully set the slate down.
“Really?  Which shift?”
“Midnight, if you can make it.”
“Count on it.  Tonight?”
“Yeah, you might want to get over there.  Meet the Treasury guys.”
“Sure.”  Grant stood, cricking his back.  “Hey, why didn’t you get past the screening?”
“Dad’s in the Ahmaku League.”
Grant blinked.  “It’s a fucking video game club.”
“And they took sponsorship money from a member of the Council once.  That’s all it takes.”
“That has to be,” Grant grumbled, hitching his scrubs up and attaching his mask, “the dumbest background screening ever.”
“I’ll say.  You got through it.”  Grant shot the other nurse a cold stare and shouldered past him.
“Cards?” he asked, holding his hand out.  The other nurse dropped a few small, plastic squares in his hands, color-coded for the medicines on them.  Grant eyes each one as he walked down to the isolation ward, pausing as he reached the elevator.  “Seriously?  Orange?  What the fuck?”
“Degenerative lung disorder.  BEFORE she was shot.”
“Yikes,” Grant mumbled.

Both men entered the elevator, Grant still shuffling the cards.  “How many active ingredients were in that inhaler?” he asked in surprise, reading off chemical codes he certainly hadn’t seen on his grad school application.
“Something like twenty-eight in the primary, plus two more in the emergency.  She carried two.”
“Well, that’ll be fun.  How do I look?”  Grant asked, holding his arms out.
“She can’t tell,” the other nurse quipped.  Grant stared at him.
“Are you dumb?”
“Yeah, that…yeah.  Good luck,” the nurse said, holding the door open as Grant walked out, letting the door close behind him.  Grant glanced from side to side, taking in the number of guards in the hallway with a shiver of apprehension.  No mere beehives these, they were wearing the green, black, and white of Death Guard serfs, several of whom were even wearing the skull masks.  As one, they had turned to look at him as he stepped off the elevator, and when they sensed his hesitation, at least a fifth had, completely without hesitation, drawn or gripped sidearms.
Grant shook his head, unlocking his legs.  With a glance at the flags on the doors of the relatively widely-spaced rooms, he found his destination.  The process was accelerated somewhat by the cluster of doctors outside, some of whom were looking nervously at the Guards.  He walked down the hall, both hands on the cards, his mind shifting into professional mode.

The cluster of doctors outside the sitting room were busy arguing amongst themselves when Grant walked up.  “No, no, the cloned organ will be safer despite the tissue scarring, specifically BECAUSE the immunosuppression from her first operation is in effect,” one doctor argued, gesturing angrily at the fistful of documents in his hands.
“We agree that cloning it in is the answer, but shouldn’t we ask what SHE wants?  Wouldn’t an augmetic lung that has no necrotic damage after a month be more conducive to her standards of living?” another asked with strained patience.
“If Lady Morticia were capable of telling us, she would.  In the meantime, a machine is breathing for her.  We don’t have time to debate,” the first one said, as Grant slipped by into the waiting room.
That room was full of people too.  A pair of Treasury agents and few more Death Guard serfs were lingering near the door, one of them speaking quietly into his collar radio.  On the chairs in the center of the room were a few piles of detritus.  Clearly, someone had made the room their home.  A few piles of get-well-soon cards and other knickknacks were stacked on the end tables of the couches near the walls of the rooms, and…standing next to the observation window was a man in full Power Armor.
Grant pulled his eyes away and walked straight up to the door of the isolation room, grabbing a pair of sterilized covers from the box at the door.  Snugging them over his face and hair, he reached for the door handle.
“One moment, sir,” a raspy voice next to him said.  Grant turned to see one of the Treasury agents waving a card scanner.  “Let me see your ID card.”

The young nurse held out the card, and the Treasury agent swiped the reader over the barcode.  Glancing at the little machine, he nodded once.  “Go on in.”
“Thanks,” Grant said crisply.  Didn’t he have to use his ID to enter the elevator anyway?  Pushing the door open, he walked into the little room beyond, looking for his patient.
He didn’t have to look far.  Lady Morticia was on the only bed in the room, plugged into about seven different machines, including two respiratory systems and a heart stabilizer.  A woman in scrubs, probably a new ICU doctor, was glancing over the readouts from the machines and jotting them down.  The Lady herself was out cold, of course.  Grant looked sidelong at the chemicals on her IV.  Several different sedatives and antibiotics, of course, and one he didn’t recognize.  The medicine for her respiratory disease, maybe?
“Doctor.  How does she look?”  Grant asked, slipping the cards in his scrubs pocket.
“Stable, poor thing,” the doctor said, glancing over her shoulder.  “Don’t make eye contact with the man at the window.  Lord Mortarion doesn’t like the fact that he can’t come in.”
“L-lord Mortarion?”  Grant stammered, his fists clenching in sudden fear.
“Yeah.  Didn’t you wonder why there were Death Guard troops in the hallway?” the doctor asked, stepping back from the bed.  She slid her dataslate back into its hermetic bag and sealed it.  “What do you need here?”
“I was supposed to match her IV contents to the prescription cards,” Grant said, fumbling the cards back out.

