Editing Toyhammer (section)

=Chapter 23=

"Flux capacitors. ALWAYS the flux capacitors! Haven't seen a decent one since the 500s, dammit." - (Salamanders) Techmarine

-MONDAY-

Beep beep beep.

Crunch.

VRRRRR-skweeeeeeeePSHHH

Krrrknnk!

. . .

Beep beep beep.

That was a tank was doing the usual routine of backing up.

Crunch.

Into a wall.

Today, it seemed like it was a Space Marine tank. The turn (reverse) signals on the Land Raider acted as an impromptu alarm. As a testament to the power of their weapons, a Broadside's attempt at the use of its railguns as anti-aircraft weapons against the skittering daemons clinging to the roof overhead had managed to punch through the floor above us and turn my alarm clock into a relic; that is, an extremely holey [spelling intentional] object that had then been laid to rest with great reverence by the tech-priests.

Seven o'clock, and it was time to rise and shine. Wake up to a whole new day, the first in the way to preparing for a full scale war between us and the forces of Chaos. One that would decide whether my home would be a wreck or a fortress.

I blinked once, and sighed. Five more minutes would have been more than welcome.

Mondays were the worst, weren't they?

I hadn't really remembered much after the impromptu war council, but it seemed like everyone had decided it was safest to stay the night here, together, where we weren't liable to be picked off one by one by Chaos forces.

That left the problem of bedding, as while my house had enough rooms to fit about five people and have them live here with room to breathe (or maybe even eight, if you squeezed up some), we had been stuck with just shy of a thousand (or somewhere in that region) to provide for. Thankfully, the vast majority were the size of my thumb.

Of course, we eventually came to the conclusion that there was enough space if we got creative. Miles had carefully extracted the mattresses from the other bedrooms and I had gotten the pillows and blankets out from the cupboards.

I had gotten one of the aforementioned mattresses, while Miles piloted a couch to dreamland. Alice was upstairs with the rest of the Sisters that had adopted her as one of their own, and Batel again got my bed. Vincent said he'd figure something out later, and Emma – having refused the offer for my mattress - curled herself up in a blanket right in front of the fireplace, with only the rug underneath. Given the pile on that thing (and my experiences with such an arrangement), it was actually pretty comfortable.

That had been last night.

Something shifted around beside me, somet-no, wait. Someone... under my blanket?

I threw the corner aside to expose the slight form of the to-be God Emper(or/ess) of Mankind, curled up on my makeshift bed. Immediately, I felt bad, because as soon as I threw back the cover, Emma began to shiver from the sudden chill. It was hard to remember who she was, and what she had done, when she was wearing the body of an eleven (tops) year old girl that was shivering from the cold, her face squeezed up from the sudden discomfort. Thin, lanky arms wrapped around her chest, trying to keep herself warm.

An eyelid cracked open, revealing a bright blue eye that swiveled about as the mind behind it took in the situation. Showing no embarrassment, she sat up and began to rub the sleep from her eyes.

"E-emma?" I stuttered.

The girl yawned, letting her tonsil wave good morning to me, and then she looked straight at me.

"Yes?"

"May I ask a question?"

"I assume my response will be irrelevant."

I ignored that, heading straight for the obvious question. "Why are you asleep in my bed?"

"Case in point." She deadpanned, looking up at me with passive eyes. My confused look was met with a shiver and reaching out for the blanket. "To answer your question; the fire went out. It was cold. You were warm and – admittedly - comfortable."

"Buh?"

"The soldier is asleep on the couch and there was no room for me but on top of him – which would have raised legal and moral questions. The witch is in your bed and would have been my choice had she not been under the vigil of several flavors of armored weapons platforms. The attic and the Sister were inaccessible because I could not reach the chord for the stairs. The... eh... the..."

She paused, frowning to herself.

"The Vincent was asleep at your computer, along with the Adeptus Mechanicus. There was no room for me there."

I rubbed at my eyes, groaning slightly from the sheer stupidity of it all. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up, mostly from the cold. Blinking, I frowned. The Vincent? What the hell?

But Emma was smiling now, a warm stretch of the corners of her mouth as her eyelids sagged down, an expression of innocent satisfaction spreading across her features.

Goddamit, she actually looked cute.

"Also, you have a paternal touch."

I coughed. Paternal? "... uh... do I want you to explain this?"

"Yes."

