Editing Femarchs (section)

===Morticia's Anon===

The underhive reeked of death.

The stinging spittle of acid rain impacted on your body as you ran through the devastated streets of the underhive, your once-pristine uniform now brittle and mud-splattered where the corrosive sump water had splashed upon it. You grit your teeth through the nigh maddening itching and ducked down a service hatch. 

You had a job to do.

The Death Guard were here on this planet whose name you didn't really give a crap about anymore. It was another planet with a fucked-up mutant alien-worshipping culture, and it was time to purge the lot of them. 

Unfortunately the tentacled monstrosities that dared call themselves human didn't like dying, so they went and hid deep in the underhives while throwing delaying forces to nibble at the Death Guard's forces. So Morticia ordered her legion down into the depths to eradicate them all. 

Would've been easier to nuke this place from orbit, but you're not Morticia.

Naturally, all the rusted metal and rockcrete everywhere played havoc with the comms, so guess who's expendable arse was picked to be Morty's personal runner?

You knew she didn't consider you worth her time. Ever since you showed up on her ship with a data slate from the Empress to “Make use of him”, she had been looking for ways to 'accidentally' get you killed or prove your uselessness in her eyes. 

Whatever, it's not like you had anywhere else to go.

Your mind snaps back to reality as you hear the crack-roar of bolter fire up ahead, along with the tearing screeches of the mutants that sound like a cross between cloth tearing and a cow with it's nuts in an electric fence. Good, that means Captain Garro was up ahead.

You check the charge on the battered lasgun that you had managed to scrounge up and push onward, turning the corner to see the greyed ceramite forms of the captain and his honour guard, picking off the last of the mutants as they fled back down the rusted hallway.

Straightening your uniform in a half-arsed attempt to make yourself presentable, you step forward and clear your throat, the patrician captain turning to look at you while his guard finished mopping up.

"Yes, Anon? Why are you not with Lady Morticia?” he asked, casually checking his bolter over.

”My lord,” you begin, saluting sharply. “Due to the comms interference,  Lady Morticia has sent me to relay messages between her and the forward elements. She has begun engaging enemy psychic forces near the central heat vent, and requests you to send a contingent around to the north in order to cut off any enemy reinforcements. The third company has been ordered to do the same from below before pushing downwards into the hive sump. Lady Morticia expects that she's about to engage the vast majority of the enemy leadership, and so requires your forces in position soon to make sure they don't escape.”

Captain Garro nodded slowly as he took all this in, pausing only for a moment after to answer.

”Very well. Tell the Lady that I'll be leading the strike force personally. Eta fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”

With that, you salute again and begin your run back to where you last saw Morty.

Glory be, she'd kill you if you ever called her that.

- - -

Left turn, right, straight on down the street, then left, up the service shaft, follow the sound of phosphex fire..

Ah, you're probably getting close.

Your chest is hurting from the fumes and soot in the air as you get closer to the sound of the battle ahead.

The flashes of white can be seen in the hallways up ahead, mixed with the octarine glow and inhuman cackling of what could only be warp fuckery. As your vox bead begins to crackle and hiss with static.

Yep, psykers. 

You hear the pop of displaced air and a half-mad shriek to your right before your world turned to agony, feeling the flesh and muscles of your right arm crisp and bubble as wave after wave of warp lightning course across your body.

Gritting your teeth through every curse word you could think of, you swing your lasgun blindly to your right, causing a startled yelp from the source as it impacts the mutant and - more importantly – stops the lightning.

You feel something snap off as the lasgun smacked against the mutant, causing it to clatter to the floor as you turn around to face the fucker still reeling from the blow to its...nose? Snout? 

The mutant looked like something out of a nightmare furry convention. Bestial in nature, with a canine head and hoofed legs and horns jutting out at seemingly random points over it's body. It's fur and flesh were patched and charred from what could only be phosphex, in fact you could still see its fat and muscles fizzing and bubbling away from the bright points of light studded throughout its body. 

Bloody hell, how was it still alive?

You decide to not ask stupid questions when you could be making sure it doesn't try and kill you  again.

You bend over to pick up your lasgun when you notice something charred and melted wrapped around the grip of your weapon. 

Something suspiciously arm-shaped. 

You look down at your right arm. Or really, what remains of your arm, now a blackened stump ending an inch from where your elbow should've been.

...Mother Fucker.

You pick up the lasgun by the barrel with your good arm and glare at the mutant before swinging with all your might, pulping his blackened skull in with the butt of the rifle.

You fucking hate psykers...

- - -

”Lady Morticia? The area is clear.”

Morticia merely nodded as she pulled the blade of Silence out of the corpse of the final mutant, before pausing to look around the room.

Mounds of mutant corpses, clad in scrap-iron armour and whatever else they could cobble together littered the floor of what was once a great factorium, now fallen to ruin and disuse after the mutant filth had taken over from what remained of the human populace.

“Good. Join up with the rest of the company and push down into the sump to wipe out any stragglers. That psyker that fled must still be around, so it's our priority to-

”Hey Morty!”

Morticia spun around to see that human Mother had sent her.

His right arm was a blackened stump, and his clothes hung off of him in tatters. His face was a storm of anger and grim determination as he trudged forward, his only good arm dragging the corpse of the remaining psyker behind him.

”You missed one.”

With that he kicked the corpse over to a nearby pile before making his way over to Morticia, who looked on him with a mixture of bewilderment and faint amusement as he paused to salute her with his stump of an arm before delivering his message.

”Lady Morticia, third company has sent their destroyer squads to push down into the sumps fifteen minutes ago, and Captain Garro said that he will lead the northern strike force personally. All forces are in position as ordered and are currently carrying out your orders to clear the last bits of enemy forces.”

“Hmm, very well then...” Morticia muses before turning to her captain. “Begin heading to the extraction point. We're done here.” she orders before turning to the human. 

...Anon, his name was?

”Come on, Anon. Let's get to the stormbird. Then we'll see about getting you patched up. Can't have you dying now of all times.”
Anon simply shrugged before moving to follow the rest of her honour guard, Morticia guessing that the only thing keeping him moving was a mixture of shock and contempt.

Interesting. Perhaps she was wrong about him.

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