“All right, I’ll leave you to it.”  The doctor left the room, speaking a few words outside the door to Lord Mortarion, who stirred from his view of the room long enough to respond.  Grant glanced over the girl on the table, and gingerly ran his fingers over the IV line.
“Okay…blue, blue, green, blue, white, red, orange.  Looks right,” he said aloud, trying to suppress his nerves.  He fanned the cards out over the table under the IV, glancing them over.  “…Vantercin.  Wow.”  He looked over at the comatose girl again, shaking his head, and slipped the seven cards into the pocket hanging off the IV tree.  “All right, Lady Morticia, be back soon.”
“…mgh,” she murmured faintly.  Grant started.
“Lady Morticia?” he asked.
“…ow,” she managed, eyes still shut.  Grant’s jaw dropped.  He stared at the sedative bag on the tree.  It was full.  He stepped to her side, his heart pounding.  He ran a nitrile-clad finger over her neck below the IV point, and felt her pulse: strong, slow, but very slightly faster than it had been.  He stared at the heart rate monitor, to confirm his results.  She was waking up.
“Fuck, what are you made of, girl,” he muttered.  “There’s enough sedative in your system to put a wrestler in a coma.”  He twisted the dial on the IV a bit, carefully tweaking the spigots on the bags to increase the dosage of the sedative alone.  Her facial muscles twitched a bit, then slackened as the sedative hit her system.  She settled back into the bed, briefly, then cracked her eyes open.

“…wherr am I,” she slurred.  Grant’s pulse spiked as he fumbled for an answer.
“Startseite hospital, Lady Morticia.  Intensive Care.”
“Whysit bright,” she said.
“Ah, we had the lights on so we could attend the equipment, my Lady.”
“Who…whoshotme,” she mumbled, her gray eyes peeking out from beneath her unkempt hair.
“A sniper.  They caught him.”  Grant heard a loud tapping on the glass behind him and he nearly jumped out of his skin.  He glanced over his shoulder, and saw Mortarion glaring at him through the glass.  He walked over quickly, pressing the talk button next to the window.
“She’s fine, my Lord, the sedative is just starting to wear off.  I’m going to increase the dosage so she can get some sleep,” Grant said quickly.
“She’s awake?  She can talk?”  Mortarion asked, his throaty rumble shaking the glass.
“Not for long, sir, she’s still very dizzy from the sedatives.  Please, let her rest,” Grant said.
“I want to talk to her.”
“Naturally, my Lord, but she’s in no shape for it.  She’s still missing a lung.”
Mortarion stared at the young nurse, his jaw flexing.  “Fine.  Fine.  Tell her I’m…I’m here for her.”
“Of course I will, my Lord,” Grant said, backing up with a small bow.  He walked back to the girl in the bed, her father’s grey eyes burning into his back.  “Lady Morticia, I’m going to increase the dose a bit, so you can grab some sleep.  All right?”
“Legs asleep…already,” Morticia, said gamely, trying to lift her head to see her limbs.  Her muscles were too slack to allow it, and she sank back into the bed with a groan.  “Hard…to talk…”

“Your lung is missing, my Lady, you’re on a respirator,” Grant said, examining the bag.  He discreetly pressed the call button next to the bed as he did so.
“Wheredi…get hit…” she managed.
“Straight through the back, my Lady,” Grant said, before a gaggle of doctors burst through the door, rushing over to the bed.
“Grant what the HELL did you do?” one hissed, elbowing the nurse aside, and nearly sending him into the IV tree.  At the last second, he managed to grab the metal rail of the bed and stabilize himself.  He pulled himself straight up, glaring at the doctor.
“Nothing, SIR.  The sedative dose was too small.”
“Whass going on?”  Morticia asked, her eyes glassy and unfocussed.  The doctors’ voices overlapped each other as they each tried to explain, their hasty declarations ranging from the complex to the patronizingly soothing.
“Enough,” the Head of Surgery declared, her voice slicing through the babble.  “Doctor Morgan, increase her dosage and let the Lady sleep.”
“I did already,” Grant said tightly, pointing at the IV tree behind him.  A dozen pairs of eyes examined the bags of medicine, confirming the claim.  He leaned past the cluster of doctors to look the Death Guard Lady in the eyes.  “Madam, your father wants you to know that he’s here for you.  OK?  He’s at the window, looking over you.”
“Dad?” she asked weakly.

