Commissar Techpriestess love story

Commissar-Techpreistess Gelt love story

Written by "the littlest kreiger", in response to a request by a femanon for a love story because her boyfriend of four years broke up with her to travel to India to find him-self.

Commissar Rogal "The Bull" Hephastus was a man amongst men. Standing almost as tall as an astares and build 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 slaneeshi whores had stopped to hear him speak. With dark hair, eyes like unpainted ceramite, and a chisled 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 civillian pictmakers and even an 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 survivours, defending feild hospitals, truly they were doing the emprahs 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 enginseers attached to the battallion.

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 harrassing strike, orkish bloodlust was a feindish thing. Returning his cap to his head, Rogal boomed, "TITUS, MIND THE CABLE, LEFT BOOT"

The fire team halted, titus looking to his feet. Infront of his left boot sparked a live powercable, 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, "TECHPREIST? TECHPREIST!" 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 it's boots, evidently chastised, stood a diminuative techpreist. The top of it's head barely reached Rogals chest, as he looked down at it's hooded head. "Techpreist," 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 apologise profusely, and will suffer any punishment you see fit." A pair of green glass orbs looked up Rogal, set in an elegant, blushing face. Techpreistest Octavia was one of those cases where genius overruled just about everything. A mind like a monoscalple, 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 Rogals 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 armour 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 potentia coil, and a whimper to escape her lips, "Techpreistess? Are you alright?" Rogal asked, stooping to get closer. Octavia nodded, managing a quiet "Yes, Sir. Just a slight overcharge to my potentia 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, hastly added to the discription was "Subject appears to be blessed with proportion, must investigate further." Rogal stood there for a moment, watching the red robed figure dissapear 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 strenght 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 Rogals ears,. "MEN" he roared, his saw in one hand, las pistol in the other, "LET NONE SURVIVE" The cries of the battallion 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 challange, 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 wellplaced lasbolt into the rocket on its back. The Orkish missle 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 mechandrites. All around her, chaos reigned, Octavia curled her mechandrites 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 fusilade 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 lept, swinging the solid timber seat with all his considerable might. Indigenous hardword 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 mechandrites limp, Rogal gently pulled Octavia from the crate, lifting the surprisingly heavy techpreistess 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. Octavia's mind reeled, the greenskin, its grotesque teeth, the stentch 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 mechandrites, 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 strenght 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 potentia coil surged to life, and her mechandrites began to primp and preen, various unexplained commands being logged to her memnorbanks. Rogal grunted with extertion. Chopping wood in full carapace was a dumb idea. Combat was one thing, he was fuel'd by adrenaline, and the slight heat problem was nothing compared to knowing he would stay in one peice. 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. Mechandrites moved gently forward, dusting and patting the hat, picking woodchips 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 mechandrites, 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 mechandrite 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 mechandrite 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 techpreistess. 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 beleive 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 effcientcy. As a result, i have brought you this canteen of water. Please take it." The mechandrite 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 recognised the after effects of shock. "Thank you, Preistess," He said, as he took his hat, and d 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 mechandrite 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 mechandrite. 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 infront 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 occular 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 infront of this techpreistess. 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 their, her mind going faster than she had ever thought possible. She managed a quiet "eep" Rogal leant closer, "Beg pardon, Preistess?" "...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 lept forward, catching the limp priestess before she hit the rockcrete floor. "MEDIC! TECHPREIST!" He roared, scooping Octavia's limp form into his arms once more. Octavia awoke in the medical tent, under crisp clean white sheets. To her left stood a medic and her fellow techpriestest Caelistis, discussing the charts detaling her flesh and machine health, to her right, sitting, facing her, was Rogal. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, a dusting of stubble across his jaw. "I think she's awake," He said, getting the attention of the Medic and Techpriestess. The pair turned to their patient, the medic flicking through the charts once more before handing it to the techpriestess, and walking away. The techpriestess coughed for effect, "Physically, you are fine, there was just a psychosomatic overload to your potentia coil, which lead to a stack overflow of a few different psychoemotive centers in your cognitive augments." Octavia looked at her friend, her eyes lidded, still groggy, when a small txtcom window popped up in her vision. "U swoon'd lol," It said "What?" Octavia mentally sent back, "U swoon'd lol, check your memnor." Caelistis sent, followed by a string of laughing animotes. With a sigh of effort, Octavia pulled up her memnor files, and felt the colour flood her cheeks once more. She had swooned. She followed the command trace, the swoon had come from everywhere at once, her fleshbrain overriding so many things. Slinking back down in the cot, she glanced over at Rogal, who caught her eye, and then looked away. He got to his feet, "She seems to be making a recovery, I want a report on my desk by midnight tonight, understood?" Caelistis nodded, "As you wish, Commissar." Rogal marched from the tent, his mind tumbling. Rogal left the tent and sighed. He had been worried, almost irrationally so, by the techpriestess's fainting. Noone had any idea what had happened to her, and he had felt compelled to stay by her side.

