Editing Toyhammer (section)

=Chapter 3=

Thought of the Day: "You shall not corrupt me, Chaos spawn, for my faith is armor proof against your blandishments, and I'm sure my Power Fist can pop your head open like a ripe tomato." - Terminator Virgil

"I SAID STOP, DAMNIT!" The large, barrel-like form of the rusted HyperVac 3200 slammed down onto the ground, crushing a squad of Terminators and the Seer's council, which had been locked in mortal combat up until a heartbeat ago. Now they were in mortal danger of being between a vacuum and a hard place.

It's been three days, now. I thought. And it's been... fifteen hours since the last unauthorized skirmish. You'd think that fighting together against the Orks would mean that they'd start getting along, but nooo.

Farseer Zara and Captain Eizak were again impressed by my display of combat prowess. Well, in the I-can-see-my-dent-under-your-hammer kind of impressed. I looked as sternly as I could at the twenty odd combatants, demanding explanation with sheer willpower as my communicator.

"He started it!" Zara piped up, thrusting her spear in the Space Marine's direction.

"'He started it' So that is all that the Eldar's highly evolved brains can come up with!"

The two made a threatening move towards each other. Their retinues all made two smart steps backwards.

SLAM.

"Ow... arg... Apothecary!"

"That hurt, mon-keigh!"

I sighed. "Go back to your rooms, and please don't fight on the landing again..."

I had quickly learned after two days of sporadic skirmishing and running around with the fire extinguisher (both for fires and for the skirmishers), that it would be impossible for the varied factions around me to stay in the still and calm for very long, so instead I had allowed them some battlefield time, which usually happened just after the afternoon lunch-rush; a quick battle for those who wanted to get it out of their system, usually in the back yard to the sound of me playing around (badly) on my brother's old trumpet the first time, to muffle the various noises of battle. Both the Ork and Imperial Guardsmen forces involved later complained that it was worse than fighting the Noise Marines of Slaneesh, and after a little research into that particular soldier type, I stopped.

The Orky comment about it sounding like a Squig being kneaded with tank treads was also apt.

Of course, tensions were still high among all of the four groups, but the fact that I had moved the factions into the various rooms around the house that I thought would suit them the best was cooling them off rather well. Right now, I was down in the kitchen, grabbing my coffee and checking up on them, jug of coffee in my hand. Normally I'd only have a cup, but it seemed like these guys liked the stuff.

Tau's Earth Caste – the builders and scientists of the Tau empire – had been hard at work, using some clay I had to make themselves some buildings. The curved architecture of the Tau were apparent in the corner of my living room. They had chosen this place specifically because it provided great lines of sight and therefore were advantageous to their own style of fighting. The long rifles of their basic troopers were stacked neatly against the makeshift barriers they had constructed as their perimeter, and the drones patrolling around the perimeter quickly parted to let me through. Sitting down, I watched as they put together a glowing power generator, which had been salvaged from one of their wrecked vehicles. I wondered – briefly – what it might do if it exploded in my living room, but then again I decided it was probably best if I didn't tempt fate.

The various vehicles they had brought along with them were named after fish, and the dark blue armor of the Fi'rios warriors contrasted darkly against the bright gleam of my whitewashed walls. There was something very simplistic about the architecture of the Tau warriors; there were no scrolls of prayer or devotional trinkets like with the Imperium, nor the complex plating of the Eldar. Just simple, utilitarian curves that would deflect incoming fire and keep whatever was inside safe.

As I looked on, a few of the Tau were already getting themselves familiar with a game of chess. To them, it was an interesting intellectual exercise, and they used the Fire Warriors – the basic infantry – to haul around the large wooden pieces. It was interesting to watch. Beside the chess players, several Tau were rambling on, apparently arguing like good friends about which was better among the aircraft listed on the book of Second World War fighter planes.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a Tau 'Crisis' battlesuit drift up on pillars of plasma fire. "Good morning, Shas'El Firestrike." I greeted, already used to the Tau's peaceful demeanor. Of the many races living under my roof, I was most comfortable with these guys; they were the most cordial, most tolerant of them all. But then again, they were also the ones who had banged heads with the cogboys recently. I looked at Firestrike, who was now climbing out of his battlesuit.

