Editing Female Space Marines (section)

=Writefaggery=

===A New Arrival===

* From the livelog of Inquisitor Perstringos, archive #32AA9-99
* Redacted copy dispatched to Magos Tzeel'Etil of Mars under code of practice 73-Greyfax-Cawl

The lifespan of an Inquisitorial liaison to the Angry Marines is a famously short one.

Take offence to their unorthodox methods, and you're likely to get your head exploded like an overripe melon. Partake too enthusiastically in their furious idiom and you're likely to get your head exploded like an overripe melon. Stand too near one when they're feeling a little more umbrage than usual and you're likely to... and so on.

I have lasted in the role for nearly seven Angermar months and so consider myself quite the survivor. Alas, my run of good luck may soon be at an end. The Angry Marines are not generally characterised by a cheerful acceptance of change...

especially changes imposed from without...

very particularly especially changes to their unit composition mandated by none other than the Ultramarines, whose very Codex Astartes (oh Guilliman Restored, forgive me!) I have been impelled to use as an item of intimate personal hygiene in the Angry Marines' commode.

And yet today the first company of Primaris Marrnes will be arriving on McRage to join their new battle brothers. The "Guillimarines", as I've heard them called around the barracks here from the day I arrived. The Ultra-Ultrasmurfs. The Fuck-knuckles. The Bitch-clone-fucking-sellout Poser Marines.

Such a momentous occasion will naturally require an Inquisitorial observer on site.

I am going to fucking die.

Which is why I am taking care to record this surreptitious livelog, tapped by my tongue against my molar-transcriptor as I take my place in the Rite of Welcome. My life is nothing, praise the Emperor. Direct observational feedback on the reception of our Imperium's newest super-Astartes into the Chapter deemed least likely to accept them will be invaluable to several parties.

They are docking now with our Battle Barge, the FUCKYOUNAMEITYOURSELF. Their vessel, officially the Undaunted but renamed in our local records "THE OFFICIOUS CUNT-BASKET", is busy initiating standard pre-docking handshake protocol, but I expect that...

yep, there it is. The Angry Marines have taken the simple expedient of ramming the FUCKYOU directly into the Undaunted's docking bay. It was a fair hit. Air is already cycling across both ships with only superficial loss to the void, it won't take long to clear the wreckage, and so the joining Rite is soon to begin.

A mere ten paces in front of me, well within explode-my-head-with-a-backslap range, stands Chapter Master Temperus Maximum himself. An AdMech representative, Magos Errant Gjarran 3FF stands some ways to my left. I am sure I sense fear in the writhing of its mechadendrites.

Two long lines of Angry Marines, each four long files of seven hundred ranks, stretch out behind us in a widening wedge, as though to flaunt the Codex Astartes prohibition on companies larger than a thousand. Aside from their numbers and their angry yellow banners, the most striking sight to one accustomed to other Astartes chapters is the conspicuous lack of bolt pistols in favour of a second chainsword or the heaviest of heavy weapons.

I also note that customary Space Marine practice is to greet newcomers with weapons RAISED, not brandished threateningly -- and thus also pointed directly at my back.

On either side of these lines there mills a mob of chapter serfs, aspirants, servitors and ordinary ship's crew. Banners burn with the emblematic angry face and raised yellow middle finger.

I now hear the stomp of boots but haven't caught sight of the 100 who will be the first in history to join the Angry Marines from outside their chapter. Having already written off my own life, I find myself idly wondering if anyone has warned them of what they will encounter. We went through sixteen liaisons in as many weeks before we started to get the hang of their red lines. How many of these "Primadonna Marines" will survive the year?

Ah, there they are. They march in a column five across, twenty files deep. I see the first file now...

I had heard that these new marines were taller but the effect is staggering. Every Space Marine inspires terrified awe with their size, their power, and above all their devotion to the Emperor. These new Primaris radiate the same majesty... perhaps it is as they humbly claim, that they are no better than their other battle brothers, but they are certainly... newer.

As my eyes take in the holy might of the Emperor's newest instruments, my trained Inquisitor's eye perceives what at first was a vague impression. The specifications of these marines' armor, while taller and sleeker than earlier models, are in fact even sleeker than the schematics of the Mark X Tacticus Armour I have memorised as a matter of course.

How strange. Thinner in the waist. Wider at the hips. Bulkier at the chest... at the bust!

Subtle as the difference is, certainly not detracting from their power and terror, their armour is unquestionably FEMALE.

How?

Before anyone speaks the center Primaris of their first file--surely their Lieutenant--is removing his helmet... HER helmet. By the Emperor! As strong and intimidating and, well, grizzled a face as any Space Marine's, and yet entirely feminine. Long luxurious red hair is cascading down her shoulders... by the Emperor, to live to see these days!

No word yet from the Angry Marines. I fear the worst. I'm enabling my audio pickup; it may well outlive me.

[Lieutenant Pedicaba]: WELL FUCK ME IT'S THE MUTE MARINES! HELLO THE FUCK TO YOU TOO, ASSHOLE!

[Assault Sergeant Dickface, interrupting]: OH NO NO FUCKING NO. NUH-UH. FUCK OFF. CHADMARINES ARE BAD ENOUGH BUT A STACY? GIRLYMAN AIN'T GONNA SHOEHORN SOME BOLTER BITCHES INTO OUR YEEEAAAARGH!!!

