Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 1 ===
Commissar Rogal "The Bull" Hephastus was a man amongst men. Standing almost as tall as an Astartes and built like a Leman Russ, his commanding presence inspired all around him. A voice that boomed just as easily barking orders as it did in laughter would sing out in bass tones so rich that Slaaneshi whores had stopped to hear him speak. With dark hair, eyes like unpainted ceramite, and a chiseled jaw, many wondered why he had not been picked up by the propaganda department decades ago.

Many times Rogal had been approached, not only by the department propaganda, but civilian pictmakers and even a convent of sisters, but each time he politely declined. He knew his place, he was just a tool of the Emprah, to smite the heathen, cleave the xeno, and crush the traitor, that was his mission.

Or so he said in public. The real reason Rogal never left his post, was his burning need to help his fellow man. He had been assigned to a combat engineering battalion, and had seen how much good they would do not only in combat, but out of it. Rebuilding homes for the survivors, defending field hospitals, truly they were doing the Emprah's work.

So Rogal stayed with his battalion, his huge frame allowing him to help out where he could, broad shoulders to carry supplies, nimble fingers to help wire defensive mines as well as rewiring an errant power coupling under the eyes of one of the many engineers attached to the battalion. 

It was during the rebuilding of a backwater town, on a backwater world, of no real significance aside from the few thousand lives that had been lost defending it from orkish raiders, that Rogal had found himself with another calling.

With a grunt, the fireteam hefted the heavy wooden beam that would form the main support for the mess hall that was under construction. Rogal grinned as he doffed his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. The men were making good time, the roof would be up by nightfall, and the men would be able to eat a good mess cooked meal, the first one in a matter of months. The Orkish raiders had all but been driven off, but the occasional band would launch a harassing strike, orkish bloodlust was a fiendish thing. Returning his cap to his head, Rogal boomed, "TITUS, MIND THE CABLE, LEFT BOOT"

The fire team halted, Titus looking to his feet. In front of his left boot sparked a live power cable, which had he trodden on it, would have thrown him across the room.
Titus grinned, "Thank you, Sir"
The team shuffled sideways away from the cable, before heading forward once more,
"TECHPRIEST? TECHPRIEST!" Rogal boomed, looking around for a red robed adept, such hazards needed to be avoided.
There was a soft cough behind him, and Rogal turned. Looking at its boots, evidently chastised, stood a diminutive techpriest. The top of its head barely reached Rogal's chest, as he looked down at its hooded head.
"Techpriest," He began, his tone warm, but firm, "who was responsible for the cabling in the mess?"
The robed figure, mumbled quietly, barely audible above the sound of construction,
"Say again?" Rogal commanded
"Me, Sir."
A soft, melodic voice responded, heavy with shame, "I apologize profusely, and will suffer any punishment you see fit."
A pair of green glass orbs looked up Rogal, set in an elegant, blushing face.

Techpriestess Octavia was one of those cases where genius overruled just about everything. A mind like a monoscalpel, but prone to flights of fancy, absentmindedness and a sometimes crippling shyness, she was nevertheless the darling girl of the battalion. Every tank bore an image of her on the side, and her expert skills on its parts. Petite, her augments hidden expertly under her robes, Octavia now stood dwarfed in Rogal's shadow. Her augmented eyes drank in every detail of his form, the jaunty angle of his hat, the warm smile on his face, shoulders broad enough for her to lounge across, she felt her potential coil tingle with extra energy, produced, she noted somewhere in the back of her mind, from her body jumping to a fully excited state.

Her scan continued down his massive frame, the perfectly fitted carapace armor around his chest, adorned in onyx and gold, his shirtsleeves rolled and tight against his sculpted biceps. A faint network of scars formed a patina on his forearms, his hands strong, as he dusted the front of his uniform. An errant thought ran through Octavia's mind, causing another jolt to her potential coil, and a whimper to escape her lips,
"Techpriestess? Are you alright?" Rogal asked, stooping to get closer. 
Octavia nodded, managing a quiet "Yes, Sir. Just a slight overcharge to my potential coil. I will see to the cabling issue at once."
Gathering her robes around her, Octavia hurried off, her vision taking a memnorpict of the commissar, for future reference. At the bottom of the image, hastily added to the description was "Subject appears to be blessed with proportion, must investigate further."