“That’s right.  He’s here, all right?  And he’ll try to be here when you wake up next, OK?”  Grant said, glancing over at the window.  Mortarion nodded, confirming Grants’ suspicions about the Primarch’s hearing.
“…okay,” she said weakly, as her eyes slipped back shut.  The heart rate monitor slowly spun its rhythm down as the girl drifted back off to sleep.
“Doctors, I would appreciate it if one of you could tell me what just happened,” Mortarion said.  The tone in his voice could have frozen magma.  The doctors all looked at each other, trying to find a volunteer.
“Her tolerance for the sedative is substantially higher than it was when she first went under, my Lord,” one of them finally said, holding the Talk button down.
“Well, that’s Progenitor biology for you,” Mortarion rumbled.  “Now, let her sleep.”
“Of course, my Lord,” the Doctor said, as the group filed out.  Grant was last out, closing the door and dimming the lights as he did so.  Mortarion waited by the window, his arms crossed.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Her body is adapting to the sedatives we’re using, my Lord,” one of the doctors admitted.  “It’s…unnaturally fast.  There should be no way-”
“She’s not human, doctor, she is more than human, and I want to know what our options are,” Mortarion interrupted, staring sideways through the glass at his sleeping daughter.
“Few, Lord.  A different sedative, perhaps?” the doctor offered.  “But we need to decide whether to give her a cloned lung or an augmetic once.  Immediately.  Or we won’t be able to sedate her during the surgery.”

Mortarion huffed with impatience.  “And what do you recommend?”
“I recommend a cloned-in lung, Lord.  Much lower chance of rejection,” the doctor said, to which half the room grumbled or shook their heads.
“Then do it.”  Mortarion turned back to the room, his superhuman eyes staring at his sleeping daughter for a long moment before he sighed, and sank into a reinforced chair next to the window.  “Will she wake up again?”
“I increased her dosage such that she should stay under for another day or so, my Lord, but the dosage she had should have done it too, so…” Grant volunteered, trailing off uncomfortably.
“Fine.”  Mortarion rubbed his eyes, weary from the day’s vigil.  “…I should be getting home.  Let me know if anything changes.”
“Of course,” one of the doctors said, allowing the Power-Armored giant to walk out of the room.  A few seconds of silence passed, before the collection of doctors dispersed, some into Morticia’s room to check on her, the rest either following the Death Guard out or heading down the hall to check on other patients.
And unseen by his target, one of the Death Guard serfs who had observed the exchange silently scanned Grant, locking him into memory.

Roberta sat with her arms crossed over her knees, staring out over the neatly-trimmed square of grass in front of her father’s mansion.  Her vox dangled from her hands, inert.  The morning sun was blocked out by the mass of the house, rising behind her.  In the dim light, she could just make out the animal lying down in the grass beneath the trees by the road.  The little creature had been lying there, without moving much, for an hour.  It was alive, clearly.  It had been staring at her for a few minutes, then lost interest.
It was small.  Maybe the size of a small dog, with mottled brown and white fur, and long, spindly legs.  It was lying in the shade of a tree, as if waiting for something.  Roberta racked her brain, trying to remember what they were called, but the name eluded her.  The little animal was blinking feebly in the dim light, looking around as if waiting for something.  Roberta flipped her vox into the air and caught it, and the critter jerked its head over to stare at it, blinking with its blank brown eyes.  The bespectacled girl smiled at that.  “Didn’t like that?  Sorry.”
A faint thumping noise behind her drew her attention.  Roberta glanced over her shoulder to see a much larger animal – the mother, maybe – walking across the grass, and stood up, backing out of its way.  The larger animal stared at her for a moment, before walking quickly to the infant and nuzzling it.  The smaller animal stared at the larger, before wobbling to its legs and meekly following the larger one into the woods.