[Lieutenant Pedicaba]: WHOOPS DID I JUST "SHOEHORN" MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS? YOU CAN EAT YOUR OWN SHIT OFF MY BOOT LATER, SERGEANT. DO I LOOK TO LIKE I'M ARMED WITH SOME PUSSIFIED BOLTER?

[Chapter Master Tempestum]: WELL FUCKING ARSECHUNKS IF THIS ISN'T A CUNTY TURN OF EVENTS. I'VE SAID FOR MONTHS YOU NU-SMURFS HAVE NO BALLS AND WHADDYA KNOW.

[Lieutenant Pedicaba]: YEAH YOU CAN KISS MY TURGID OVARIES LATER FUCKLICK. LIEUTENANT PEDICABA REPORTING!  BY THE EMPEROR'S SWEATY ASSCRACK WE HAVE ARRIVED THROUGH THE WARP INTACT, ONLY ONE LITTLE FUCKSLEAZE DAEMON INCURSION NEEDED ITS SHIT PUSHED IN.  ONE HUNDRED NEW ANGRY MARINES ARE YOURS TO COMMAND, MY LORD CHAPTER MASTER!

(Oh Emperor protect us, they're all removing their helmets. Blonde hair, black hair, more redheads... if it weren't for their size you'd know they weren't Sisters of Battle by their color. And their language!)

[Chapter Master Tempestum]: HEY COGBITCH, YOU SURE THOSE FAGNUTS FROM MARS SENT THE RIGHT DELiVERY?

[Magos Gjarran]: All is in order, lord Chapter Master. These are indeed the Primaris Marines assigned by my masters to your most holy Chapter, uncorrupted by the Warp and in perfect genetic order. The Machine God smiles upon your union.

[Chapter Master Tempestum]: AND YOUR ARCH-ANUS FAGMASTERS DIDN'T SEE FIT TO MENTION THEY COME WITH A CUNT APIECE?

[Lieutenant Pedicaba]: YOU WANT "A PIECE" OF CUNT JUST FUCK YOUR OWN WHORE MOUTH, MY LORD.

[Chapter Serf Urguet Incelium, interrupting]: No!! Stop!! Please!! I can't bear it!

(Has this serf lost his mind! What is he doing?)

[Chapter Serf Urguet Incelium]: My lords, this cannot be! Kill me if you will, but we cannot have fucking WOMEN ruining EVERYTHING! It's all a trick by... by SLAANESH JUSTICE WARRIORS to force the evil of HEResy upon us. A trick! The holy gene-seed can't work on females! Blah!

(The Primaris nearest the serf has just spat on him. Looks like she got him right in the crotch.)

[Chapter Serf Urguet Incelium]: You stupid bitch! I'll fucking end you! I'll take a flamer to all the vapid whores in the Progenium! I'll...

[a distinct sizzling noise is audible]

[Interceptor Miserabila]: GUESS MY BETCHER'S GLAND WORKS AFTER ALL, HUH ASS-BADGER?

[Chapter Serf Urguet Incelium]: My DICK! Oh FUCK, OH EMPEROR! MY BALLS! MY BALLS ARE MELTING AWAY! AHHH!

[Lieutenant Pedicaba]: "BETCHER" WEREN'T USING THOSE ANYWAY, PANSY-ASS QUEEFSNIFF.

[Chapter Serf Urguet Incelium]: [voice dissolves into screams and groans]

[Chapter Master Tempestum]: HEH HEH, YOU'RE ALL RIGHT. MAYBE YOU REDRAGE WHORES WON'T EMBARRASS THE REAL SOLDIERS TOO MUCH AFTER ALL. TELL YOU WHAT, LET'S WIPE OUT THE ASSCHEESE HERETICS PLANETSIDE AND I'LL LET YOU FIX ME A SANDWICH.

[Lieutenant Pedicaba]: SAY THAT TO MY HAIRY PUSS, MY LORD CHAPTER MASTER PISS-BREATH. NOW ARE YOU GONNA FIND US SOME HERESY TO MURDER OR ARE YOU GOING TO STAND THERE ALL DAY LIKE YOU'RE SCARED OF A LADY?

[Chapter Master Tempestum]: WE MAKE PLANETFALL IN TWENTY MINUTES. WELCOME TO THE ANGRY MARINES... BATTLE BROTHER.

[Lieutenant Pedicaba]: YEAH, SLURP SHIT SISTER.

Audio pick-up disabled. I think that was the ceremony. The Angry Marines, Primaris and all, are exchanging soldierly embraces and head-butts and marching back to the barge, chanting as one, "ALWAYS ANGRY! ALL THE TIME! ALWAYS ANGRY! ALL THE TIME!"

I'm racing down the corridor with Magos Giarran as fast as my legs will take me. You just know they're going to perform an "expedited undocking" with fucking frag grenades. Again. Planetfall in seventeen minutes. If I'm somehow not rendered into inquisitor-flavoured jello... well, I'm already praising the Emperor's unlimited munificence that I'm alive at all.

Word must get back to Mars. If the Primera mix so well even with the Angry Marines, they'll be a valuable reinforcement to all our companies. In our darkest hour, the Imperium's new hopes redouble.

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Thought for the Day: The Emperor has fury enough for us all.
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