"How long was I... inactive?" Octavia asked, pushing herself back up the bed with her mechandrites. Caelistis folded a pair of mechandrites under herself, using them as a seat, "About thirty six hours, standard terran. Everything nonessential shut down, I beleive, and your crashlog supports, as a safety precaution." Octavia furrowed her brow, "Safety precaution? What do you..." Her eyes widened as the crashlog scrolled past, huge energy spikes, unexplained biological reactions, all sorts of unusual commands being sent from nowhere to nowhere. Caelistis laughed, a slightly digital sound, "You my dear Octavia, are infatuated." "I am not." Caelistis sent another burst of links to files in Octavia's memnors, "Oh, really?" Her eyes widened, as Octavia let out a small "eep". Scraps of .drm files flitted past, along with the various memnorpicts that had been taken recently. All of them, containing in one way or another, the Commissar. Various notes and addendum showed how she had noticed things, from his efficiency at chopping wood, "To how he appears to be well in proportion," Caelistis said, before giggling, "Your infatuated." Octavia pouted, folding her arms and a set of mechandrites, "I am not. maybe. We'll run some tests then?" Caelistis laughed again, "Yes. Tests. Whatever you want to call them. Look, why don't you go and take your report over to him, and test all you want?" Octavia just sat there, pouting. "Fine, but not yet. I want some comfort food. This is embarassing." Her friend just smiled, "I thought you would say that, so i talked to the cook, to see if I could get some of those confections you like. He said no." Octavia sighed sadly, "However," Caelistis continued, "Once your commissar heard his decline," "He's not my commissar, he is the battalions commissar," Octavia corrected "Your commissar heard that, he told the cook to make it happen, or else he was up for summary execution for crimes against humanity. You should have seen the thermals on the cook, wait.." Caelistis sent the footage to Octavia, "See, his extremeties go cold, and look, i think he soiled himself," Caelistis said, giggling, highlighting the hot patch at the cooks crotch. Rogal stared at himself in the mirror, water trickling in rivulets down his face. His stubble was gone, his hair was tidied, his teeth brushed. He grabbed a cloth and wiped his face, before returning to his bunk. He sat down. He stood up. He paced. He lifted some weights he had improvised from empty bolter ammo containers and cement. He sat on his bunk and tried to carve. Sighing, he threw the lump of wood at his desk and flopped back on his bunk. Rogal hadn't slept in over two days, and he felt every minute of it. Normally he slept soundly after combat, the lull after an adrenaline high helping him, but with Octavia. He corrected himself, The techpriestess, fainting on him, he had been worried sleepless. He had found himself unable to leave her side. Something about her face, those delicate features, those emerald green eyes, looking out from under that hood that framed her face so well. He shook his head, what was she doing there. How did she get there, and why couldn't he get her out. Sighing loudly, Rogal rolled from his bunk and started doing pushups. Why didn't he want her out of his head. Hundreds of pushups later, Rogal dragged himself back to his bunk, and collapsed into it, asleep before his head hit his pillow.

Octavia's mechandrites primped and preened, smoothing her robe, flicking away specks of dust that only augmented eyes could see, as she stood outside the Commissars tent. In her hands, she held the report, and a pair of mechandrites held a ration pack. Caelistis had insisted on her bringing the rations, Octavia knew not why. "You know how he is... inefficent, as you put it," she had said with a grin, "So what's to bet he inefficently forgot to eat?" Octavia stood outside the commissars tent, looking at her feet. Noone actually noticed, but her feet looked like boots, and as such, she happily walked around bare footed all of the time. It was a small freedom she allowed herself, reminding her of her life before the mechanicum. Swallowing, she braced herself, "Commissar Hephastus?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, "Commissar Hephastus, sir?" She called again, a little louder,but still, no reply. A passing guardsman saw her plight, "Here, enginseer, allow me," He said, grinning at his good fortune to help the famous Octavia, "Commissar Hephastus. Sir. You have a visitor," He called, and was gifted with a groggy reply, "Let them in," The Guardsman pushed the tent flap aside, "Go on in, Gifted one," Octavia nodded in thanks and slipped past him, into the dim light of Rogal's tent.

Rogal rolled over in his bunk, bundling the blanket around him. His officers knew he needed his sleep, and had learned from long experience that he was prone to sleep talking. Octavia made her way carefully though the tent, her movements deft and silent, her eyes flicking through the various low light modes they were capable of. "Commissar Hephastus, sir?" The blanketed lump made a noise, "Comissar Hephastus, Sir. I have your report here." Octavia said again, her voice still small, but audible. Again, a non committal noise came from the lump on the bunk. Octavia moved a little closer, her green eyes glowing in the dim light, "Commissar Hephastus?" A mechandrite snaked forward, prodding gently at the slumbering giant, "Commissar Hephastus?" The mechandrite responded to its owners annoyance at being ignored, and jabbed harder. With a roar, Rogal jumped from his bunk, landing in a crouch, fists raised. Octavia fell back in suprise, landing with a thud on the floor of the tent, her mechandrites splayed out to cushion her fall, and protect the rations. Rogal activated the glowglobe, before turning to his guest. "Emprah on earth, Octavia, are you alright?" Rogal asked as he knelt down beside his guest and helped her to her feet, "I had no idea anyone was in here." Her mechandrites straightening her robe, Octavia looked away, avoiding eye contact and praying to the omnissiah that she isn't blushing. "I tried to get your attention but you didn't hear me, then a guardsman called out and you responded so I came in, and then i tried to wake you but you didnt respond so i tried some more, and you still didn't respond, and it frustrated me so I made sure you would wake up and you did and you nearly scared the machine spirit out of me, and..." Octavia turned to look the commissar in the eye, but was met with an eyeful of abs. Having helped her to her feet, Rogal had since stood up straight, still groggy from his rest. "And?" He asked, looking back at his guest. Her hood had fallen back, revealing chocolate brown hair, up in a simple ponytail. He averted his eyes, she averted hers. "And," Octavia continued, "I beleive it its considered impropper behaviour for a Commissar to be in such a state of undress when in the presence of a member of the mechanicus, outside of medical treatment, as defined by article seven dash thirty two G,"