She watched the animals disappearing into the forest around her house, inexplicably happy.  After they faded from view, she flipped her vox open and speed-dialed Six.  On the last ring before it kicked over to voicemail, someone picked up.  “Hey, Freya,” Roberta said in greeting.
“…ngh,” someone on the other end mumbled.
“Did I catch you at a bad time, or are you always this dead at 0600?”
“Whozzat?” the redhead asked, fighting back a burning headache.  Alex stirred in his sleep, but didn’t wake.
“It’s Roberta.  How hung-over are you?” Roberta giggled.
“I’m not drunk,” Freya groused.  She slid out of bed, wiping cobwebs of sleep from her eyes, trying not to wake her boyfriend up.  “What do you want?”
“Get over here.  I have something to show you.”
“At six in the morning?”  Freya growled, irritation cutting through her sleep fog.  “What is it?”
“But, see, if I told you, you wouldn’t have anything to be mad over when you get here,” Roberta said cheerfully.
“…Fine.  Fuck.”  Freya said, hanging up.  She dropped the phone on her bed and pulled some clothes on, glancing at herself in the mirror to make sure she was presentable.  Deciding that she was, she walked back to the bed, leaning over her boyfriend.  “Hey, sleepyhead.  Be back later, OK?” she whispered, nipping his ear with her fang.
“Mmm,” he said faintly, not waking up.  Freya silently grabbed the cup full of ash and put it in the sink of her bathroom, running it under the water until the cup was clear.  Satisfied that it was clean, she tiptoed out the door, heading for her own car.

Roberta leaned against the façade of her father’s garage, waiting as Freya’s car pulled through the Treasury line.  As soon as she clambered out, she stomped on over to her cousin, anger written all over her face.  “What?” she demanded as soon as she was in earshot.
“You’re so lucky that the paparazzi are afraid to come here right now,” Roberta said, holding in a laugh with some effort.
Freya snarled under her breath, baring one canine.  “What?!”
“Did Alex wear a button-down shirt last night?” Roberta said, struggling through a smirk.
Freya started, and slowly glanced down her front.  She was wearing her boyfriends’ shirt.
With a muffled “eep!” of modesty, she grabbed the collar and hem, pulling them shut, but Roberta was already laughing.  “It’s OK, it’s OK, you got…a few buttons,” she managed, trying to keep her face straight.
“Fucking…boyshirts…” Freya mumbled, buttoning the few stray buttons shut.  “Fine, I’m here, I’m embarrassed.  Now what?”
“Come with me,” Roberta instructed, all business now.  She turned and walked away, heading alongside the house.  Freya stomped after her, silently daring one of the Treasury agents or Ultramarine Auxilia to stare at her too long.  It was only when they were nearly all the way to the small, wooded area behind the house that Freya noticed that they weren’t going in.
“You wanted to show me something out here?” she asked snippily.
“Fear not,” Roberta said, pausing when they reached the edge of the woods.  The line between the carefully-groomed grass and the bare dirt beneath the trees was so fine it could have been cut with a razor.

“Okay.  Now we need to be quiet,” Roberta said, holding a finger to her lips.  She kicked off her sandals, walking barefoot into the woods.  Freya stared.
“What?”
“Shh!”  Roberta exclaimed, glaring back over her shoulder.  Freya blinked, but kept her lips sealed, curiosity overcoming resentment.
She slid her own flip-flops off, padding silently into the woods after her cousin.  “I found them this morning,” Roberta whispered, so faint it wasn’t even audible, had normal humans been listening.  Freya, of course, could hear perfectly.  “It’s just one and the mother.”  She slowed until she was barely moving, walking on the edges of her feet, so the shifting of her weight wouldn’t give her away.  She stopped completely at the edge of a small clearing in the wooded area, pointing in silence.
Freya moved up behind her, peering over her shoulder.  The baby animal from before was wobbling back and forth in the clearing, getting a feel for its legs.  The mother was lying down on her stomach, legs tucked away underneath her body, watching her offspring carefully.
Roberta allowed herself a few seconds to watch, before turning to Freya with a smug grin.  Her Space Wolf cousin was entranced.  Freya took a few silent steps forward, her eyes locked on the display.  She cast her eyes over the scene, taking in every detail, watching as the little animal learned how to use its legs.
Very slowly, she turned to face her cousin, who nodded once, a knowing grin on her face.  “They’re adorable!” Freya whispered, glee raising the pitch of her voice.  Roberta beamed.
“Enjoy,” she mouthed, leaning back against the tree next to her, settling in for a wait.