"Morning to you, Mai'kel." His odd, almost Chinese-like accent made my name sound rather strange as it leaped from his tongue into the air. I nodded in reply.

"Anything happen recently?" I asked him, indicating the fact that most of his guns were pointed at the basement door; the Orks were down there.

"Well, the greenskins have tried yet another incursion into the living room, but we have managed to hold them off... err, we might need more cleaning supplies, too, there's quite a bit of blood around." He reported.

"I see. I'll go down and tell that 'warboss' to keep his boyz in line after I check on the Eldar." I replied, pinching my nose again. The Orks were easily my largest headache, since they were probably the most eager to get into a fight – heck, they fought each other when they got bored, so it wasn't a great leap in logic to tell that they were more than ready to start fighting the others when given a sliver of a chance. Excursions from their home in the basement had lead to the other races banding together to keep them down there.

In fact, the Orks were that much of an annoyance that they actually helped the other races to bond and learn to trust each other somewhat. I sighed as I walked up the stairs. Well, time to get to the rest of them. The Tau were easy... the others were hard.

The Imperium of Man dominated the upstairs, taking over two of the three bedrooms. Imperial Guardsmen now camped out in lego-brick habitats strewn across the floor of one of those rooms. I opened the door to the welcoming party. A few Guardsmen looked up and saluted, or cheered and cracked into smiles. In the tough routine of the military, it was nice to see these guys unwind. I smiled as I poured out a large glass for their rations.

"Good morning, Guardsmen! Here you go, strong and black like you guys like it, right?"

"Absolutely, Governor Michael!" The General managed, still trembling. Having conversation with a skyscraper was rather scary, if you ask me. So was talking to someone who was no taller than your thumb. General Faust had apparently decided to entitle me with 'Governor'. Sounded much more... awkward. He looked around to speak to the Commissar, but that black-coated man had already hurried over to get first dibs on the coffee. The Sanctioned Psyker – a term for a licensed psychic, apparently – Ishabeth giggled from her perch in the women's barracks.

"I've never seen Tomas get so... obsessed over anything before." She had exclaimed the second day, when he had first gotten a taste for coffee. "Apparently, he calls it the Emperor's recaf. I like it as well, but... Tomas has standing orders that I am never to drink any recaf... or anything with simple carbohydrates. I go... funny." The actual temperature of the air around us seemed to sink along with her disappointment, and a few Guardsmen nearby were already running.

I had someone explain that phenomenon to me: Another Psyker, this time the Librarian Vasili of the Space Marines, explained to me that she was rather less stable than other Psykers, but her ability was on par with many of the Primaris – or top rank - psykers, albeit outside of her conscious control, hence her classification as a Sanctioned Psyker.

Well, back to the present, I was lazing off and chatting to the Guardsmen around me and looking across to see a Sentinel – a two legged scout walker – stepping gently on the remote control to switch channels on the small TV set in the room. The only way the Guardsmen could channel surf, really, since jumping on the buttons was too tiring. Those guys absolutely adored watching cartoons, although I'm sure they were familiar entertainment, but not like this. Apparently, Elmer Fudd was their favorite for his hunting of the tall eared xenos.

A small squadron of tanks passed by underneath my feet. I saw one in particular, and smiled.

I had returned their Leman Russ to the tank crew, the commander of which was named Thujan. He thanked me for its return, and then asked what the Space-Marine and Farseer shaped dent on the underside was about. I told him to ask his General. Now that Leman Russ was nick-named Mikel's Hammer, and became quite well known among the Guard. I was already getting a small following for using a tank as a club.

The Guard were a proud army, all maintaining themselves to the highest forms of discipline when in combat, but still managing to relax somewhat when they were off the fighting. It was like seeing a whole army of coins: sometimes you were seeing their heads, and their more mellow demeanor. It was interesting to see the more exotic of the Guardsmen, who regaled me with stories of deathly jungle planets, frozen ice worlds and weightless asteroid colonies. Their command squad was even more impressive; there were psykers – combat psychics – and priests, mechanical monks and hardened veterans. To see simple, unaugmented humans who could fight – and win – against the likes of the Eldar and the Orks was simply impressive.

