Editing Warhammer High (section)

==Fixing Hana's Bike==

The scent of the garage was odd. It always had been to an extent, but now it was absolutely curious. Where a moment before, the air was filled with the acrid tang of welded ceramite and burnt plasteel, now the scent of rose oil intermingled with vanilla and cherry blossoms. This confounded the chemical auspexes of Techpriest Jerlaek, and was preparing to order a diagnostic on what tentatively was his nose when suddenly the garage door opened with a blast of relatively cool summer air. Kept in his dungeon-like state of perpetual darkness, having little need for ambient light when the full spectrum of vision and color were at his augmetic eyes beck and call, the Techpriest was blinded for exactly 3.023 seconds as his ocular lenses adjusted to the new stimulus.

He saw three figures standing in silhouette at the mouth of the garage. The Techpriest readied his mechadendrites, and charged them discretely. His mission was not only to maintain the Legion's vehicles, but also in this respect, to protect his charge, and would do some come death or malfunction. As the figures approached him, and entered the din of his work strobes, he immediately deactivated his lethal array of vibrowhips and neural disassemblers. He clicked a few times, his vocoder activating with slowness.

"Mistress Farah. Forgive me, I was unaware you were arriving here." She offered the polished chrome faceplate a warm, disarming smile.

"No problem, Jerry! We just came to fix a couple of things." The Techpriest had always been confused as to why Farah Manus had opted to give him such a pseudonym, but filed it away for processing. To even try to understand females of her age was asking for a complete cogitative meltdown.

"I see, Mistress, and what is it that needs consecration and soothing?" Farah pointed over her shoulder to the tall, imposing girl in the middle with a strangely familiar two-wheeled apparatus slung over her shoulders, its white and red paint marred black in a number of places by smoke and poorly anointed unguent. He reached out his partially biological hand towards it. "Of course, Mistress Farah, I shall offer the Omnissiah's blessings to..." a vice-like grip registered on his subdermal neurotransmitters. Focusing, he saw the girl, whom he now cogitated with some embarrassment and fear as Hana Khan, daughter of the Great Khan. She leaned in and whispered loudly,

"Listen. Farah and Venus help me fix Janggi, but nobody," she pulled him even closer for added effect, not an easy task considering his augmetic bulk, "and I mean nobody touches Janggi but me. Understood?" The now terrified adept nodded the pistons in his faceplate and let out an assuring blurt of machine code. "Good. Ladies!," she said, with an air of an aristocrat, "we have work to do!"

"Torque driver. Pneumohammer. Plasma torch. Swab." Hana was working at a furious pace, but with the precision of a chirurgeon. She repaired the damage from this morning, Venus handed her the proper tools without even having to look, and Farah observed, ensuring the proper rites were being initiated. Janggi was in pain, Hana could feel it. Not perhaps as acutely as Farah did, but Farah felt a general empathic feeling from nearly everything from lumen strips to battle Titans. But she wasn't bound to Janggi, not like Hana was. 

The graceful machine was a gift from her father, a glory of twin-wheeled excellence the envy of any machine in the entire school. She could run down anything that called the ground its home, and could keep up with anything that didn't. True, Janggi wasn't exactly the artisan-crafted masterpiece Moondrakken, but she understood it would be rather awkward if she were to accidentally gun down five of her classmates each morning in a hail of bolter fire. As it was, the school had her coming to the office nearly every morning for disrupting some scholam lecture with her blaring engines. Engines that also had a bad tendency to want to erupt on her. That, however, wasn't Janggi's fault. It's spirit was a docile one, powerful, yet gentle, and expected to ferry a poised, collected girl from place to place. What it had found, however, was a hellion of speed and danger, a dark-haired blitz of energy that the fragile machine spirit couldn't possibly contain.

That changed today.

"Okay," Farah said, after the superficial damage was repaired. She flicked her mechanical fingers around the chassis, which Hana didn't seem to mind as she didn't have fingerprints to leave behind. "it looks like the problem you have is that Janggi's motive engine can't...keep up with you." This sharpened a dagger behind Hana's eyes.

"Are you calling me fat?" Farah leapt back, put a hand behind her head and waved away the thought, knowing full well the reputation the daughter of the Khan had.

"No! No! What I mean is that...it's not capable of holding your fighting spirit! Yeah..." her words seemed to work, as Hana went back to polishing the outer hull of the moped.

"Hmph," she grunted, as daintily as an Ork with a rash. "Any suggestions then?" Venus looked over, and nonchalantly said,

"Why don't you just put a rocket on it, and call it good?" The other girls looked at each other, smiled innocuously, then, suddenly, they grasped Venus and shouted in both ears,

"Awesome!" Feeling like she'd just put her ear next to one of father's anvils while he was pounding out some new piece of weaponry, she slumped down and nearly passed out.
"Just one thing though," Farah noted, "if you have so much of a problem keeping that old fuel-burner from exploding, what's going to happen when it's got fusion cells?"

Hours later, the garage door opened once more. Techpriest Jerlaek peered into the gloom with his regular optics, seeing nothing, but hearing an odd humming sound. He almost had his thermal sensors primed when suddenly a blur of white plasteel, hair, and skirts zipped outwards and upwards from the garage, the sound of an anti-grav motor being taxed and a ululating shriek piercing the peace of silence that had existed. Then, as soon as it had ended, with the sound of a battle cry upon the field of glory, three girls shouted out, like warriors triumphant,

"Mall time!"