Freya rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and melted into the shadows of the wooded stretch.  Lord Guilliman had only insisted that it be there because he knew it would be a rarity on the urban world of Terra, and scarcity creates value.  Roberta watched her cousin silently move around the clearing, until she actually lost sight of her.  How her red-headed cousin could vanish in non-camouflage clothing was beyond her, but she did, leaning low to the ground and disappearing into the shadows.  Roberta cleaned her glasses with the hem of her shirt and stared, but no – she was gone.
Roberta’s eyes drifted back to the animals in the clearing – deer, that’s what they’re called, she suddenly remembered – and stared.  Neither the mother nor the baby had noticed them, somehow.  The mother was clearly just resting, and watching the infant patiently, and the baby was just figuring out what knees were for.  She watched them both, unmoving, wondering how long it would take Freya to…
There.  A tiny shift of a branch, to the side of the clearing.  Both deer turned to look at it, staring with bovine eyes.  The branch wasn’t moving with the wind at all.  Roberta strained her eyes, trying to spot Freya in the brush.  She leaned forward a hair, squinting through the morning glare.  Was that her behind the branch itself?
Nope.  With a suddenness all the more abrupt for its total silence, Freya slunk out from the completely opposite side of the clearing, and dropped onto her haunches, staring at the infant deer from less than five feet away.  Roberta shook her head.  How the FUCK does she do that? she wondered in silence.

Freya stood still, leaning back on her bare ankles, staring at the deer with a feral intensity that belied her usual, goofy demeanor.  The baby deer turned back to its wobblings, but froze when its saw the girl, its little black nose twitching.  The mother turned back and rose to its feet in an instant, staring at Freya, clearly wondering what to do.  Freya kept still, her eyes locked on the scene, as the baby took a wobbling step towards her, sniffing the air.  The mother walked over, tilting its head down behind the infant’s head, stopping it short.  Both deer froze, watching Freya sit there, unmoving.  Finally, the mother herded the baby to the edge of the clearing, nudging it into the woods, to find some other place to practice.
Freya gave them a ten-count before standing with a *pop* from her knees and brushing the leaves off her hands.  Roberta straightened up and walked over to her, listening to the deer move through the underbrush.  Freya turned to her with a radiant grin, her fangs glinting in the sun.  “That…was awesome.  Thanks, Roberta, I really needed that.”
Roberta nodded sagely.  “I bet.  Now, go return Alex’s shirt.”
“Oh my god, I hate you,” Freya giggled, tugging the sleeves back down.  Both girls trudged back to the edge of the woods, pausing to pick up their shoes.  “But really, call me again if they come back, I could use some exercise.”
“Or a snack,” Roberta quipped.
“I’m not Dad,” Freya said primly.  She slid her sandals back on and dug her keys out, walking back to her car.  “Hey, though, if you want to come over later, we should make sort of thing to send to the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah, good call,” Roberta said.  “Uh, I’ll see who’s available and we can congregate somewhere.  Where do you want to do it?”
“Uh, Farah’s if we can,” Freya said, pausing in the door of her car.  “If not, I can host.”
“Sure.  I’ll call you,” Roberta said, waving goodbye and stepping back to let the air car lift off.  Freya peeled off, flying under the Treasury line, heading for her own house.  Only a few minutes passed before the mansion’s fence resolved in the distance, and Freya soared over it, her car’s IFF passing the Treasury sensors automatically.  She pulled up in the garage annexed onto the house, blowing past the pair of Space Wolves serfs at the door into the house with a cursory wave.  Her father wasn’t present, it seemed; the house was empty.  She marched straight up the stairs and back into her room, stopping at the bedside to stare down at Alex’s still-sleeping form under the covers.  With a huff of impatience, she closed and locked the door, and hastily pulled her sandals and pants back off, leaving her borrowed shirt unbuttoned.  Finally, Alex stirred in his sleep, screwing his eyes shut against the light.
“Mph.  ‘Morning,” he mumbled, shielding his eyes.
“Wakey wakey,” Freya said, her voice low and intense.  Perhaps sensing danger, Alex’s eyes flew open, catching an eyeful of Freya, now naked save for his own shirt, leaning over him.
“Uh, hi.  Where did you go this morning?” he asked.
“Roberta wanted to show me something.  Good thing she did, too,” she said, her eyes traveling up and down Alex’s silhouette under the covers.