The head Commissar – Tomas Sturm - was one of the four combat commanders of this unit, since the General too often lost his nerve in the heat of battle. Instead, the stocky General organized the troops and gave out general objectives. The other three were the Laughing Priest Jeremiah, Lieutentant-Colonel Salacia Marsch and Sanctioned Psyker Ishabeth, who always combined forces with Sturm. It seemed a rather odd way to command, so I asked.

In the words of the Commissar himself as he answered: "He handles the big goals, we make sure that nothing goes wrong."

I nodded in reply, and moved on as he sat down beside Ishabeth to chat.

Moving on, I dropped in on the Space Marines, who were exercising their morning close quarter drills on a cinder block, which the Marines were steadily pulverizing by wave-after-wave of synchronized shoulder barges. As it turns out, the Marines actually came from a multitude of different Chapters, from all across the galaxy, having been pulled together to fight as a crusade. The leaders of this Crusade were the Ultramarines, and they had been joined by the Salamanders, Blood Ravens, Dark Angels, Black Templars and the Imperial Fists. They were now drilling constantly to achieve unit coherency, as only ten or so Marines of the seventy strong force came from any one chapter. They had brought along with them a Dreadnought, the squat walking tank named Tankred. He was among their most honored brothers-in-arms, due to the simple fact that he had warranted internment in this majestic, fighting sarcophagus.

Like the Imperial Guard, the Marines also appreciated my ration of coffee. The overall force commander, Eizak, sat on the beside table as I sat on the bed itself. I surveyed their room as he tried to meet my gaze. They had a central 'highway', which wove around in such a way that it was easy for me to move across the room. It was almost like walking, except that if you strayed to either side, you'd probably squish someone and get an army of supersoldiers up and gunning for you.

"Brother Michael, a pleasure to see you this morning. I have just finished my sermon." The skull-masked chaplain's voice was deep and powerful, and I chuckled as I poured him a few drops of coffee. He was the only one among the Marines who called me by a name that I liked. Brother. It sounded... plain. Nice and formal yet plain. I liked it. The Chaplain looked at Eizak, who was now being rather childishly sulky. Maybe it was because of the impression I left on him... and the tank... and the fire extinguisher... and the vacuum cleaner... and the floor... yeah, you can get why he was angry at me.

I looked again at the skull-shaped mask. What would Father Tim – the local church evangelist – have said if he had met Chaplain Morteus? I looked on to the other side of the room as a breeze drew my attention; it was the Librarian that had waved his hand, turning the page of 'A Short History of Nearly Everything' over with his mind. Dang, that was cool. The Chaplain chuckled. Many of the Marines were now more relaxed. For many, it was their first chance in centuries to unwind for a moment.

"Show off." Morteus muttered as he removed his skull-shaped helmet, showing a heavily scarred face underneath. Okay, scratch that. Showing this face to Father Tim would be all the more funnier. I sipped my own mug.

"Good to see it's all quiet. I hate having to get the Adepta Mechanicus guys to repair all the shell-holes."

"Adeptus Mechanicus, Brother Michael. I hope that poor Genetor stops oiling his knee joints every time he sees another of your machines. It really is unbecoming of an Emperor's servant..."

"Bless these buttons, so that we may change channels..." I muttered, which got my drinking buddy to smile.

And that brings us to the Adeptus Mechanicus. The worshipers of machines. Red robed and I'm not sure which ones were man and which parts were machines. Some walked around in boots, others on tank-treads and a select few skittered around on spider-like appendages. One was carrying over an issue of Spider-Man; they were obsessed with Iron Man and Doc Ock. But besides our mutual fascination with comic books, that was about it: I had absolutely no skill whatsoever at fixing machines, except maybe the lucky slap that would get my lawn-mower going. They were a rather odd lot, with their odd cog version of the yin-yang symbol, but nonetheless impressed me by getting the old heater in the downstairs bedroom working again. These guys were the least troublesome of the many factions in my home, though a few of their actions really caused me concern; they prayed to my TV remote! And the microwave.

Oh good lord... the microwave! It was... spring loaded now. Like a toaster. Seriously... it spat out my food after it was done. Gave me and the Tau one hell of a surprise when that happened.