Rogal looked down at his bare chest, over at Octavia who seemed to have taken a great interest in the ceiling, back to his chest, and then back to octavia, who's eye he caught, before she looked back to whatever had taken her fancy. Rogal blushed, and fumbled for his blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cape. He thanked the emprah he had at least the sense to fall asleep with his trousers on. Octavia looked away as her mind tumbled into action. The testing had begun and already data was not showing the results she wanted. Adrenaline was up, dopamine was up, a host of other chemicals she shouldn't be needing were up. Her fleshbrain purred contentedly, repeating over and over the images of the commissar with the blanket as a cloak. Octavia eep'd against her will, as she forced herself to stare at the ceiling. Her fleshbrain whimpered that one more look wouldn't hurt anyone.

Behind the distracted techpriestess, Rogal fumbled around for his uniform, finding his boots, he pulled them on, thankful for also leaving his socks on, before he pulled his dress jacket across his shoulders, focusing more on being presentable, rather than being properly dressed. He pushed his shirt under his bunk with a toe, before coughing politely. "I must apologise for that, Priestess. That was very rude of me. Would you like a seat?" He asked, gesturing to the table and chairs in the corner of the tent. Octavia nodded, and Rogal crossed the tent in a couple of strides, pulling a chair out for his guest, "M'lady, if you would?" Octavia sat down, and pulled herself to the Table, as the Commissar took his seat opposite of her. "Now, how may I help you?" Octavia felt her spine stiffen, as she fumbled around for the report. "You asked for this, Commissar, and Techpriestess Caelistis told me to deliver it." She explained, placing the data slate on the table and pushing it towards the still bed haired Commissar. Rogal reached forward, his hand dwarfing the dataslate, and as he pawed it towards him, their fingers met. Octavia's potentia coil surged, sending a charge down her arm, and a spark jumped from her fingers to his. The pair jerked, and inwardly, Octavia cursed the omnissiah for not protecting her from such a malfunction. Rogal shook his hand to clear the tingling sensation, before awkwardly stammering "Are you okay, Octavia?" Blushing at the use of her name, she turned away, suddenly finding the weave of the tent wall facinating, "I am fine, Commissar. Just a small hiccup in my digital power coupling. Nothing whatsoever to do with the physical contact between the two of us. Nothing at all." Rogal coughed nervously, before turning his attention to the dataslate. He scanned down, absorbing the information, "psychosomatic something something psychoemotional something something potentia coil inverter something someting measurements of 34 26 34 something something likes her men like she likes her tanks..." Rogal stopped, his simple farm boy brain rereading the last couple of lines, before he felt the blood rushing to his face, and to other parts of him. He coughed awkwardly, before attempting to make small talk, an attempt that was cut short by his stomach grumbling loudly. an awkward silence filled the tent. Rogal looked one way, Octavia the other, as her mechandrites moved of their own accord and placed the ration pack on the table. Octavia looked at it first, unaware of her own mechandrites movements, before she broke the silence, "And Caelistis also said you may have forgotten to eat, and seeing as your body still requires a large amount of nutrients to function at full efficiency, I thought i would bring you a ration pack and maybewecouldshareitanditwouldbelikethosegeltromancenovelsthatCaelistisreads..." Octavia stopped herself, realizing the rant she had embarked upon, and quickly ran back over the log of what had just happened. So many psychoemotional errors and overrides from her fleshbrain.

Rogal just sat there, his brain somewhere in limbo, looking at the ration pack. He knew he needed to say something, or to do something, and that it was important he not do something stupid, but for the life of him, he could not think of a single thing. He knew he was hungry, and he needed to eat, and that was what he would do, but he just, couldn't find the right order of thoughts.

Outside, a feminine chuckle was heard, before the hum of a generator was silenced. The pair looked up as the glowglobe hanging from the celing slowly faded. Octavia's eyes glowed dimly in the darkness, as Rogal tapped his earbead, patching in to the base voxnet. "Tiberius, what is the meaning of this?"

In the vox tent, lieutenant Tiberius grinned and gave Caelistis the thumbs up, "Nothing major sir, just some trouble with the generator, the cogs are looking at it now. Should be back up in a few hours."

