Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 12 ===
Standing outside the Vehicle pit, Octavia waited, her mechanics team finishing up their mornings work. The warm sunlight beat against her hood, a complex microfilament mesh absorbing the heat, keeping its occupant cool. She checked her chronometer, the lunch break had only just started. She looked around, waiting for her Commissarial companion, when a young guardsman ran up to her. His face was haggard, his eyes red, as he leaned over, panting with exertion.
“Priestess,” He gasped out between breaths, “I have been sent to inform you that the Commissar waits for you in the Mess. He sends his sincerest apologies, but says he will explain everything.”
Octavia nodded, “Thank you, Private.”
The Guardsman smiled weakly, wincing as he left. Octavia’s Cognitor noted his strange behaviour, but thought no more of it, her mechanics team piling out from the workshop.
Octavia smiled happily as she made her way back to the mess tent, surrounded by her chattering mechanics team. The foremost reached the double doors of the mess and swung them open, clearing a path for the petite priestess. Her augmented eyes scanned the mess, locating Rogal in a matter of seconds. Breaking off from the group, she made her way over, her cognitor noting how strangely early he was, the lunch break having only just begun. He should have been later, having come in from the construction sites, but there he sat. The white sling was stark against his obsidian uniform, Octavia’s eyes flipping through the spectrums, infographs popping up as she approached. Her Fleshbrain quickened her steps, her cognitor running as many diagnostics as it could. Vox chatter filled her ears, as she went over everything that had been said on any channel about injuries and the commissar. 
Rogal sighed unhappily, slowly lowering his spoon into his soup. He hated using his non dominant hand, which twinged with pain in agreement.

Lifting his spoonful of soup to his mouth and blowing across it, he watched the tendrils of steam twisting in the air.
“Rogal?” He looked away from the misty spirals, and straight into Octavia’s concerned face.
“Are you okay? A guardsman said you would meet me here, then I saw your sling, and then I heard the vox chatter, Isawtheincidentreportandthedisicpllineryactioandareyouokaycanihelpatall?” Her mouth fired off, after which she took in a deep breath. Rogal pushed a chair out with his leg, nodding for her to take a seat beside him. She climbed onto the chair and kneeled, her mechadendrites questing out to stroke at the commissars injured limb. He winced as she gently prodded, small electric shocks being sent out to assess the damage. Her fleshbrain held its hands and mechadendrites to her conceptual mouth, horrified at the damage done, her cognitor just tutting, pointing out on the commissar’s medical records the other times he had been injured much worse. She looked at his face, how unhappy he looked, and wracked her cognitor for something to say. A few options presented themselves, her fleshbrain dismissing them as callous, or inane, before her cognitor pointed out she had only a short time to respond.
“You should heal up quite quickly,” She said, her mechadendrites slipping away from around his arm, the Commissar nodded in agreement, sighing unhappily.
“It’s just so frustrating. I don’t like not helping. I don’t like being helpless. I enjoy building, I’ve been doing it since I was a boy.”
Octavia patted at an uninjured part of his arm reassuringly, “You’re not useless. You will be able to still use those skilled hands, once you recover. Think of it like,” Her cognitor paused, looking for a suitable comparison. She had never been in his situation, any damages to her limbs were quick and simple to repair. The longest she had been inactive due to damage had been three hours.

Octavia’s cognitor sniffed haughtily, pointing out the superiority of metal over flesh. Her fleshbrain pouted unhappily, before countering with the fact that even injured, his flesh was stronger than her augments. “Think of it like a three day leave.” 
The commissar nodded as he reached for his spoon with his good hand, but was stopped by a mechadendrite at his wrist. Octavia took the spoon and dipped it in the soup, before offering it to the burly man beside her with a smile.
“I just said, I’m not helpless,” he complained.
Her fleshbrain paused with a squeak. Shouldn’t he like this? Isn’t this what happened in romance situations? Her cognitor just shook its head, throwing big signs that said LIFE and FICTION. Her green eyes dimmed slightly, as she began to lower the spoon. Her arm stopped, the spoon had been interrupted on its way back to the bowl. Rogal smiled tiredly back at her, the stem of the silverware poking from his mouth. Swallowing, he released the spoon, sitting back in his chair,
“That being said, I do appreciate your kindness. It would be rude of me to rebuke it.” The commissar said, a boyish grin crossing his face. Octavia’s fleshbrain melted, but not before it delivering a series of obscene gestures to her cognitor. She bounced happily on the chair, moving closer to her husky charge, offering another spoonful of soup. 
The mess was filled with sunlight, and every occupant, guardsman and Mechanicus alike, felt slightly happier. A navigator in transit found his mouth agape, as a thin tendril, no thicker than a hair, spiralled off from the huge white beam that was the Astronomicon, and seemed to gently poke at a planet, before whipping back. He gave praise for the miracle he had just seen, despite his complete lack of understanding what exactly it meant.