"Really? I'm not s-"

"The body that I currently inhabit is still juvenile. It yearns for the touch of a parent, even though I myself have no such desires. There is no doubt that you would make an exemplary father, should you find a suitable partner and succeed in making offspring. Like I have said; you have the touch of a father..." A grin crossed her features, cat like and mischievous. "I do wonder if you will let me be your child in my next life?"

I blinked once, twice, and my jaw dropped open. "Wait, WHAT?"

Emma giggled that girlish chuckle that was so very unfair.

I knew that it was the kind that made you want to forgive her every prank, the carefully practiced (I suspected, anyway) giggle that had melted the hearts of fathers, suitors and friends since the dawn of mankind, but... dammit! Why the hell had her stoic attitude disappeared? She was supposed to act like some aloof, time-worn sage that was far beyond surface appearances of being a rather troubled looking ten year old girl, but now she was asking to be my child?

"Just teasing. You boys are easy to mess with." She chuckled, before sitting there and smiling at me. "I really do worry."

I facepalmed. "You're right there, but you don't have to be so blunt about it."

"Agreed. Anyway; when I grow up, I'd much rather be your wife."

Silence. I goggled at Emma as she burst out laughing, and my thoughts could only jumble together one word: What.

My my my, Michael. You really are an easy one to tease. Perhaps I should do it more often. Chuckled Zara. Her psychic presence was there, a gentle pressure to the back of my mind. It was best described as the feeling you get when you have a hat on, but you could still feel the breeze through your scalp.

Oh dear. Comparing me to something you can wear? How exactly am I supposed to be worn by you?

Considering the size difference, butted in Emma. I believe you can be slip on quite easily around his finger.

Care that to repeat that again, hag?

Tut tut tut. Name calling, are we? Fifty thousand millennia of civilization, and hag is the best insult you can come up with?

"Can we all behave like adults here?"

Absolutely not.

"No, I'm still ten years old, remember?"

"Then can you, Emma, at least stop acting like your personality got ripped straight from a Japanese eroge?"

"You know about those?" Emma chuckled, a sly smile drawing across her lips. "I only ever came across them recently, but I never knew you were into that kind of entertainment."

What is an eroge? Michael? What is a loli?How does a candy have relevance to...

Don't think about it, don't think about it, if I wanted to live another hour do not th-

Eugh. Mon-keigh, that's just DISGUSTING! You pervert! IDIOT! No wonder your race fall craven to the Prince of Pleasures! They're just children! How could you do that to them?

It wasn't like I found out about them on purpose. Seriously, you couldn't browse anything on the internet without tripping over half a dozen porn sites of various interests.

Good Khaine, that place is an absolute sinfest! And you wonder why your society is so messed up?

Hey, it isn't that bad. I mean, there are places that do decen-

I. Do. NOT. CARE!

Surgeon's Law. Rule 34. Two of the most important principles of the Internet.

What are they?

Important.

You godsdamned idiot! I already figured that out!

Oh God, she was just lik-

Stop comparing me to those 'tsundere' characters, dammit! I am not a hormonal teenage girl with a crush that she can't admit!

Oh? So does that mean you will tell us who has been getting your panties in a twist?

I DO NOT WEAR PANTIES!

I facepalmed. What.

There was a magnificent roar that shook the house.

You brought this down upon yourself, Farseer.

… that came out wrong. I wear a battle membrane to help me interface with my armor! I don't have any room for underwear and suchlike!

Zara... you're kind of transmitting wildly here...

DON'T MISUNDERSTAND ME, DAMMIT!

Standing up, I walked over to the nearest door and began banging my head against it as Emma continued to tease an ever more enraged Zara, with the occasional psyker joining in to ask them to keep things in between their minds and not disturb the others.

Of course, they were immediately booted by two of the more powerful psykers in the house.

I just can't win with these two, could I?

Emma, why did you do this...

Because being cold, emotionless and logical all the time is boring, Michael. I need to remind myself that I am human every now and again, don't I?

[8:39am, Garage of 28 Belmont Street]

Slowly, the Chimera was lowered into place.

The answer had been simple. The question had been as well.

"What do you need?" Asked the bespectacled Vincent.

The three miniatures, representatives of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Tau Earth Caste engineers and Eldar bonesingers, were universal in their answer:

"Raw materials."

And so, the Expedition was underway.