And speaking of toasters, where did mine go?

"Hahah. Well said, Brother Michael." The Chaplain's voice brought me back to reality.

"Yeah. Well, you have a fun day. There's some rats in the wall-spaces, so if you wanted to go hunting, feel free to eradicate them. But please, no high explosives, okay?"

"Rats? You don't mean those little sewer cretins that you find in the underhives?"

"Yeah, but for you, they'd be about this big." I held my hands apart approximately seven inches apart. That wold be about twelve, fifteen feet for the Chaplain, who just grinned like his skull-helm.

"Excellent."

Upstairs and into the attic, I was met by an oversized dual-barrel flamethrower – at least for their scale – being pointed at my face as I poked my head through the opening. A bright blue flame lit up my nose, making me lean back from the heat on my nostrils. But then again, that was only the primer for the main flame. The black armor, red drapery and white lines detailed the machine's origins from the Order of the Valorous Hearts. And the twin flamethrowers mounted on the Immolator class AFV really could melt my face. They were the ones responsible for slagging my trash can, too. And if I guessed right, my DVD case. I looked to see if I had identified her correctly.

"Canoness Samisha. Good morning... and... ah... please point that stove-lighter somewhere else."

"Stove-lighter? Are you making a slant at my gender, Michael?" There was the sound of promethium being dumped into the reservoir of the flamethrower. You've been reading my mother's books on feminist rights, haven't you? Samisha was a very touchy person, and that was before she had read up on feminism and decided to start teaching it to her sisters. I blinked a few times, and hurriedly thought things through. Well, I could apologize... my panic addled mind was very afraid of what that little flamer could do to my face. At such close distances, especially.

"Ah... No, I am not. I am merely pointing out that the primer flame reminds me of the one that I use." I replied, as calmly as I could. She raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry if it was insulting." I added on, and got a satisfied smile from the woman.

The turret – and the fate of my eyebrows to be burnt off by combusting promethium – quickly swiveled away, and I climbed up into the realm of feminism. While the Imperial Guardsmen and the Space Marines had set up camp in the bedrooms, the Sisters of Battle had opted for the two dollhouses that my aunts used to have, grand palaces of childhood as they were, up in the attic. A few short days of modifications later, those dollhouses looked far more... Gothic now. Repainted black, white, red and gold, with a large, three-petal flower painted in various places (I had given them access to some of the cheaper paints that I had as part of the peace treaty), the Cathedrals of Saint Linda and Mother Alicia were almost complete now.

I admired their work, and looked to the attics around me. The place had been stripped of a lot of the bits and bobs that had been around, mostly to be used as building materials. A lot of the machinery that had been up here now was used by the cogboys. The Inquisitor had been particularly interested in the sewing machine's repeated stabbing motions, but I banned him from testing it on anyone. So that was now Adeptus Sororitas property, since they were secluded, would notice anyone trying to carry off a sewing machine, and had the weapons to stop someone trying to.

"Everything alright in here?" I asked, pulling the little electric fan up with me. It was an old thing that I had put in one of the other rooms and forgotten about. Walking over to one of the four windows up here, I set it up to the plug nearby, and turned it on. Fresh air began to flow in, and I looked on, rather satisfied as the Sisters breathed in the fresh air flowing in.

"There. Is that better?"

"This air out here is almost as good as that at Tranquility." Samisha laughed, and smiled back.

"Tranquility?"

"One of our Abbeys in the Gothic Sector. It was a heretical agri-world before we went in. We completely purged the central continent clear; cyclone missiles from orbit, then Titan volcano cannon, then our purifying flames from the Immolators and Exorcists burned what was left, and then finally the Sisters themselves, with their meltaguns and flamers. After all that it was a very quiet place. We built a new Abbey there afterward, to train up a few of the natives, and called it Tranquility. Sister Meliya over there was one of them."

The shy battle-sister was masked by her helmet, which she apparently never took off, but nevertheless it was still a profound thing to see her slight nod. Meliya was one of the more prominent Sisters of Battle, as she was the only one who could understand the myriad of languages – she was a Sage, as they called her job.