“Really?  Why’s that?” Alex asked with distinct nervousness, propping himself up on one elbow.
Freya swept his arm out from under him and half-rolled onto the bed on top of him, vigorously pulling the covers out of the way.  “Well,” she said thickly, emotion and hunger pushing through her voice, “it left me feeling a little primal.”  She grabbed his wrist and held it over his head, pulling him into a vigorous kiss, sinking the fingers on her free hand into the flesh of his shoulder.  He instinctively pulled back before he realized what was happening through his sleep-induced fuzziness, sliding his own free hand down her back to her waist and pulling her in.  “Good idea,” she whispered roughly, wrapping both legs around his.  “Now, let’s see you follow through…”

Her hair was in her eyes again.  Farah tugged her headband loose and brushed the offending lock of platinum blonde aside before retying it.  Her metal hands felt uncomfortably hot to the skin of her forehead, and she sank them into the bucket of water next to the little forge in her basement.  Her father glanced over from his own station, which featured a microsolderer instead of a heating element today.  “Careful, Farah.”
“Yeah, I know, Dad,” Farah muttered.  “Do you need coil?”
“No, I have one.”  Ferrus paused his work to look harder at what his daughter was crafting.  “What exactly are you working on over there?”
“A present for Morticia,” Farah said.  She gestured at a cooling block of metal on the table next to her.  “I already made one for Kelly.”
“I see.  What do you have in mind?” Ferrus asked.
“Well, for Morticia, I thought I’d just do something like…this,” she said, pressing a tiny line of copper against the semi-molten steel in her hands.  “A little get-well.”
Ferrus stared.  “…Is that an embossed inhaler cozy?” he asked after a moment’s scrutiny.
“Maaaybe,” Farah said coyly, gently kneading the copper coil around the outside of the metal case.
“If she has a sense of irony, she’ll love it,” Ferrus said dryly.
The wall-mount vox over his station beeped.  Glancing down to see if his hands were anywhere near cool enough to answer – they weren’t – he called aloud.  “Answer.”  Waiting a moment for the speakerphone to turn on, he then called out again.  “Hello?”

“Hello, Uncle Ferrus, it’s Roberta.”
“Ah, hello, Roberta.”  Ferrus held his hands away from the heating element, letting the extra heat bleed out of his hands.  “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, but I was wondering if a few of us could come over this afternoon and make a get-well-soon present for Morticia,” Roberta said.
Farah smirked at the speakerphone.  “Way ahead of you.”
“Farah?  Hi!  Did you buy something already?”
“A Manus ‘buy.’  ‘Buy’ something.  Oh, ho ho ho ho, no,” Farah said, shaking her finger at the vox speaker in scolding.  Her father slowly turned to face her in his seat, eyebrows raised.  “I made her an inhaler cozy, out of two solid pieces of steel.”
Roberta burst into laughter, eliciting a proud smirk from Farah.  “Oh my god I love it,” Roberta managed through peals of laughter.  “That’s awesome.”
“I think so,” Farah said happily, turning back to her work.  “And for Kelly, I made a little backpack token, since she likes the one Cora has.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, good call.  I forgot…OK.  Well, when will it be done?”
“I already made the one for Kelly.  I’ll be done with the one for Morticia in maybe…ten minutes?” she guessed.
“Awesome, just in time for me to drive over and take credit for it!” Roberta declared.
“Uh huh, sure, Morticia totally won’t wonder when you learned metalworking,” Farah deadpanned.
“Foiled again.”  Roberta thought for a moment.  “Hmm, so should the rest of us make something too?”
“No, you can sign this if you want.  I tried to get a hold of you earlier, actually.  Should we just hand it over to them when we meet at the hospital Saturday morning?”
“Sure.  Will she be awake by then?” Roberta asked, penciling down the information.
“No,” Farah replied sadly.