Yes, it needed the capital 'E'.

The vox-set crackled to life inside of the Chimera as Vincent lifted up the last of the Rhinos – this time transporting Techpriests – and carefully set them down into the flatbed of his pickup truck.

I was packing away the rest of the tools – mainly cutting/smashing tools such as the crowbar, hammer, a massive wrench, and a hacksaw – in the toolbox Vincent kept on the back of his pickup's flatbed. Tying everything down with the extra rope that the always-prepare-yourself mindset of my friend had prepared for us, and went to work helping the rest of the vehicles camouflage themselves.

Over the vox – a spare earbud headphone that had been hooked up to a vox-caster now residing within my breast pocket – crackled a new voice – that of a Guardsman.

"Igloo One-One Actual, this is Igloo One-Two. That's the last of them, I think."

Sergeant Sohm Vekt, still a little dizzy with the 'downers' that they had given him for the pain, fumbled the voxcaster's handset as he brought it up to his ear.

"Igloo One-Two, Igloo One-One Actual. Confirmed that all Akameka victors are loaded up. We're moving out now, so make sure you guys strap yourself in."

Turning around, he searched the interior of the Chimera, but couldn't find his commanding officer.

Where the hell was he?

Motioning the vox-operator to follow, he crouched in the cramped interior and pushed his way over to the top hatch, where he popped it open and lifted himself up.

Sure enough, Commissar Sturm was standing atop the lead Chimera, his gaze carefully scanning the vehicles and machinery being loaded up around him as Sohm scrambled up to get his torso through the 'manhole'.

"Commissar?" Sergeant Vekt asked, his voice questioning and a little unsteady. Tomas turned back to him, his fierce gaze just as hard and sharp as the teeth of Sohm's newly acquired chainsword. "We're all loaded up, sir. Igloo One-Two just confirmed the last of the tech-adepts have just boarded the Quadus Mobilus, sir."

The capped Commissar nodded, and held his hand out for the handset. It was quickly passed to him, and Sohm signaled to the vox-jockey to clear the channel.

"This is Stormbringer to all callsigns, secure yourselves and get ready to move out. Watch your fire sectors, but remember to stay out of sight; Barbecues, you have our rear. Smiley and Igloo victors have the right and left respectively. Specters and anything with AA capability have the skies. How copy?"

A chorus of affirmatives came from the Tau – the 'Barbecue' callsigns, referring to the Fire Caste that made up their number - and Eldar (Specter) forces accompanying the utility truck, their Wraith guard elite as silent as their namesakes as they made their way slowly up to join their living brethren. The Smiley callsigns – Space Marines – were already squared away and waiting for the others, as their number had been made up of more mobile portions of a Smiley task force – Scouts and Assault Marines, mostly, but also the Techmarines that were with the Adeptus Mechanicus.

That, of course, left the Imperial Guard to make up the rest of the expedition forces. They had elected Commissar Sturm as their overall advisor in the 'non-combat' role, but if the shit hit the fan, then it would be back to business with their own combat commanders – this being Chaplain Morteus, the newly appointed Shas'vre Talon, Seer Councilor Yoza and Lieutenant Vekt.

The majority of their vehicles were transports, with a few medium vehicles – Eldar and Tau hover tanks with a pair of Space Marine Land Speeder derivatives - thrown in for protection's sake.

"Switch me to the driver's channel." He instructed, and Sohm passed the command on. "Vector, do you copy?"

Vincent – with a bluetooth headset jury rigged to connect with a vox-box – chirped onto the channel, the grin pasted to his face apparent even over the buzzing comm-lines."Vector copies, Stormbringer. Are we ready to move out?"

"Yes, we are. And... Vin- err..." The Commissar irritatedly corrected himself. "Vector, interrogative: why are we using these new vox-routines?"

"Oh... because... it sounds cool?"

Silenced stretched across the live comms. Everyone was listening in, and waiting anxiously for the response.

Tomas waited, if a little impatiently, for the young nerd to respond to the comms.

"It is confusing, you know." He not-so-subtly offered, to allow their driver some breathing room.

"Well," Vincent agreed, grasping at metaphorical straws, "that's just it. It's confusing... that way we'll have more security if someone starts... eavesdropping on us?" The finish of his excuse was less than convincing, but that was all lost over the static of the bluetooth-to-vox relay.

