Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 15 ===
The Doctor snapped his gloves on, sighing to himself as he called for the commissar to enter the treatment room. The Lumbering man ducked under the doorframe, his petite friend in tow. 
“Right,” The Doctor began, gesturing to the seat beside the treatment table, “Take a seat, and let’s see what you’ve done to yourself.”
Hefting his arm to the table, Rogal took his seat, Octavia standing by the door, watching curiously. The doctor slid his scissors underneath the red bandages, cutting quickly upwards, before gently peeling the coverings aside. A bright red ragged gash gently wept blood, and the doctor shook his head, “You certainly did a number on yourself, Sir.”
Rogal’s eyes widened, he knew the wound had been bad, but not this bad. Octavia marvelled at how the ragged cut looked, the strangely rubbery texture as the doctor began wiping his arm with a prep pad. The smell of antiseptic filled the air, and the doctor silently thanked the Emprah that the commissars drugs were still working.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Rogal admitted, marvelling at the bright blood that was mingling with the amber antiseptic, as the doctor took up his suturing needle. Rogal felt the pressure of the needle entering his skin, the little tugs as the suture was pulled tight, but no pain. How fascinating her cognitor found the surgery, as it gently stroked her fleshbrain as it whimpered about her poor man being injured. Her cognitor tried in vain to point out that she had nothing to concern herself with, Rogal having enough Atryme in his system to stop him feeling any discomfort for a good few hours more. Her fleshbrain just moaned and hid her face, throwing its memory back to the activities just past. With a sigh, her cognitor let her go, focusing on how the doctor used an oddly slanted stitch, and pondering the reasoning behind it.

The doctor finished his suturing, standing to collect a fresh set of bandages. Octavia slunk over, looking at the pink, puckered wound, the black of the stitches stark against them. Her fleshbrain flashed an image of the techpriestess getting lashed, and she eeped quietly. Rogal moved a finger experimentally, watching as the muscles in his arm moved, the stitches moving with them. The Doctor returned, opening a bottle of powder and sprinkling it over the commissar’s arm. A biting tang filled the air, Rogal’s nose wrinkling, “What is that?” he asked, looking down at his arm.
“It’s a quickheal powder, sealing the wound with a form of chemical cauterization, hence the smell, before creating a breathable barrier over the injury.”
The Commissar nodded, not really bothering to try and understand the medical terminology, Octavia’s cognitor filing the information away for future reference. The Doctors skilled hands quickly rebandaged Rogal’s arm, before he stood, taking his gloves off throwing them into the bin,
“Right, firstly, no more Atryme,” The doctor said, putting forth his hand in expectation of the bottle. Rogal patted his coat pockets, before extracting the white jar and handing it back.
“Secondly, give that arm a rest. No more of,” He paused, looking at Octavia with a grin, “Of whatever it is you were doing. If your arm does give you any trouble though, commissar, please come back and see me.”
Rising to his feet, Rogal nodded his head respectfully, “Much Obliged Doc,”
He turned, Octavia’s hand grabbing his, and the pair left the treatment room, Octavia looking over her shoulder and waving with a mechadendrite, “Thank you Doctor Shepard,” She called happily.

The massive commissar followed his petite mistress as she lead him through the vehicle pit, to the massive open workshop that she and her mechanics team worked in. The servants of the machine god looked up, the static like binary chatter dying down as Octavia approached. Her cognitor fired a concentrated data burst, explaining the entire situation across the workshops private noosphere. Various acknowledgements and witty comments came back to her, as the team began their afternoon’s work. She walked Rogal over to a workbench, clearing space for him to sit with her mechadendrites. Pulling her dataslate from its pocket in her robe, Octavia handed it to her guest,
“Here, this contains a full rundown of what we are doing, you might find it interesting.” Octavia said, smiling shyly, “However, this also has access to a range of other information, including,” mechadendrites tapped at the screen, “The local sector’s Mechanicus sanctioned do it yourself archives.”
Data scrolled past the commissars eyes, Octavia’s mechadendrites guiding the browser to the wood working section. Rogal’s face lit up, as he pulled his red robed love close and kissed her on the top of the head. The workshop went silent, and Octavia blushed, pushing away from the burly commissar.
“Not in front of the others,” she whispered, poking the commissar in the ribs with a mechadendrite, before she turned to her mechanics team.
“Yes, you all saw it. He is affectionate. Now we have a job to do,” she said, “This new defence net won’t build itself.”
Those capable of smiling did, and smiling emotes flashed across the noosphere from those who lacked the ability. Quickly, the team remerged, synchronising quickly from years of practice, as the workshop was filled with noise once more. Rogal sat and watched, each priest of the machine god seemingly working on a different task, but somehow, still working together.