Morticia blinked against the harsh glare of the operating room lights, lucidity fighting past her chemical stupor.  A pair of doctors in full-body clean suits were standing in the corner of the room, arguing over their closed-circuit feed.  Several more doctors and a nurse in the same outfit were cleaning up too, running tools under sterilizers in the edge of the room.  Two medical orderlies were doing something under her table, probably preparing it to be moved back into her room.
She tried to speak.  All she managed instead was a thin gasp.  Instantly, every single head in the room snapped to her, and about fifteen pairs of hands reached for the valves on the IV drip in her arm.  The world swam back out of focus, and she sank back into oblivion.
Seconds passed, and suddenly she was wide awake, with a feeling like spiders under her skin crawling up and down her hands and feet.
Still, she could feel her feet, that was an improvement.  Her vision darkened, but this time it wasn’t drugs causing it.  Her father leaned over her, his grey eyes wide.  “Morticia?” he asked, his voice muffled.
“Dad?” she asked weakly.  His eyes slid shut, and he grabbed her hand, with a gentleness that put a lie to his horrifying appearance.
“You’re OK, sweetheart.  You’ll be all right.”
“Morticia?” another voice asked.  Kelly’s distinctive hair blotted out another light as she leaned in.  “Oh…my god, you’re OK,” she said, tears leaking out of her eyes.  She sank down next to her bed-ridden cousin, sobbing.  “I was…” she struggled to swallow.  “I was so scared.”
“That was pretty scary,” another voice said, one she didn’t recognize.  An arm reached across her and gently tugged a clear plastic tube from under from Kelly’s hands.

“Ah, sorry,” Kelly sniffled, hastily shifting her arm away before she could pull the IV out.
The strange voice came back, and Morticia placed it as one of the doctors she had spoken to last time she had woken up.  “I’ll be in the hall if you need me, sir.”  Mortarion nodded curtly, and the voice and its matching arm disappeared.
“Daddy…” Morticia struggled to lift one arm.  “How…how long have I been out?”
“It’s Saturday the ninth, so six days.”  Mortarion fought back a tide of anger that was starting to wash in around the edge of his voice.  “They caught the guy who did it to you, Morticia.”
“Did you or…uncle Konrad…get to him first?” Morticia asked.
“The Treasury,” Kelly said bitterly.
“Oh…damn,” Morticia said.  She flexed her fingers experimentally.  “Where…did I get hit?”
“Back.  Right through the lung,” Mortarion said, the anger pulling at him again.  How DARE some common filth do this to his daughter?
“Then why…is the air so light?” Morticia asked, gingerly shifting herself up on the bed.  A lance of agony shot through her back as she did so, and she decided against it.
“You have a new lung.  They cloned it in to replace the old one,” Mortarion explained.
“So…no scarring.  Right.”  Morticia smiled weakly, like a ray of sun peeking around a cloud’s edge.  “I should enjoy that while it lasts.”
Kelly managed a tiny smile.  Morticia focused on her for a moment.  “Are you..okay?”
“I’m…” Kelly struggled to say yes.  “No, I’m not.  I was so scared…”  She screwed her eyes shut, wiping at them with one hand.  “I’m a wreck.  I haven’t slept in days.”

“Sorry I scared you,” Morticia said apologetically.  Mortarion visibly winced.
“Not your fault.  God, nobody’s blaming you,” Kelly said immediately.  “I just…I was sitting there, and you just fell…”  Kelly buried her head in her hands and gasped, sobs of relief and loathing ripping her carefully-constructed emotional façade apart.  “…Sorry, sorry, I’m…”
“Hey!” a voice that was far too loud suddenly interrupted.  Mortarion nearly jumped.  “Look who’s up!”  Remilia’s face suddenly appeared next to Kelly’s.  Kelly quickly dried her eyes, leaning back from her cousin’s bed.  Morticia tried to sit up a bit more, and her father slid his had gingerly behind her back, helping her sit without aggravating the incisions.  “You’re looking better!”  Remilia said cheerfully.
“You’re lying to me on my recovery bed?” Morticia asked, smiling wearily.
“Yep!  But it’s good to see you sitting up and taking notice,” Remilia said, squeezing her free hand.  Mortarian sat back a bit and watched as the rest of the Royal daughters filed in, most either carrying flowers or something similar, save Hana and Farah, both of whom were acting rather secretive.
“Hey, there she is!” Isis said, crossing the room under the watchful eye of several Death Guard serfs.  “How the hell are you?”
“Exhausted and sore,” Morticia responded, cheering up at the sight of her cousins.  “I’m glad you could all make it.”
“Like we wouldn’t?” Angela noted.  “Although I don’t know how long we can stay…”