"Hmm... agreed. We shall give these new vox-routines a trial run, then. All victors, forward!"

Pushing the pedal, my friend bumped out of the driveway and down into the street.

Damn near ran over my toe, he did.

[8:49 am, Fridge Pass...]

Alice looked Batel up and down. Something was wrong here. She quickly scribbled onto the pad, and then held it up to Batel's face.

Whose shirt is that?

The purple haired, red eyed girl looked down. "Michael's."

Why?

"My clothes are... unwearable."

So he let you borrow these?

"Yes."

You need some proper clothes.

"Y-yes... I know that."

Wanna grab some of my stuff?

"If it isn't too much trouble..."

It's not far from here.

"Oh, really?"

You're pretty much my size.

"You're fast at writing, aren't you?"

Very.

Batel nodded, and allowed herself to be lead off by the more forceful personality.

I just love dressing people up ~ 3

[9:58 am, The Junkyard...]

Half-skidding to a halt outside of the hut – the only break in the rusted fence surrounding the junkyard – Vincent slapped the horn a few times, buzzing whoever was inside with a blast of sound.

"Hey, Sal! Ya there?"

He tried the horn again, but found no response. Curious, Vincent stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him. Approaching the hut with some concern, he thumbed the send button on the vox to answer the flood of interrogatives that were sent his way, asking for situation reports and information.

"All victors, standby. The person who runs this place sometimes walks around when nobody's around, so I'm guessing he's inside somewhere..."

The radio chatter died down a little as he made his way forward, cautiously slipping the chain-link gates open. Peeking in, he found the hut and main courtyard lifeless.

Again, Vincent thumbed the send button. "All victors, interrogative; did we bring any psykers here?"

He was answered – to his dismay – by a full round of negatives.

"Alright... stay in cover, and stay out of sight. I'm going to have a look around."

Going back to his toolbox, Vincent extracted a slender crowbar and hefted it, testing the weight and feel and reaffirming his familiarity with the improvised weapon.

"Stormbringer to Barbecue Two-Three, advise that you boost it up to the top of the cab and see if you can spot anything before it hits us. All Igloo victors, stay down."

Two-Three... that was the Tau Stealthsuit team.

"Vinny! Yo, over here, man!"

Salvatore half-waddled out, a little unsteady on his feet and wiping sweat from his brow with a dirty rag. The operator of the junkyard when he wasn't studying for an engineering degree, the many scrap parts were easily converted into the materials he required for his many side-projects and hobbies involving contraptions that would have made Rube Goldberg proud.

He was dressed as a stereotypical mechanic would have been; navy blue overalls, steel toed boots and a rag in one pocket, with a few of his more well used tools in a bag that had formerly been used as a webbing vest by a US Marine. Sal also had a bandana on to keep his dark brown hair out of his face, and was dragging behind him a large segment of flat plate that seemed to have been cut from the side of a large vehicle – bright yellow and about a third of an inch thick, it was probably a bulldozer or something.

"Vinny boy, nice to see ya again! So: what can I do for ya?"

"I need the parts, materials and equipment to refit and rearm a battalion's worth of tanks."

[10:15am, AmmuNation Firearms Supply Depot...]

"A hundred shells of .45, a hundred of the 9mm Paras. Two hundred of the five-fifty sixes, and enough gunpowder to make a mess of a house. What are you gonna do, start a small war or something, Sergeant?"

"No, not that! It's just that there's the 75th Battalion that's comin' into the range this Saturday, remember?"

"Oh, right! So, Sergeant Henderson is playing the logistical corpsman now, huh?"

"Kind of. I'm setting up some extra ammo and stuff so that the visitors can have a little extra fun, yeah?" Miles grinned, hoping that his friend and former squadmate would buy that excuse.

"Ah, I see. And what about the gunpowder?"

"I was thinking of blowing up something if they let me load tracers. Maybe a barrel or a can."

"Okay, sarge." Chuckled the former squadmate. "Just don't buy the farm on us, okay?"

[10:19am, Coffee Plateau...]

I looked at the scrap of paper that had been carefully scribbled upon in a blocky gothic script, and looked up at Sergeant Vinters.

"So... this is training?"

"Essentially."

Peering at the bold font, I looked at him again.

"Are you sure?"

"We've lowered the bar a little from our standard routines. We don't expect you to become a Space Marine after all, but at the very least you'll be a little more fit than before."