Rogal nodded, tapping the earbead again, severing the link. Octavia just looked at him, "The generator is down?" Rogal nodded, before rising from his seat, "Now just you wait here, M'lady, I have a" there was a thud as Rogal kicked his foot locker, "Lumestick somewhere" Another thud as he hit his desk, "around here". With a crack, he ignited the lumestick, and set it on the table, bathing the tent with soft flickering white light. Octavia smiled dispite herself, noticing the direct correllation between this situation and one of the many that her and Caelistis had read back when they were still apprentices. Rogal set the lumestick on the table, before moving back into the tent, "Would you like a drink?" He called, crouching over another footlocker. Octavia froze, this was matching to many gelt romance situations. They were just fantasies, fiction for the masses, entertainment, not fact. She hesitated, letting out a small "eep" "Beg your pardon, M'lady?" Octavia forced herself to answer, "Do you have any amsec?" Rogal grinned, "But of course" Grabbing a couple of glasses, and a miniature barrel of his finest amsec, rogal returned to the table. Placing the glasses down with a slight clink, he removed the stopper from the amsec. "I hope it's okay," Rogal said as he screwed a spigot into the barrel, "I made it myself." Octavia's eyes lit up, she may have been on her way up in the mechanicum, but there was one thing she would never loose, and that was her appreciation for a good amsec. The fact that Rogal brewed his own, her fleshbrain delighted in telling her, just made him more "delicious" "You brew your own amsec?" She asked, as the commissar filled her glass. "Yes ma'am. It's a little difficult sometimes, but basically, that foot locker, I had converted into a miniature distillery." Realising what he had just said, Rogal added, "Helps with moral." Octavia held her glass up to the lumestick, admiring the brilliant amber colouring of the drink, before taking a small sip. The smooth liquid washed over her tounge and down her throat, warming her stomach. A small infographic popped up in her vision, explaining the exact composition of the drink, but she dismissed it for a future time.

Rogal prayed to the emprah, begging him to bless that cask, so that his guest would like it. He had scrimped and scrounged and even made a deal with the quatermaster just to get the ingredients he needed, and then keeping the still functioning during the past few months had been harder than expected. This moment, he knew, would let him know if it had all been worth it.

