Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 2 ===
Octavia's mind reeled, the greenskin, its grotesque teeth, the stench of death and unwashed fungus, still played through her head, no matter how many times she tried to delete the memory, how many instances of the replay she closed, it wouldn't leave her alone. She sat on a table, her legs dangling, a mug of hot [[recaf]] in her cool metal hands, her mechadendrites, busying themselves with trying to clean her robes, powered by nervous energy. Beside her, leaning on the table, stood Rogal, still covered with dust and thick brackish xeno's blood. He stood, jaw set, as he watched the clean up, work benches righted, damaged tools set aside for repairs, as the work began once more. Rifles were set aside, tools were picked up, and a cold, somber mood set over the to be constructed mess. With an angry grunt, Rogal pushed himself from the table, and returned to the wood pile. In his anger, he didn't notice he was followed. Grabbing an axe, he selected the biggest hardwood log he could find, set it on the block, and began to hack into it.

Octavia followed the hulking commissar, obeying some deep rooted instinct buried in her fleshbrain. She tried to distract herself from the memories of the ork by trying to find out a reason for this, but all that did was push the movies past the ork, and to when she had seen the commissar. Her mind now tried to reconcile what she had seen, how he had moved, such strength, such raw power, used to destroy something so utterly, now, being used to create. She found a stump to sit on, and began watching the commissar once more. Her mind noted how his axe swing was flawless, perfectly done to minimize wasted energy, and maximize chopping power, how the muscles moved in his arms with each swing. She watched as he removed his Armour and his shirt, leaving him clad in a thin white singlet, now wet with perspiration. Her potential coil surged to life, and her mechadendrites began to primp and preen, various unexplained commands being logged to her memnorbanks.

Rogal grunted with exertion. Chopping wood in full carapace was a dumb idea. Combat was one thing, he was fueled by adrenaline, and the slight heat problem was nothing compared to knowing he would stay in one piece. Now however, it was just uncomfortable. He undid the straps at his side, and pulled the armour from his chest, dropping it beside him with a thud. His shirt was peeled off next, not for any heat reasons, but the thick, sticky orkish ichor that had soaked into it was worse than any sweat. his shirt was dropped atop the armour with a wet slap, as Rogal stretched his neck from side to side. A breeze blew, taking the stench of combat away, replacing it with the sweet smell from the fields to the south. Hefting his axe once more, Rogal hewed into the wood, letting the rhythmic action sooth his nerves. He hacked the log into a pair of manageable pieces, and lifted one over his shoulder. To Rogal, this was nothing major, his father had done the same, as had his father before him. The men however, saw the commissar hefting over his shoulder a log that would have taken three of them to lift. Octavia just sat, and watched, before following Rogal silently back to his workbench.

As the pair made their way back across the mess hall floor, Octavia looked back to where she had been trapped. The crate had been righted, refilled with whatever it had been filled with, (nails, box of, 1000, pin head, her mind absently noted) when something took her fancy. This fancy of course, was highlighted by multiple notes flashing across her vision, as she spied the commissars hat sitting beside the crate. Covered in dust, like everything else in the mess, looking worse for wear, but never the less, still commanding, Octavia glided over and picked it up in her hands. Mechadendrites moved gently forward, dusting and patting the hat, picking wood chips and splinters from its fabric. She turned to look at the commissar once more, standing at his table, the muscles in his back rippling as he sawed the logs into planks.

Rogal sawed. His mind wandered, as he said his prayers to the Emprah to guard the souls of the men who had died that day. Casualties had been light, considering, but a loss was a loss, and six men had died, for humanity to continue, and in defense of their fellow man. He continued to saw, letting his anger at the orks turn cold and focused. This is why he hated the Xeno's. He continued to saw, near oblivious to the world around him.

Octavia pushed herself up onto another table with her mechadendrites, still holding the hat in her hands. Again, her eyes drank in information about the Commissar, her augmented lungs feeding her information of how he smelled of sweat and sawdust, her eyes documenting how the muscles moved in his body, and how efficient he was. His feet planted, he used his upper body as a reciprocating weight, rocking back and forth with the saw, the light of the afternoon sun lighting his muscled frame. He was sweating, which would impair his efficiency. She looked around, her eyes scanning with a strange sense of urgency, for a thermos or a canteen. She spotted one behind her on the table, and a mechadendrite lanced out to grab the metal container. Hat in her hands, and canteen wrapped in her thermos, she approached the hulking Commissar at his workbench.