One would pass another a servo wrench with a mechadendrite, not looking up from its welding, a third flicking away an ember from the first, as it walked past with an arm full of memnorplates. In the middle of the flowing, almost fractal like workflow, sat Octavia, her mechadendrites bobbing , nimble fingers darting out to grab a part from a box, before taking up a minitorque, screwing together another item which would be fitted into a housing that was placed on her workbench, before being scooped away by another techpriest. The whole workshop moved in a complex dance, a joyous expression of praise to the Omnissiah, as each priest became a part of a greater machine. A static hiss slowly grew, as the Priests began to sing in binary, their praises filling the vehicle pit like heavy rain on a metal roof. Rogal watched in awe as all around him, red robed priests moved as if possessed, as even the pangs of servohammers and clicking of ratchet wrenches merged into the music that seemed to pervade the workshop. He found his chest tightening with excitement, as he was struck by the ethereal beauty that surrounded him, drawing parallels to the feeling of joy and purpose he felt as he worked with timber. The joy of construction, to create something new and pure for humanity, he realised, was what drove the Mechanicum. He smiled, turning his attention back to the dataslate, having found an article that took his fancy. He consulted a list of the bases current stocks of timber and building supplies, as his mind clicked over into its own design mode, the simple geometries which he had been trained to use to create anything moving about inside his head. 
Hidden away in a chimera parked in the middle of the fleet of transports, Tiberius gasped for air, a mechadendrite tight around his throat, his wrists straining against the cable ties. A crackling buzz filled the small space, cold light flickering across a slender form with a wicked grin on her mouth.

Rogal’s concentration was broken by a buzz from his personal dataslate. Placing the one Octavia had loaned him down on the workbench beside him, he fumbled in his jacket for the oblong item. Pulling it from inside his coat, he smiled triumphantly, thumbing the passcode and reading his new notifications. Two new datacasts, one high priority, he saw, as he pressed a rune of access, opening his inbox. The pair had come at almost the same time, and he felt his chest tighten as he read the author of the priority message. [REDACTED] stared at him in bright red letters, as he poked at the message, it popping open to fill his screen. The hidden sender meant one thing and one thing only, Inquisitors. His eyes scanned over the datacast, To, Commissar Hephastus, R, From: [REDACTED] Subject: Investigation pending: Possible corruption.

His face impassive, he continued to read. “Commissar Hephastus,” The Datacast began, as the majority of them did, “It has come to our attention that a pair under your jurisdiction has been found in possession of a number of heretical traits. One Lieutenant, Baracchus, Tiberius, Vox officer,” The datacast continued, listing Tiberius’s serial number, vox officer class, and clearance level. “As well as one member of the Adeptus Mechanicum, A Magos Radigan, Caelistis,” He paused, that was a surprise. “Have been found engaging in what we believe to be possibly heretical activities. These activities include, but are not limited to the following.” Rogal scrolled down, and down, and down, and down. The list ended, the datacast continuing, “We request immediate action on this issue. Failing this, we will have no other option but to enact our own protocols. Faithfully in his name, Inquisitor Jehoel Geergori, Ordo Hereticus.” Rogal sighed, placing the slate on his lap, as he looked up to the ceiling of the Vehicle pit, his mind racing.

He had never overtly suspected Caelistis, he thought, as he pondered his next course of action, but reasoned that there was no reason for her not to be. He pocketed his slate as he stood, before turning back to the workbench. He quickly left a note on Octavia’s slate, detailing the reasons for his departure, before he carefully made his way from the vehicle pit. He quickly crossed the compound, having escaped from the vehicle pit without interrupting a single techpriest, throwing the flap of his tent wide as he strode in. Placing his slate on the table, he went to his footlocker, throwing it open and rifling through it, pulling a second slate out, before returning to the table. He quickly began copying files from this second slate to his primary, tapping a few runes here and there, leaving the dataslates to work, as he collected a drink from his food locker. His primary slate pinged quietly as he returned to his seat, a bottle of some local fruit nectar in his hand. He pressed a few runes on his primary slate, taking a swig from his bottle and clearing his throat, before pressing a final rune. A small light blinked from red to green, and the Commissar began to speak.
“Sir, Inquisitor Geergori,” He began, the Dataslate acting as a transcriber, “In regards to your recent datacast concerning one Lieutenant Baracchus, Tiberius and Magos Radigan, Caelistis, I wish to thank you for bringing the matter to my attention. However,” He continued, “I would urge you to read my correspondence with Sir Inquisitor Cohnager, who I imagine you have taken over for in regards to the detection and prevention of heretical behaviour. In any case, I wish to inform you that the lieutenant and his companion are free from any heretical acts.”