“I would advise that you not stay more than an hour at most, my Lady,” the doctor noted from the hall, where he was hovering impatiently.
“Then, I should do this now,” Farah announced importantly.  She leaned forward and presented the box in her hands with a flourish.  “Just in case,” she started, enjoying the spotlight.  “Should the worst come to pass yet again, you see.”
Morticia blinked.  “What?”  She took the box and pulled the lid off, wondering what could make Farah so giddy.  She pulled a piece of metal out of the container and stared at it.  “Is this…is this an armored inhaler cozy?”
“It IS!” Farah said proudly, as at least a third of the other girls sighed, giggled, or just stared.
Morticia stared at Farah’s radiant smile, until a slight, pained giggle forced itself out.  She doubled over in the bed, flinching.  “Ow, it hurts to laugh.”  Mortarion helped her settle back against the pillow, and she ruefully shook her head.  “Thanks, Farah.  That made my day.”
“So glad you like it,” Farah said happily.  The other girls clustered around the bed, just chatting with her and getting her caught up on the world outside the hospital, until all too soon, the hour was up.  The doctor poked his head in, tapping a phantom wristwatch.
“Ladies, I think Morticia needs her sleep now,” Mortarion said, eliciting a few grumbles, but no complaint.  One by one they said their goodbyes, filing out until only Kelly and Morticia herself were left.  Before she walked out, though, Hana paused.

“Hey, Kelly.  This one’s for you,” she said, leaving it on the table by the door.
“Oh.  Uh…thanks,” Kelly said, managing a wave as her cousin shut the door behind her.  Morticia sunk back into the pillows, letting the exhaustion of her ordeal show.  The doctor opened the door, pushing in a small handcart of IV bags, and moved over to the tree, carefully checking the cards on the lines.  Mortarion watched him for a while, weighing his words.  He hadn’t let his simmering rage show in front of his nieces – most wouldn’t have understood – but he knew Kelly would.
“Morticia…I want you to understand…I wish I could have stopped this,” he started.
“Of course you do, Dad,” Morticia said wistfully.
“Right.  But…” his hands tightened on the metal bar on the side of the bed with an audible squeak.  “…I wish I’d been the one to find him,” he finished, his voice darkening.  The doctor shivered and hastily finished his work, leaving the room with all due decorum.
“Dad, if he was caught, he’ll hang.  I’m sure of it,” Morticia said.
“No, he won’t.  Lord Hane said he’ll get seventeen years at the most,” Mortarion growled.
“…Really?” Mortician asked, her grey eyes widening in surprise.
“I wasn’t sure how to tell-”
“The fucker was shooting into the crowd,” Kelly said, her own rage bursting forth.  “He was just shooting at RANDOM!”
Morticia paled further.  “He wasn’t…h-he wasn’t aiming for me?”
“He was making a political statement,” Mortarion said bitterly.  “And you were just the first one in the line of fire.”
“Why?  Why, why, why would he…” Morticia ran her hands over her eyes, dazed.  “Why did he do it?”
“Good question,” Mortarion answered, his lips twisting into a bitter grimace.  “Lord Hane’s answer is…unsatisfactory.”

The Emperor set the dataslate that Hane had placed before him down, seething.  “They’re a CULT?” he snapped.
“No, my Liege, he’s no cultist, not at all, but his fixation does explain his reaction to the news that he had shot your granddaughter and not some random stranger.”  The counselor fidgeted a bit under his master’s angry stare.  “I can’t admit complete surprise.  He seemed to be more than just distraught when he learned the truth.  He was devastated.  Appalled.”
“And this…Honors Union,” the Emperor said, glancing back down to the dataslate, “they’re responsible for indoctrinating him?”
“Apparently not, Sire.  The organization distributes mutancy testing kits in the underhives, they’re not a doctrinal group.”  Hane sighed, wondering about the best phrasing.  “The problem lies in the fact that Keiter is convinced, absolutely convinced, that the rich and the mutants are more than just problematic for humanity, they’re actively holding it back from your ideal.”
“My ‘ideal’ involves leaving matters of corruption and disease to the police and doctors,” the Emperor said with a frigid wrath, which he then immediately blunted.  “I apologize.  Do not interpret this as a slight against you, Arthur.  But this…this can not stand.”
Hane nodded.  “I agree, my Liege.  However…the fact that he worships you is not something I can charge him for.”
“I have purged WORLDS for that crime, Hane,” the Emperor said sharply.  “I think, if you look hard enough, you can find a statute that applies.”
The lawyer felt the blood drain from his knuckles.  “I will…search, my Liege.”
“Yes.  Find me something.  Let me know what you find,” the Emperor said, dismissing his counselor with a wave of his hand.