"'Fifty push ups'." I read off the list. "Are you serious?"

"It's half of what is expected, and we're letting you use two fingers."

"... damn."

"You may want to get started. We don't set a time limit on it, but you will do fifty push ups."

"Again; damn."

[Alice's House]

"Uhm..."

Green just isn't your color, is it?

"N-no..."

Hold on.

Darn, and she thought that dress looked pretty good. Oh well, it was a nice try.

"H-hold on! Pink? Are you serious?"

A pause.

You're right there. Let's move on...

[The Junkyard...]

Sal blinked once, twice, three times. As a friend of Vincent's, he knew what kind of a poker face he could pull. And the kinds of things he said seriously weren't always so serious. That was the main part of his brand of humor; say something utterly ridiculous and manage to keep a straight face through all of it, then laugh his ass off at the dumbstruck expression that would inevitably appear.

"... seriously?"

Vincent began to laugh, an infectious one that soon began to spread to Sal, shaking jowls and moistening the corners of his eyes.

Good, he was joking.

Calming down faster than his friend, Vincent rubbed the back of his neck and began looking around, joining Sal to start picking their way through the nearest pile of scrap metal.

"Just kiddin' about the tanks, but yeah, I do need lots of raw materials. Iron or steel. Any hard metals, really. I'll head deeper into the junkyard and see what I can find."

"Sure, Vince. Just take care of yourself, though. Been getting a lot of weird things comin' out of that place."

Vincent nodded, and then fished around in his pocket. Finding what he was searching for, he brought the scrap of paper out and passed it to Sal. "Uh huh. Oh, and I'm looking for this stuff here. Mostly small bits that you'd keep in your 'tronics shack. I'm thinking about making one of those 3D printers. A fabber."

[The Living Room]

"Aaaaand..."

I fell flat onto my face, cheek dissipating heat into the cold, hard wood of my floor. My shoulder was protesting too much for me to push up again, and I double-tapped the floor.

"T-time out."

"... five, counting that abortion of a push up. Alright, looks like your left shoulder is still a little bit too messed up for you to do much, so we'll focus on getting your running ability up."

I looked up at Sergeant Vinters, who shrugged and then kicked his assault pack on, boosting up to the kitchen table.

"Why?" I gasped between breaths.

"Because, if we do fight something big again, I want to make sure that you can at least run away from it. That way, we can blast it from a distance. This time we'll also be giving you incentive to run."

A Tau hover tank – this time a Hammerhead - came from around the corner, the two Gun Drones in their recesses swiveling about as they tracked for targets.

"Their burst cannon, I have been assured, have been set to 'sting, painful'. They have also told me that they won't shoot for permanent damage, but maximum annoyance." Grinned Vinters. "Have fun!"

I sighed, and began running as the hover tank shot at my heels.

[Alice's house...]

"...".

Well?

"..."

It fits?

"..."

Too much?

"Too little."

Silence.

A sigh.

True.

She didn't want Batel catching a cold in that getup, after all.

Then again, she didn't want Michael, Miles or Vincent bleeding out of their noses, either.

[Basement Door...]

"Silverite." Growled Justicar Amadeus, striding up to his most troublesome subordinate.

"Yeah? Wassup, Ammy?"

:D!

"And hello you too, Kettle." Amadeus sighed. "The usual demands, Silverite: get rid of your hat, use my proper name and for the love of the Emperor fix your behavior."

The Grey Knight touched the brim of his hat, and dipped it down to his superior officer. "'salright, Ammy, nobody gets hurt."

Facepalming, the Justicar then gestured at the Grey Knight's back.

"Then at least explain that."

"Oh. It's a rokkit."

"A what?"

"A rokkit." Repeated Silverite, as if that explained everything.

"It's an Ork contraption of some kind, but what is it?"

"Their equivalent of an assault pack, Ammy. They use it to get to battle more quickly. They calls it a rokkit."

He gave the rocket pack a meaningful and what would have been an affectionate pat were it a less volatile piece of equipment, which was why he went from ground borne to screaming through the air in the space of a few seconds.

8O!

[...]

Sal had been distracted with the task of going through his miniature electronics store, going through boards and wires and motors to retrieve the list of things that Vincent had asked for. That let them offload the majority of their men and machinery, which had split up into their individual teams and were moving off.