Octavias face lit up. She had drank alot of amsec in her time, from the cheapest swill her and Caelistis had synthesized, to fancy bottles that had been, appropriated from various sources. None of them however, compared to this. In the dim light of the lumestick, Rogals face beamed with pride. The contented sigh that spilled from his guests lips said more than words ever could. She liked it. She liked his amsec. He watched her take another sip, which was followed by another contented sigh, and before his eyes she seemed to shed all the stress that had built up over the past few days. He watched as her emerald green eyes glinted in the lumesticklight, her delicate porcelain skin, the intricate scrollwork on her mechanical hands. Octavia suppressed a shiver, the amsec was amazing. She leaned forwards, resting her arms on the table, and surveyed her host in the lumestick light. Her vision flicked through the spectrums, picking up on the heat emanating from his body, how he traced the rim of his glass with a finger, the faint scars on his hands and face, the slightly lopsided smile, caused no doubt by some old wound. Her fleshbrain and sacred cognitor faced off. The man was still that, just a man, her cognitor argued, made of weak flesh. Weak flesh? Her fleshbrain questioned, You’ve touched the weak flesh, and its stronger than us. You read the report, YOU made the report. Her cognitor tittered nervously, as she took a longer draught from her amsec, say something, her cognitor urged, anything. Her fleshbrain sighed, desperately flicking through the thousands of possibilities she had thought of. Her mechandrite tapped the rationpack gently. “Shall we eat?” Octavia managed to say, gripping her glass tightly. Rogal’s brain registered the request, but no answer came forth, instead he just continued to look at his petite guest. Octavia coughed politely, breaking the commissar from his revelry, and with a nod, he reached forward, pulling the lid from the ration pack. “Sorry, priestess, I’m still a little tired. Weak flesh and all that,” He said, with a small smile, as he handed her a packet of biscuits. A mechandrite snaked out and took the silver pack, as another reached to open it. Rogal opened the small jar of spread that the ration pack contained, setting it down in the middle of the table, before reaching back into the box and removing the two serving trays contained within. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything better,” The commissar said, tugging at the plump soup sachet, “I wasn’t exactly expecting a guest tonight,” A puzzled look crossed Octavia’s face, as her cognitor attempted to make sense of that statement. She saw no reason for the Commissars apology until an errant scrap of knowledge flitted past her vision. Combining the strange statement with the body language, and his thermal readings, and a small note from Caelistis, explaining how he would say something like this because of the infatuation. Rogal watched his guest’s attention drift away, her nose twitching as she pondered whatever mysteries a servant of the machine god pondered. He contented himself with preparing the meal for the two of them, pulling the tab on the soup sachet to engage the heating mechanism, before pulling the staple packet from the bottom of the pack. Rogal grinned, the emprah was kind. The staple packet contained the coverted string pasta with grox mince sauce. The soup was nothing special, just a simple grox broth with some herbs, designed to be eaten with the small loaf that came in the ration pack. The string pasta with grox mince staple however, was considered the best rations to come from the pack, and he had heard stories of guardsmen trading packets of lho sticks for a single serve. Octavia silently cursed her friend, for always being right. No matter how she looked at it, the data she was collecting pointed to one thing, and one thing only, an irrational infatuation with the commissar. Caelistis and her had been together since as far back as either of them could remember, and every single time, Caelistis would find a way to be right. Octavia’s fleshbrain interrupted her musings to point out that the meal had been prepared, and it was damn foolish of her to just be sitting there twitching her nose. Blushing at the realisation that her host had prepared the meal while she had been day dreaming, she let out a quiet eep, before looking down at her tray. “My apologies, commissar, I had some urgent data to repackage.” She mumbled, Rogal just smiled, “Duty always calls.” He said, taking up his spoon and dipping it into his soup, “And please, call me Rogal.” Octavia smiled, feeling her cheeks grow hot, as her fleshbrain revelled. “Just like in the gelt romances,” her fleshbrain pointed out, “just think, we can eat, and then drink, and he will be attracted to us, and us to him, and he will pin us down, and tear our-“ Octavia eeped and dropped her spoon, splashing soup across her robe. She sighed angrily, looking around for a napkin, her mechandrites attempting to brush the liquid from her chest. A white kerchief was gently pressed into her hand, “Here, use this,” Rogal knew of Octavia’s perchance for absentmindedness and flights of fancy, but this was “Adorable” Looking up from sponging the stain on her robe, Octavia was puzzled, “Did you say something Commis- Rogal?” Shaking his head and praying his blushing cheeks couldn’t be seen, Rogal replied, “No, nothing at all. How are you finding the soup?” Taking another spoonful, Octavia daintily sipped, swirling the broth in her mouth before swallowing. “It’s good, thank you.” Her mechandrite continued to wipe at her robe, only making the stain larger. Octavia sighed angrily, and shrugged out of her robe, her mechandrites moving to drape it over the back of the chair. Rogal felt his breath catch in his throat. His mind went all but blank, as he watched his guest in the lumesticklight. A mechandrite brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, as Octavia took up her spoon once more. Rogal managed to swallow the mouthful of soup he had taken before clumsily taking another spoonful. Light glinted gently from the band of silver electoos around Octavia’s neck, and from the smooth red plates that made up her elegant cyber mantle. Her obsidian black mechanical arms met with pale porcelain flesh at her shoulders, more silver electoos splaying out from the contact point. A simple, if delicate white top covered her chest, her cyber mantle acting as a corset, clinching the fabric in. The table obscured any further view, but for Rogal, that view was enough. He thanked the emprah for blessing him, for creating this woman of exceptional beauty. Rogal had met many women in his time, from goveners daughters, to celestines of the ordos familous, but none of them compared to Octavia. Noticing the attention her disrobing had brought, Octiavia blushed, bringing her arms together in modesty. This however, her fleshbrain noted with glee, had the complete opposite affect of enhancing her already ample cleavage. Blushing even harder, Octavia whimpered quietly, her cognitor begging her fleshbrain to stop thinking of things that had to do with tables and pinning and ravishment. She cursed her fleshbrain for reading all those gelt romance novels, and her cognitor whimpered as it tried to find some action to preform that would get her back to her comfort zone. The staple pack opened with a soft pop, indicating its readiness for consumption, as the tantalising smell of grox sauce filled the tent. Rogal coughed, breaking the silence, “Foods ready,” Octavia placed her spoon down beside her now empty tray, and reached for the serving tongs in the ration pack. Her tiny hand