Rogal grabbed the plane, and started smoothing the rough edges of the planks. wood shavings tumbled, and he inhaled deeply. The scent of sawdust had a special place in his heart. He set down the plain and grabbed a different saw, more suited to delicate tasks, and began to cut the dovetails into the end of a plank. He needed no pencil, or ruler, his eyes having been long accustomed to working without them. 

Octavia coughed politely, hoping to gain the attention of the towering commissar. His back to her as he continued to work, she noticed how he used no marking implements, yet his cuts were as straight and accurate as any machine. She coughed again, still no response. Gingerly, a mechadendrite reached out, pausing before tapping the commissar on the back. The muscles under the thin cotton were solid as ceramite, as Rogal paused from his work. Placing the saw down, he turned, looking side to side, before looking down.

Rogal looked down once more into those emerald green orbs, and couldn't help but smile. Looking up at him, hat in her hands like a gelt novel urchin, stood the techpriestess. Letting out a sigh, he felt his anger melt away, as Octavia offered him his cap. 
"Your hat, Sir." Octavia said, "It was on the ground and getting covered in dust, which I believe would violate your uniform code, which would require to you be punished for sloth." Octavia continued, as upon her augmented vision, a copy of the commissarial dress code scrolled by. "In addition, you appear to have been perspiring, which if not tended to would result in a drop in efficiency. As a result, I have brought you this canteen of water. Please take it."
The mechadendrite slithered out offering the canteen to Rogal, somehow managing to give off the same awkward if submissive vibe as its owner.

Rogal couldn't help but grin. The techpriestess obviously had never been in this situation before, and Rogal recognized the after effects of shock. "Thank you, Priestess," He said, as he took his hat, and went to dust it. Pausing, Rogal inspected his cap, it was already clean, pristinely so. Gently, he placed it on the crate beside his workbench, "Much obliged."

Octavia offered the canteen again, "Please, Sir. You must drink." The mechadendrite bobbed again. Rogal smiled warmly, "Thank you again, Priestess, you are far to kind to this lowly servant of the Emprah" Rogal said, before taking the canteen from the mechadendrite. Octavia's body came alive when they touched, a surge flooding her potentia coil, numerous unexplained command exploded across her neuralOS. She whimpered quietly, her eyes unable to drag themselves from the man in front of her.

Rogal took the canteen and unscrewed the lid, tipping the cool, refreshing liquid into his mouth. Taking a long draught, he stopped and wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, before splashing his face with the water remaining in the container. Placing the container on his workbench, He lifted his singlet and wiped his face on it.

Octavia's ocular augments nearly overloaded. She had no logical idea why, but her fleshbrain was near thrashing. Her eyes took memnorpict after memnorpict of the commissars exposed physique. She felt her cheeks go hot, as the commissar looked at her, everything below his eyes covered by cloth. His eyes went wide, as he quickly pushed his singlet back down. Octavia's eyes had cycled through the spectrums, noticing that the commissar, though not appearing to, was blushing almost as furiously as she was. Her fleshbrain continued to writhe in near ecstasy, and it was only her blessed augmentations that allowed her to keep it in check.

Rogal was a simple man, some would say just a good old backwater boy from a backwater planet. Hard working, a simple man, doing what needed to be done. That was true. That also meant that Rogal had a very strong sense of right and wrong. That sense had been triggered, he had just been nearly half naked in front of this techpriestess. He quickly tucked his singlet back into his trousers, and coughed. "Thank you kindly again for the drink, Priestess. Is there anything I can do for you?"
Octavia just stood there, her mind going faster than she had ever thought possible. She managed a quiet "eep"
Rogal leaned closer, "Beg pardon, Priestess?"
"...eep"
Rogal knelt down, now looking the petite techpriestess eye to augmented eye, "Beg pardon?"
Octavia's fleshbrain took over, and the last thing that was logged to her command memnorfile was swoon.emt

Rogal's arm's leapt forward, catching the limp priestess before she hit the rockcrete floor.
"MEDIC! TECHPRIEST!" He roared, scooping Octavia's limp form into his arms once more.