Rogal stood there for a moment, watching the red robed figure disappear once more into the bustle of quickly forming camp. He sighed, and returned to the huge tree trunk he had been sawing, his hands taking up the blade once more. Brute strength saw the log turned into planks, the planks into boards, and skilled hands saw those boards made into benches. Rogal smiled to himself, admiring his handiwork, he was truly blessed by the Emprah to not only be able to defeat his enemies, but to care for his children too. 
A mechanical howl tore Rogal from his thoughts, as the sounds of construction quickly became the sounds of combat.

The Stormboyz dropped out of the afternoon sun like an earthshaker round, spreading chaos where they landed. Lasguns were brought to bear, and the cacophony of war once again filled Rogal's ears.
"MEN" he roared, his saw in one hand, las pistol in the other, "LET NONE SURVIVE"
The cries of the battalion filled his ears, as Rogal charged forward, bellowing in rage, these foul xeno destroying all he and his men were working to create. A Stormboy took this roar as a challenge, and with a great WAAAGH charged back, igniting his rocket with a howl.
Rogal may have been big, but was far from slow, ducking low, he buried the saw in the ork's howling maw, before turning as the greenskin overshot him, and sending a well-placed lasbolt into the rocket on its back. The Orkish missile bucked, rocketing skywards, before exploding, tearing rocket and owner apart in a blaze of promethium. The men cheered, as the greenskins were beaten back, and Rogal served the now ruined mess.

Octavia reeled, this was not what was supposed to happen. She staggered away from the generator she had been working on, disorientated by the lights and noise. Her augments struggled to process all she was experiencing, as she huddled behind an overturned supply crate. She had no weapons in her body, and loathed the idea of xenos blood on her mechadendrites. All around her, chaos reigned, Octavia curled her mechadendrites around herself protectively, and began to repeated the litany of mechanical preservation.

Her whispers were suddenly joined by another voice, "Allo, what we got 'ere"
Octavia's emerald green eyes went wide, and she screamed.

Rogal's head snapped around, years of training kicking in. Supply crate, ork, human in danger. His long legs bounded, as he roared in anger, unleashing a fusillade of lasbolts at the ork, the ruby shots pinging from the xeno's bolted armour, or just burning out. Rogal swore, throwing the now depleted pistol to the side, and grabbing one of the benches he had made, he leapt, swinging the solid timber seat with all his considerable might. Indigenous hardwood splintered, as the ork was beaten back. Now between the supply crate and the ork on the ground, Rogal stood, his chest heaving, a ragged wooden plank in his hand, "FOUL XENO'S, HOW DARE YOU PROFANE THIS PLACE" He bellowed, belting the ork across the head, "YOU DO NOT." another swipe at the ork rewarded him with the sound of bone shattering in the arm thrown up to protect an ugly face, "HARM THESE PEOPLE," The next swing threw the jaw to a disgusting angle, "YOU WILL NOT" the ork whimpered, as the plant drove into its ribcage, "HARM THESE PEOPLE" the plank shattered, sending splinters flying. Grabbing the Ork's dropped choppa, a huge, ramshackle abomination of an axe, Rogal hefted it, his muscles bulging at his sleeves, "AGAIN." And with a roar of effort, he buried the choppa up to the hilt in the ork's torso.

Silence. As silent as a freshly ended battlefield could be at least. Men and women lay wounded or dying, moans and cries carried hauntingly through the air. Rogal stood, hunched, covered in blood and dust, his great chest heaving. He swung his head to look at the crate behind him, wondering what had gotten the greenskin's attention. That scream had been chilling, never before had he been affected like that. He crouched down, looking into the darkness of the crate. A pair of emerald green lights stared back at him. A sob, quiet at first, became louder and wracking. Covered in dust, her mechadendrites limp, Rogal gently pulled Octavia from the crate, lifting the surprisingly heavy techpriestess from the darkness. Cradling her in his arms, Rogal stood, bellowing for a medic, as he carried his red robed bundle as if it were the most precious thing in the world.