was dwarfed in Rogals grip as he attempted the same, and the pair stopped to look at one another. Emerald Augmentations met Ceramite grey eyes, as Rogal gently prised Octavia’s fingers from the serving tongs. “How much would you like?” Rogal asked gently, lifting the steaming pasta from the packet, “Are you hungry?” Octavia nodded, pushing her plate forward. Keeping her body functioning at peak efficiency demanded a high intake of food, and due to her customised potential coil, she had a near perfect metabolic conversion rate. Her curvy body was a side effect of this, ensuring that she always maintained a reserve of fats just in case. Rogal gently placed the pile of pasta on her tray, “More?” Octavia nodded hungrily, “Yes please,” Another tongful of pasta, “A little more, if you please?” Rogal smiled, the juxtaposition between his tiny guest and her now highly piled tray amused him. He let out a low chuckle, deep and rumbling, like a leman russ in low gear. Octavia blushed, realising how this must look to her host, and she tried to stammer out a reason, “I have a very high metabolism… Potentia coil needs it, keeps me functioning at peak efficiency…” Rogal’s chuckle became a laugh, “My dear Octavia, please. If you are hungry, you eat.” The commissar paused, looking at his guest, and then at the large amount of pasta still in the staple pack. “Would it bother you,” Rogal said quietly, years of commissarial training keeping the embarrassment from his voice, “If I just ate straight from the packet? I’m just rather hungry, and it’s easier” Octavia smiled at her hosts awkward, “and adorable” her fleshbrain added, behaviour “If you are hungry, Rogal, you eat. However you wish to.” A huge grin spread across the commissars face, as he hefted his fork, “In that case, here’s to you and here’s to me, and the emprah smiles on all he sees. I hope you enjoy this meal.” Octaiva smiled, how quaint her hosts manners were. Taking her own fork up, she began to eat. Daintily at first, acting in accordance with proper mechanicum formal eating practices. Rogal however, was tearing into his meal, having hardly eaten in the past day, his fork powering between mouth and packet, pausing only when he took a mouthful of amsec. Octavia’s fleshbrain squealed with joy, “Look at him, A man. A real man. Not like the cogfuckers” Her cognitor tried to chastise her fleshbrain for its choice of words, but it continued undaunted “He’s like a perfect machine, a machine of flesh and iron will.” Watching her host wolf down his meal, Octavia realised how hungry she too was, and began eating faster, casting aside the mealtime formalities in favour of getting more of the delicious grox sauce covered pasta into her stomach. The pair ate in silence, the meal disappearing as quick as it had arrived. As she ate, Octavia looked at the side of the ration pack, absentmindedly harvesting the nutritional information on the side. Average kilocals per hundredweight… average energy per serve…. Will feed five guardsmen. Her fleshbrains metaphorical eyes went wide, Five guardsmen? Her cognitor quickly brought up how much she had eaten, what was left on her plate, and compared it with the standard serving size. Slightly over the standard amount, but that was normal. She looked over at Rogal as he scraped the last of the sauce from the bottom of the packet up onto his fork and then into his mouth. A thin trickle of the dark sauce spilling from the corner of his mouth. The man had just devoured, in the same time it had taken her to eat a standard serving, four times the amount. Rogal sighed contentedly, taking a napkin to wipe his mouth. Leaning back into his chair, he raised his glass to Octavia “To good food and good company” Fumbling for her glass, Octavia managed to raise her own, “To good food and good company.” The pair knocked back their respective glasses, returning them to the table slightly harder than either intended. Rogal grinned, “I know that noise,” Octavia looked puzzled, “What noise?” Leaping from his chair, Rogal returned to his foot locker, grabbing a fresh pair of amsec bottles. “That’s the noise of a girl who knows how to drink.” Octavia blushed, and looked around nervously. She had, in the past, drank, and drank hard. Her augmented body quickly burning the alcohol for energy, fueling the catalytic converters that would allow her to drink more, but that was a classic mechanicum colledge game, who had the most efficient body, and who could counter the amsec the most effectively. Caelistis had always beaten her, but Octavia was no slouch. Her fleshbrain started dancing, the amsec already in her system having already being used to undo social inhibitors and other things her fleshbrain considered an inconvenience. Her blessed cognitor just shook its proverbial head, trying its utmost to keep up its quickly fading façade of disapproval. A quiet “eep” left her lips as Rogal stood with the two bottles, swinging them happily, “Shall we?” Octavia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her olfactory senses reveled in the smell of the commissars tent, of the meal just gone, and of that enticing smell of sawdust and metal that Rogal was bathed in. “I should warn you, Rogal,” She said, grinning, “I’m augmented, this is hardly fair,” Rogal just placed a bottle in front of her as he sat down, “Is that a challenge, little lady?” He asked, a cocky grin spreading across his chiselled features, “Cause where I come from,” A strong hand twisted the lid from the bottle, “That’s a challenge.” Octavia’s fleshbrain and cognitor chorused together, something that hadn’t happened since her time in the colledgia, “CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.” Mechandrites snaked out, grasping the bottle Rogal had given her, and prising the lid off. Smiling sweetly, Octavia poured herself a fresh glass, “So where do you come from, Rogal?” She asked, “And by what rules are we drinking?” Her cognitor looked shocked, where had this sudden confidence come from, this was so risky, so forward. Her fleshbrain rolled languidly on the metaphorical floor, her hands in her hair, smiling with red cheeks, “We haven’t drunk since that thime with Caelistis and the russ, remember?” Octavias cognitor blushed with horror, as she hoped her body was ready for this. Raising his own glass to study the liquid in the lumestick light, “Rules are simple, ask a question, take a drink. Answer a question, take a drink. Find a reason, take a drink. Things are pretty simple where I come from.” He said, grinning awkwardly. Octavia laughed, a musical, melodic sound, “So binary roulette?” Rogal looked confused, “Binary roulette?” Octavia nodded, “one equals drink, zero equals anything else, but if zero occours, then one must occour. Binary roulette.” It was Rogal’s turn to laugh, “Cogboy drinking games, who knew.” Tipping his glass to his guest, Rogal downed half the glass. “Anyway, you wanted to know about where I come from?” Octavia nodded, before taking a drink from her own glass, “If you don’t mind, that is?” “I’d be a terrible host if I denied my guests anything. I grew up…” Octavia sat and listened as Rogal told her of his homeworld, of growing up in the schola progenium, of the forest around him, of growing strong by the swing of the axe and dextrous by the blade of a carving tool. The pair drank and laughed as he told of how he and some other cadets had made a trebuchet to help the convent attached to the schola train their sisters in the art of the jump pack. “So this one sister, absolutely emprah crazy, thinks she can just launch herself and that the emprah would protect her,” Rogal said, before chuckling, “So she just climbs on in to the basket, and demands we launch