Editing Warhammer High (section)

==A Morning With Furia==

“Another day, another... FUCK... who knows; some sort of graaa... Fucking waste of my time, thats what it is”, thought Furia groggily as her morning alarm blared from her bedside.  Squinting against the growing light, she rolled over onto her face and slapped at the offending machine.  The tenacity of the alarm added to her growing frustration, boiling it over into a pure hatred of Thursday mornings.  She spun herself over again and slammed her right hand into the clock.  Plowing through its flimsy plastic and aluminum body, her fist crunched the data control medium against the hard, cherry-wood nightstand, silencing the morning messenger forever.  The young woman held her hand up over her face, fingers spread.  The pure light of dawn glittered as it caught in the droplets of blood gathering in the myriad of small cuts that opened as skin met cogs and circuitry.

Pretty... 

Like rubies...

The color of the wildflowers that grow alongside the house...

Thoughts that drifted across her mind, but would never leaver her lips.  After a moment's musing, she brought the injured hand to her mouth.  The cupric blood tasted sweet on her tongue as it flicked into each wound to clean them.  She bit down gingerly and pulled out a shard that had embedded itself into the back of her hand. 

Nothing serious...

Minor, not even...

Trivial...

She spat the nib of plastic out onto the floor of her room and let her hand flop down to the side of her bed.  After a few scouting pats, it returned victorious; clenched around a crumpled card-stock box.  She tilted the box to her mouth and a hand-rolled lho-stick slid out invitingly.  The familiar weight on her lips and send of cut tabac leaves helped soothe her sparking nerves.  Its mission complete, her hand dropped to the side again and let the container fall back to the floor.

Fuck...

The bedclothes were completely disheveled; scattered, pooling on the floor, and tangled about the sprawled limbs of the bed's occupant.  The bed itself was nothing special: a low, sturdy, metal frame of burnished brass with a squat arch of bars at the head and foot.  The mattress and pillow, while both extra-firm, provided the proper support where necessary in order to facilitate quality, medically restful sleep.  Such was only to be expected when one wished to maintain the peak physical and mental awareness needed for optimum combat efficiency.  Besides, soft beds are for pussies.  The pillow-cover and bedsheets were both made of 100% cotton that was dyed a brilliant crimson.  Darkened and faded only slightly by use, they gave the illusion of sleeping in a pool of blood.  The comforter on top was white with blue trim, adorned by the heraldry of The Emperor's own World Eaters Legion.  Though thin, it was quite warm; replacing fluff with survival grade insulating fabric.  The bed would have appeared stately had the owner cared to make it more than once it a while..  Instead, the daughter of a Primarch simply slid the bedding off of herself as she stood, tangles and all, before unceremoniously dumping them on the foot end of the mattress.  

Furia stretched as she arose, the blue and white stripes of her midriff exposing top and low cut shorts rippling along with the sinew of her tall, athletic frame.  Her undergarments/sleepwear were comfortable, flexible, breathable, and insulating.  Similar to the ones she wore as part of her training kit, but lighter, lacking the compressing elastic, and with admittedly less fabric.  She would be ready for a fight, even if  caught with her pants down... so to speak.  

A quick scratch of the flank, a tousle of bed-head inflicted hair and a few steps off to the bathroom to start her morning routine. 

Teeth... check. White, check.  Gargle and rinse, ... …. … check.

Hair... FUCK!
Furia glared at her reflection.  The red dye was fading and sandy blond streaks began to crisscross through in her choppy, boyish hairstyle.  “Note to self, buy more dye.” She pondered which color to try next, but only for a moment before continuing to the next step.

Body...  Cursory once over to check for blemishes and to note the healing of the latest round of scrapes... All good, check.
A small wave of pride washed over her as she looked over the lean muscle structure of her arms and legs, at her sleek torso, and defined abdominal muscles that would make even Victoria jealous.  Would it even be possible to make her jealous, jealous of muscles?  “Snobby bitch,” Furia muttered as her eye twitched; anger rising as her thoughts turned to Fulgrim's beloved daughter.  “I bet the slut can't even open a jar of legume paste by herself.”  Furia shook her head to dismiss the irritating thoughts of that... scandalous tart.  As much fun as it was to direct her rage at a classmate, it really wasn't getting anything done.

Last Step: Sniff test... Results dismissed.  Gym class is early today.