Octavia fed the hulking commissar as they sat and talked, taking the occasional spoonful for herself during lulls in the conversation. She had just finished explaining the basics of noospheric clustering, which was the basis of the new hydra defence system. Rogal had managed to keep up, quite well for a weak fleshling, her cognitor added. He had used interesting metaphors, comparing the noosphere to a water tower, and the various connections as pipes and valves. Her cognitor pointed out the flaws in such concepts, but it worked on a simple level. The bowl of soup sat empty, Rogal taking to his feet. 
“Sit down,” Octavia said, before a hand and mechadendrite clamped to her mouth,
Rogal looked down, surprise replacing the slightly pained look on his face, “Beg pardon, Priestess?”
Octavia shook her head, blushing furiously,
“I’m sorry,” Rogal continued, surprise morphing to a smile, “I could have sworn I heard you try to give me an order,”
Octavia shook her head furiously, “NO. No, I never meant to give you and order, I just wanted you to sit and rest, I will get us more sustenance.”
Rogal sat, the smile not leaving his face, “I thank you for your hospitality Priestess.” He said, leaning back in his chair, “But we will discuss your behaviour when you return,”
The commissars teasing tones sent multiple shivers up and down Octavia’s spine. Her fleshbrain quivered with nervous delight, its metaphysical mechadendrites wrapping themselves around her limbs and squeezing tight. Her cognitor shook its head setting up a few more barriers between her fleshbrain and any control of their body.

As she crossed the mess, her fleshbrain grew more excited, the thought of what manner of chastisement she would endure at the strong hands of the rugged commissar. Conjuring a couch into the metacognital space, her fleshbrain flopping onto it languidly, her legs splayed over the back and the arm, as ideas fell on pieces of paper fluttering around her. Her cognitor directed her body to the line, ignoring the giggles from her fleshbrain. Just to be thorough, her cognitor reasoned, she had better check what was the punishment for trying to countermand a commissar. Information scrolled past her vision as she waited in line, her mechadendrites collecting empty trays as she passed the stack. Insubordination, she read, was a medium level offence, punishments ranging from chastisement and extra duties assigned, to in the most extreme cases, summary execution. The most common punishments was three lashes and a few hours hard labour. Her Fleshbrain rolled off the couch, pointing out an addendum another techpriestess had added. In some cases, the pair read, there has been a noted precedent of commissars using low level infractions to gain an assistant. In the majority of these cases, the perpetrator has been female, and has also been punished by taking on such roles of domestic servitude to either the commissar or other ranking officers.
A small gasp emanated from the petite techpriestess, her cognitor struggling to keep her mobile as she shuffled forward in the line. Her fleshbrain flashed images in front of her eyes, burrowing through the pict dump associated with the page she had been reading. Here, a techpriestess in the stocks, there, one serving meals to an entire table of officers, her fleshbrain pausing as she watched a small loop of priestess getting lashed. Octavia’s cheeks burned, as she offered the trays to the cook, nodding as the trays were piled high with cold meats, leafy greens, and crunchy bread.

Eeeping in thanks, before hurrying back the table as quickly as she could, Octavia’s fleshbrain highlighted the bright pink marks on the skin of the lashed priestess, and the starkness of the black leather lash against her pale flesh. Her breath was quick as she placed the trays down on the table once more, before she climbed back to kneel on her chair. Sitting on her calves, she looked down at her hands in her lap, her hood covering her face, her emerald eyes bright. 
“Your meal, Sir,” She said, gesturing with a mechadendrite, and she heard a deep chuckle from the commissar,
“I thank you, Priestess, for your kindness.” He said, as he dragged his tray towards him with his good hand. Octavia looked up from underneath her hood. Rogal sat resplendent on his chair, his injured arm merely adding to his commanding presence. The priestess eeped again, wringing her hands as her mechadendrites smoothed at the robes on her legs.
“I apologise profusely for my insubordination, commissar,” she began, the words springing unbidden from her cognitor. Her fleshbrain stood strangely mute, blushing and mumbling nervously, “And will accept any punishment you see fit.”
Looking up, she locked her eyes with the massive man sitting opposite her, her augments brightening. “However,” she continued, “I would like to point out the following cases, in my defence,”
A puzzled look crossed the Commissars face, as he leaned towards his petite companion, “Go on?”
Producing a dataslate from under her robes, a mechadendrite plugged into the I/O port, her cognitor shovelling the many cases of Commissarially mandated service to the slate. The transfer bar scrolled across merrily, Octavia’s fleshbrain in awe of her cognitor.

The metaphysical construct that was Octavia’s cognitor turned to its fleshbrain counterpart, explaining that while her fleshbrain was a weak, hormonally driven, bundle of illogical fallacies and strange ideas, she was her weak, hormonally driven bundle of illogical fallacies and strange ideas. Her fleshbrain squealed happily, hugging the conceptual representation of her cognitor happily. She handed the slate to the commissar, who placed it on the table to read. He smiled, as he scrolled through the various articles. Octavia sat, watching as steely grey eyes flicked back and forth, his finger gently stroking the screen as he worked his way through her evidence. With a satisfied nod, he picked up the slate and handed it back to her, “In light of the information provided,” He began, the smile never leaving his face, “I here by, under my powers as a commissar, find you guilty of insubordination, class four. Do you accept the charges?”
Octavia’s eyes went wide, before she hung her head and said quietly, “Yes, sir.”
“As you have admitted your guilt, I will be lenient. You are here by sentenced,” He paused for dramatic effect, Octavia looking back up at him, smiling nervously, “To assist me in any way, until such a time as I am fully recovered from the wound to my arm. Do you accept the sentence?”
Octavia’s cognitor clipped her fleshbrain over the back of its head, as it stood there, dumbfounded. Its eyes went wide, metaphysical mechadendrites and hands climbing to its mouth, as it let out an excited squeak.