her.” Octavia put a mechandrite to her mouth in horror, “and then what happened?” “Well, I saw what was happening, so right at the last moment, just as Ambrosios pulls the leaver, I wrench the thing sideways. You should have heard her squeal, sounded like an earthshaker round.” Melodious laughter spilled from Octavias lips as she took another sip from her glass. The bottle infront of her was half empty now, and her fleshbrain was revelling in the fact. Her cognitor was desperately trying to burn the excess alcohol away, but her fleshbrain kept pouncing on her, trying to let the her blood alcohol level rise. Rogal grinned, taking a mouthful of amsec before continuing, “We launched that white haired emprah botherer straight into the lake. She came out, soaked to the bone, and we learned that day why the heretic fears the angry sister.” The pair laughed in unison, clinking their glasses together, before Rogal leaned in, “So what about you, Little lady? How did you grow up?” Octavia blushed, she wasn’t good at talking about herself. “Well, I was born. No, I was grown? That’s not right either, umm, how to explain this. When a mechanicum couple wants to have a son or daughter, they, well, take the genetic material from both parents, and, combine them, and then they stick the now growing embryo in a special vat, and we develop in there,” Rogal nodded, “Like they do on the farms?” Her already flushed cheeks grew hotter, “I guess you could put it like that. But there is so much more to it, the parents tend to their child, ensuring it develops strong and healthy, correcting any issues that may arise before they can affect the child, it’s a beautiful thing, the machine is literally like a third parent, it nurtures us, it cares for us, the strong machine caring for the weak flesh, so we may become like the machine someday, and care for it in turn.” Rogal’s face was dumbstruck, he had never thought of it like that. Cogboy’s had always just seemed strange and foreign to him, but when explained in such terms, it made sense. “So I grew up, got my first augment at eight years standard terran, became an apprentice at thirteen years terran, and got into one of the most prestigious colledgia mechanica on the world at eighteen standard.” Octavia continued, explaining her learnings and what she had done, her translations and understanding of technology allowing for small advancements where it could. Rogal nodded, feeling very aware of what a simple and backwards man he must seem. Here he was talking of wood and simple mechanical levers, while his guest had been cracking atoms and building plasma engines. “I must seem like such a simpleton,” Octavia paused, realising her guests discomfort, “Sometimes, simple is better.” A small hand reached out to touch a larger one, “Your work is just as vaild as mine. You put as much heart and soul into your work as any mechanicum priest, and that is to be commended, and respected.” Rogal smiled, “Thank you Octavia, you’re far to kind to this humble servant of the emprah.” His hand gently took hers, and the pair just sat there in the flickering lumestick light, emerald augments and ceramite eyes sharing a moment that both wished could last forever. Suddenly, Octavia leapt to her feet, “Inverted flux capacitors, look at the time,” Rogal turned in his seat, looking at the chronometer beside his bunk, the dull red numbers staring sullenly back at him. The planet was on a 36 hour day, so the night was still young, but it was still late in the morning, “I haven’t done my duties, there are tanks to be consecrated, lasguns to be serviced,” Octavia began hurring about the tent, mechandrites nearly blurs as she tidied the table, “Octavia,” Rogal said, reaching out to stop her, but she just brushed past him, “Octavia,” Rogal tried again, but was ignored. Sighing with frustration, his hand whipped out, “Octavia. Stop.” Every nerve ending, real and artificial in Octavias body jolted. Around her arm, Rogals huge hand held firm. Not so firm as to be uncomfortable, but firm enough that her fleshbrain would pounce upon the situation. “THIS IS IT,” her fleshbrain cried, rolling and writhing on the metaphorical floor of Octavia’s mind, running its conceptual hands and mechandrites up and down its body, “He’s being so firm and forceful, feel that power,” She moaned, as her cognitor looked on, mute and frozen. Rogal turned his guest to face him, his hands moving up her arms. Looking her in the eyes, “Octavia, please. Stop this. If you need to go, then go.” He said, his voice tinged with sadness at the end of a wonderful evening, Octavia looked back, her mind instantly sobering as her cognitor purged all alcohol in her system, “I have to go. Thank you for the wonderful meal.” Her fleshbrain cried out in anguish, why was this happening, it cried, as her cognitor steered them towards the tent door. She stepped outside, the tent flap closing behind her, as thousands of thoughts flashed through her mind at once. Sighing at herself, she began her walk back to the mechanicum complex, when Rogals voice cut through the still night air “Octavia, wait,” He called, jogging up to her, “You forgot your cloak,” Clutched to his broad chest, he gently held her red outer cloak, folded neatly. She looked up at the awkward smile on the commissars face, as he offered the bundle to her. Taking it in her hands, she clutched the bundle to her own chest, and smiled back up at him. He coughed, and clasped his hands behind his back, “I was wondering, if you aren’t busy tonight, if you would like to have dinner again? Only if your duty doesn’t call, that is?” Taking a step closer to the commissar, her fleshbrain shoved her cognitor aside, and gently she rested her head against his stomach. “I would like that.” Rogal paused, unsure how to react to this close physical proximity, his hand absentmindedly stroking down Octavias hair and spine, the jarring cold of her cyber mantle meeting his fingers snapping him back to reality. “I’ll meet you in the Mess hall at twenty hundred? We can decide what we want to do from there?” Octavia nodded her, a sudden wave of tiredness washing over her, the side effect of her bodys effort to remove the alcohol from her system. She snuggled her face into Rogals coat, feeling his warmth through the wool, her mind wandering as she marvelled at the thousands of reactions that would be powering his massive frame at that time. He coughed politely, “Octavia, shouldn’t you be going?” She blushed and pulled away, “Of course, my apologies Commissar.” Rogal coughed, “We’re not on duty, Preistess,” He said with a grin, “Goodnight Octavia.” “Goodnight Rogal.” The commissar watched as the petite techpriestess pulled her cloak back around her, a mechandrite throwing her hood forward, as she crossed the base. He looked around, the generators still weren’t working, which was strange. Tapping his earbead, he patched himself back into the base’s voxnet. “Tiberius?” His Vox was filled with a burst of static, before the Battallions head vox officer’s voice entered the channel, “Sir?” His voice was strained, and rogal could hear his breathing, louder than it should be, “Tiberius, what’s keeping the cogboys? Does it really take that long to repair a generator?” Tiberius was heard to converse with someone in the background, a female voice, Rogal knew that much, but his thoughts were distracted as the vox officer replied, “I’m told their just about done, Sir.” As Tiberius spoke, a deep thrum rolled through the night air, and a warm glow filled the night sky as the generator came back online. Rogal nodded to himself, “Good. Make sure they run a full diagnostic, I don’t want that happening again.” “Yes, Sir.” “Hephastus out.”