Clean enough for now, the girl trudged back into her bedroom and shed her undergarments, tossing them at her bed.  A nondescript pair of hiphuggers went on underneath black bicycle shorts.  The spandex athletic wear was as much for utility as an act of defiance against the school uniform.  Furia grumbled to no one in particular, detailing the manner of execution she would enact upon the designer of the regulation pleated blasphemy, as she fished a skirt out of a pile and fixed it to her waist.  She slid a wide, black leather belt though half of the loops so that it sat slanted upon her hips.  A large, chrome-plated Imperial skull icon adorned the front as a belt buckle.  “Not even Dean Yarrick can complain about this one,” she gloated , as if the holy symbol was a ward against the accursed dress code.  “Oh, I thought it was an appropriate display of piety sir.”  She slipped on a a sport-bra, still laughing with irreverent mirth.  The regulation white button-up shirt and red tie came next, with the top two buttons left undone and the tails left untucked.  The black boots she donned barely passed the dress code, but they did a wonderful job of covering up the pink and black skulls on her not regulation socks.  Lastly, she clasped a slim metal choker around her neck.  Furia was not much for jewelry or cosmetics, but the studded brass collar was one of her dearest treasures.  

Books, papers, and regulation uniform jacket alike were stuffed into a worn, black, canvas rucksack and dragged down a flight of stairs and into the kitchen.  Furia's father, Angron, the illustrious Primarch of the World Eaters Legion, was out in the field training (read: terrorizing) the new recruits and wouldn't be back for few standard days or so.  His absence was nothing new and as usual, he had left a messily penned note plastered on the fridge. 
 
---

DEAR HONEYSCRUMBLEMUFFIN,

Out for the week.  Gotta put the meat through the grinder.  Leftovers in the fridge.  And do your fucking homework for fuck's sake!  I'll punt your ass right through the Cadian Gate if I gotta read another fucking letter about lack of EFFORT!

XOXOXO

LOVE,

DADDY

---

Angron's “Little Schnookims” growled with suppressed rage as she opened the walk-in refrigerator, it's mere presence reminding her of that sappy nickname.  She filled a container of stew from a 3ft deep cauldron and packed it in her bag along with a loaf of dark bread.  Leftovers, in the Angron household, meant that the barracks' cook had made extras.  The thick soup present this week had everything but the scullery sink in it; meat, tubers, legumes, vegetables (read: rabbit food), synthetically derived vitamin based nutrient mass, fungus, more meat... It was everything a growing teen and/or space marine neophyte needed.  And, like any good military food, flavor was a secondary priority and seasoning was achieved with a generous helping of “Vulkan's Red Hot”.  

Furia's mood brightened considerably when she left the house.  Rucksack over one shoulder and leather jacket over the other, she followed the stone slab walkway towards the motor shed.  If there was a silver lining to a school day, it was in the transit.  A few wildflowers had managed to leave the woods and take seed at the edge of the pavement.  Spring was in full swing again.  The ”shed” was a small, private motor-pool that housed Angron's personal vehicles, as well as the equipment needed to maintain them.  However, one area was reserved for Furia and her very own pride and joy; Gorechild, a massive crimson motorcycle that was truly like none other.  Three standard years ago, Uncle Kharn returned from battle literally dragging the wreck of an ancient assault-bike back with him.  Having long admired the similar war machines of her father's legion and those of the great Primarch Khan, the brash young teen decided that this pile of twisted metal would be hers.  And so Furia, together with her father, Uncle Kharn (really such a nice guy), and a few eager adepts from the World Eater's motor-pool, rebuilt the bike into the glorious beast it is now. 

Furia gently taxied the monstrous motorcycle out onto the pavement, kicking the shed doors shut behind her.  Fingerless, black, leather gloves complimented her boots and jacket.  She swung her leg over her mighty steed and slid on a racing helm, matching red with a tinted visor.  Checking over the dials and intoning the proper rites, she awoke the the machine spirit of Gorechild with a brush of fingers over the activation rune.  The bike roared to life, it's engine humming like the blade of a chainaxe as she eased it out along the road.  The biker girl progressively tilted her body into a racing crouch against the fuselage as she increased speed.  The motor's vibrations pulsed through her in increasing frequency until machine and rider melted into one.  With a sudden howl, Furia and Gorechild broke into a gallop towards the battle of youth.


5 Minutes Later...

Furia was quickly nearing the Guilliman manor, where the class president Roberta Guilliman lived.  She could see that stuck up goody goody in the distance, waiting patiently for the bus.  A devious smirk grew hidden under her tinted visor as she edged the motorcycle along the other side of the road.  Roberta's shriek was heard for blocks as Gorechild and his tamer blazed past, the wind shear from it's passage briefly billowing the prim and proper girl's regulation skirt up for all to see.

WHITE!