All considered, things were progressing rather nicely, in Vincent's opinion. They were deep in the junkyard, and like a fungal colony the scavenger teams were spreading out into the 'yard, scrounging up materials and useful items. SOP was simple: find something, drag it out into the nearest collection point, then continue on.

The finger pointed out the sun that was beginning its slow climb up towards noon as the two – a larger Asian man and a much smaller human Guardsman Sergeant – wandered around the junkyard, on guard for the scavenger teams to call for help – either to lift or kill something. Sohm had attached himself to Vincent's collar, the rappelling equipment making for an easy way to keep himself stable.

Vincent spoke first. "Matahari."

"Matahari." Repeated Sohm.

"It means 'eye of the day'." Informed the bespectacled young man.

"I see. It appears that the grammar structure for Bahasa Indonesia is similar to Mahlashian Low Gothic, but uses words butchered from multiple other sectors."

"Yeah, pretty much, but on a much smaller scale, though. Many words are polynesian in origin, but we have a few borrowed from English, Dutch and a bunch of 'modern' words as well."

"So it seems." Sohm agreed, his voice drifting off to someplace else. The bespectacled Indonesian coughed once, lifting the section of I-beam up onto the flatbed. "I'm sorry, Vincent. Its just that these languages... they're very interesting to me. Ancient Terran languages... those boys at the Administratum Lexicanum are going to go red in the ears when they hear about this!"

Both shared a smile as Vincent grabbed an iron plate and placed it on the flatbed, letting it join the ever growing pile of materials. The vox in his ear crackled, shifting to some classical sounding music. Vincent took a moment to listen to it; trumpets, string instruments and drums played over into a bombastic anthem, with the faint sound of marching footsteps and thundering tank treads in the background. He frowned, wondering what would be transmitting on the vox channels; they were getting close to, but not quite at, the level of civilian and military channels, so there shouldn't be anything on there... He tapped the button to clear up the signal.

"-eka... five, we... raw... ack."

Boosting the signal, the vox jockey twisted dials and pulled a lever.

"Didn't catch that, Akameka Two-Five. Say again?"

"Vector, Vector, this is Akameka Two-Five. We've found some raw materials that you need to lug back. Estimated weight is fifteen of your kilograms. We're out by the south-west corner of the junkyard, by the big yellow vehicle."

"Roger Akameka Two-Five. On my way now."

[The Back Yard]

It was a perfect shot; no excess of smoke, no real problems with the smoothbore barrel either... accuracy was pretty much dead on; they killed that can of 'evil' stew pretty well.

"Wow."

There was an appreciative, mechanical purr from the red robed techpriest, who shared a quick congratulations with the loader and gunner of the Leman Russ.

"I know, huh?"

"Whoever knew that those things could shoot forty five cal?"

"We did." Casually replied the tech-priest. "There were actually some modification made to the barrel, but now we have adapted our Battle Cannon to fire this caliber of bullet. That is pretty much a standard procedure when those Administratum brown-noses send us the wrong size of shells. We have begun producing alternative loads for better armor-piercing and infantry clearing purposes, but in general we can start using your autopistol rounds, Miles. They're pretty effective for any large and soft targets, so we have good anti-monster capability. Some of the guys have even hollowed a few of the shells out to pack explosives inside."

Miles nodded, and ticked another item off his list.

[Alice's]

Wow.

"Uhm..."

Just... wow.

"It does look good, but..."

Simple is best, I suppose.

"Yes, but..."

Never knew that it would suit you this well...

"Uh..."

You look great, Batel.

"Th-thanks, but..."

You look rather flat back there.

"Huh?"

Turn around for a second.

She did so.

Has someone been starving themselves?

"N-no! It's just that..."

Then you're good.

The pad swatted the back of the black skirt around Batel's legs, and she jumped up slightly, like a startled horse.

"Hey!"

Sorry. Couldn't resist.

[Figure this one out on your own.]

Outside, the sun was starting to burn the sky; it was a deep orange when Vincent's pickup truck coasted up my driveway again, this time with a huge collection of metal bits on the back.

He pulled himself out,and then frowned at the four wheels, engine block and chassis (well, most of the chassis) sitting out in front of the curb.

There was a steady line of mostly two inch by two inch chunks of metal connecting the car to my basement window. He found me staring at him from just outside the window, and made a 'what the hell?' gesture; both hands held palms up at elbow level, and then a shrug with a look of confusion on his face.