"I see." I answered, ending the conversation. "Well, time to check on the xeno now..."

"Walk softly, Michael, and carry a big stick."

The Eldar were more mysterious, and altogether a little unsettling in that they had chosen the unused, but still clean bathroom downstairs. I never really used it, and wondered why the most advanced of the races here chose a toilet, but then again I guess the white ceramic tiles had reminded them too much of home. Several 'bonesingers' were already making progress with their bagpipes of creation, with Eldar structures popping up throughout the floor. The shower stall was now was a hydroponic garden of many colors, a motor pool for the various vehicles where the toilet had once stood, and various other buildings – most of them housing – building themselves up on the latticework around the room. It was almost impossible for me to move about inside of the room now. I sat down beside the door, the only clear space, as I looked on.

The musical tunes of the Eldar construction workers were much more melodic and easier on the ears than human construction, which – now that I had seen how the Eldar did it – I saw as very, very crude at best. However, I still smiled at hearing the melody of Iron Maiden in the background. The Howling Banshees were quite smitten by the band and heavy metal in general.

Think of it as the difference between a young child lumping sand together to make a sand castle, to the skill needed to building a skyscraper. I mean, the Eldar creates buildings by music.

"The difference is much greater than that, mon-keigh, but I will grant you that your analogy bears on the same principle."

I jumped on the spot from the sudden voice beside me. And the fact that it had just read my mind. The voice itself was distorted, feminine, and a little hostile. Standing atop a pillar of wraithbone, as I had come to know the building material, was the Farseer I had unceremoniously and brutally impressed upon the underside of Mikel's Hammer. She was dressed in her craftworld's colors of black and white, the former being predominant, with a green sash – her personal color marking, it seemed – wrapped around her waist. She had stowed the shuriken pistol – the curvy little weapon that had caused me no end of wounds that seemed like someone had surgically implanted a dozen splinters into my arm.

"Farseer Aldir." I managed to reply. Her gaze was... very disconcerting.

I hope she's gotten over trying to flay my soul apart. I've got enough migraines as it is.

Maybe it was about the sense of scale, but the Eldar Farseer had tried to rip my soul apart on the first day, when we had a bit of a spat. The psychic attack had failed miserably on account of the sheer quantity of soul which I had. Kind of like trying to shred a piece of paper, then doing the same with a phonebook. I had a migraine for about three hours later, though, while I was buying cleaning supplies for obvious reasons. The Eldar Farseer now looked at me, bemusement radiating from her gestures. She was reading my mind again, wasn't she?

"Yes, mon-keigh. Such unguarded thoughts are refreshing to listen to... however, I still wish to splinter your mind. But for now, you are more useful to us alive than dead."

It was seriously worrying me. I looked at the Falcon, which stopped to deliver a few of the 'Exarchs' These were – as I had been told – Eldar citizens who had become enraptured in the Eldar lifestyle of war, and had given into their warrior personalities. Now they donned armor that would forever become their faces, fighting for their Craftworld – their homeworld – until the end of their lives.

The first to arrive was surfing on one of the curved sides, the Exarch of the Swooping Hawks, Tameeran. Her aquamarine armor and glistening wings were all that anyone ever saw of her. A faint popping sound beside the Farseer revealed the presence of the Warp Spiders Exarch, Arachnos. They were teleporters, but had quite the trouble adjusting to this world; many a time, the Warp Spiders were teleporting into the (thankfully hollow) walls, and caused a small ruckus between the Eldar and the cogboys because of their sudden appearance in the fuse-box.

"Exarch Arachnos, I see that your suits are functioning again." I smiled, nodding my head to each of the Exarches as they appeared in their own ways. Most of them were inside the confines of the Falcon and the Wave Serpent vehicles, which were nearly identical barring the fact that the Falcon had a turret.

The red and black Exarch nodded. His voice was perhaps the most distorted of the myriad of voices that I had ever heard over the last week. It was... electrified, if anything else suited that description.

"Yes. I has taken us a while to adjust, but now we are fully materialized."

Materialized, I had learned, was the Warp Spider slang for ready.

"Good. Well, it was nice to see you all."

Now it was time for the Orks.