I returned a shrug, and looked back at the four psykers staring up at me.

"Psychic training? Really? Now, of all times?"

Zara and Yoza nodded, both stern faced. Ishabeth and Vasili added their own agreement.

"Your physical body may not be up to Space Marine standards, but your size makes up for that in a fight." The warlock said. "That means that your weakness lies in someone attacking you through the mindscape and your mind. The last time was fortunate as there were many of our psykers and only a few of theirs, so the odds were skewed heavily in our favor, but if they were to do something like... oh, say, this."

He reached out with his psychic powers, his arm stretching out to point at me, and then he squeezed.

Suddenly, I was on my knees. There was the feeling that someone had opened up the top of my skull and poured arctic water in. It was like a brainfreeze without any of the delicious ice cream. I was silenced with a second gesture as I clutched at my head.

"I... get... it!"

Zara nodded, and Yoza let go of my muscles, let me collapse and then stand back up again.

"Okay. You got a point there... how about we start after dinner? We need daylight for the other things on the to do list, but psychic training can be done at night, right?"

The two Eldar psykers looked to each other, then agreed.

"Alright. We shall begin at eight o'clock, Michael."

"Good."

Then I swatted Yoza, cupping his slight figure in my hand, before I sent him sailing through the air. He screamed a little as he was hurled above a gathering of Imperials.

A thrum of psychic energies rippled through the aether, and Yoza seized control of the forces acting on his body. Now in control of his flight, he guided himself with little pulses of deflecting winds, sending him into through the top hatch of a Leman Russ tank.

There was a second scream.

The tank commander popped back up, her cheeks bright red as she pushed him out feet first. Yoza was apologizing profusely, especially since his hand had yet to leave the busty tank gunner's chest. I wasn't sure if he was really meaning it, since I had a feeling that he had a goofy grin plastered onto his face.

"So... uh... let's help Vincent get the metalwork in, shall we?"

Zara nodded mutely, and walked off as Yoza sat on the edge of the Russ' turret, smiling as he pointed me out. The tankie nodded, her eyes tracing the most obvious flightpath as the Eldar warlock explained himself.

I pulled the curtain back as another quartet of tires squealed to a halt outside.

Vincent was staring rather mutely as Batel and Alice came back. The rake – one he was using to get the ground back level and clear of metal bits, filling in shell holes and the remains of where Emma had used her psychic lashes to strike at the ground – had long ago stopped moving.

"..."

Miles joined in as he walked out from the back yard, empty shell casings in hand, goggling at the former Chaos Cultist as she walked up the driveway.

"Uh..." Vincent stammered... "You're back?"

Batel's face flushed red. She didn't like the attention. Well, sort of didn't dislike it. Alice was grinning from ear to ear, and walked up to Vincent.

She gently punched him in the arm, enough to knock the stunned young man over. He fell, and then scrambled back up onto his feet. She held up a sign, reading

Vincent: 'You, Alice O'Grady, are a genius.'

Miles turned to face the (sort of) Sister of Battle. Vincent had already turned to face the young fashionista. "Buh?"

"A genius that can make anyone look pretty!" Miles finished, grinning triumphantly. Batel flinched.

Something clicked in Alice's head as Batel's shouldered dipped down ever so slightly. She whirled about on her heel (two inches), and apologized to her newly made friend. In frantic scribbling.

It wasn't like you were hard on the eyes in the first place, Batel!

A trace of a smile crossed face as Batel allowed herself a small chuckle.

She was dressed in a rather more modest dress than the one that she had first appeared in; some snug fitting (but not tight) blue pants, a white long sleeved white blouse (untucked, with the top buttons undone) with a dark grey pullover vest (with red diamond pattern, and a disappointingly high neckline) to complete her ensemble.

"I... I know."

The dark skinned, purple-haired girl sidestepped the dumbstruck nerd, walked over to the door, and let herself inside.

Both Miles and Alice shrugged, as Vincent continued to stare off into space.

He did this for quite some time.

Finally, their patience ran thin. "You or me?" Asked Alice's body language.

Miles deferred to the young woman. "Go ahead."

Alice reached out, and snapped her fingers in front of Vincent's nose. He flinched, looked around him, then continued with his sweeping.

I chuckled quietly to myself, and decided to find myself a car jack; the Orks seemed to be having some problems with the wheels.