Tiberius waited for the click of disconnection, before letting out a loud and heavy sigh. Beside him, Caelistis checked her cabled hair in a screen reflection, pushing some errant MIU cables behind her ear with a mechandrite. Another gently massaged Tiberius’s shoulder, as he leaned back in his chair. “You realise I’m up for summary execution if he ever finds out about this?” Caelistis laughed, “Live a little, meatbag. Such things keep life exciting.” She said as she wrapped her cloak around her. Her mechandrite gently traced down Tiberius’s neck, “And besides, I owe you now.” The vox officer looked up, Caelistis winked at him. “I need to go, my little fleshsack, but if you drop by the armory around lunchtime, I could do with your help… calibrating some rather sensitive equipment.” She looked over her shoulder as she gently dragged a mechandrite across Tiberius’s shoulders as she walked away, he caught the mechanical cable, and kissed it, “Goodnight, goodnight, my technological temptress, may cherubim sing you to your rest cycle,” He said with a grin. Octavia threw the door to her quarters open with a mechandrite, another pulling the cloak from her shoulders, as she strode through towards her bed. She stopped, her fingers splaying through her hair, pulling the cable tie she had used to put it up out, and throwing it behind her, her mechandrites began undoing the clasps at her hips, releasing the long skirt that covered her augmented legs. She looked over her shoulder at herself in the mirror she and Caelistis shared in their quarters, a mechandrite gently tracing the lace like electoos at her thighs, decorating the line that separated pale flesh from onyx bionic. She threw her blanket aside and herself onto the matress, her mechandrites splaying out behind her like wings. Her fleshbrain writhed on the ground, howling complaints about wasted chances, as her cognitor just went dumbly about its duties, still numb from the nights excitement. Lifting an arm, she studied her hand, the same hand that had met Rogals so many times that night. She thought of his hands, so large, and powerful, the electrical pulses that she had sent through them had fed back a muscle density on par with vat grown muscle, far stronger than any normal man. Her fleshbrain called forth images of him holding her arms, his presence so powerful and daunting. Octavia felt her body go hot, her cognitor telling her to ignore her fleshbrain, it was just a side effect of the alcohol clearing. Her fleshbrain had other ideas, pulling a memnorvox clip, she heard him, in those rich deep tones, “Octavia, please,” Her fleshbrain writhed in pleasure, her mechandrites following the strongest signal. They snaked around her limbs, trailing sensuously across her, the heat in her stomach rising even further. Her cognitor whimpered in a corner of her mind, blaming the alcohol, blaming bad wiring, blaming everything it could except itself, as her fleshbrain took full control. Images of him holding her by the arms, pinning her to the table, her mechandrites wrapped around his strong arms, pulling them closer. Octavias lips parted, a breathy sigh escaping, followed by a whimper. Her mechandrites constricted around her tighter, as she buried her hands in her brown locks. Her back arched, as a pair of mechandrites gently slid across the flesh of her upper thighs. Her cognitor managed to exert one last order, before being overwhelmed, and that was to pull the rich red blanket back over their body. Octavia’s fleshbrain took over, her mechandrites dancing over her body, as little warning runes signalled across her vision. She paid them no attention, lost in her thoughts, her fleshbrain conducting her movements like a maestro infront of an orchestra. “Rogal..” she whispered to the darkness, her emerald green eyes half hooded, her mouth open, panting, “Oh commissar..” Caelistis quietly closed the door, and made her way to her bunk. Looking over at her roommate, she smiled, gently reaching out with a mechandrite to pull the twisted blanket that covered Octavia a little straighter. Octavia whimpered in her sleep, as a mechandrite twitched lazily. Gently pulling her boots off, Caelistis shed her robe and climbed into her own bunk, content with her nights work. A libertine at heart, Caelistis couldn’t stand to see her friend not enjoying the few things that kept her human. That was after all what had caused the iron men to revolt, a lack of humanity. Pulling her blanket around her, she rolled over, closing her one human eye, and powering down her other. From across the room, she heard Octavia talking in her sleep, “Oh commissar, I’m in violation of uniform code eight eight oh three five nine, and need to be punished,” Caelistis smothered a laugh with her pillow, her mind wandering back to Tiberius, and how he looked with her mechandrites around his neck, and drifted off to sleep with a smile on her face. Caelistis groaned, opening her human eye, lights, bright, and the noise of, something. Pulling herself up to sitting, she looked around, her quarters were spotless. That wasn’t right. Her Augmented eye clicked to life, as Octavia walked in, rosy cheeks and bright smiles, with two cups of recaf. “Good morning, Caelistis,” she said, handing her friend a cup, her mechandrites folding Caelistis’s robe as she continued talking, “How was your evening?” Caelistis grinned, “Just had to fix up a rather disobedient generator, and yourself?” Octavia blushed, “We had dinner, it was nice. Rogal is a nice person. I like him.” “What do the tests say?” Caelistis asked, “That was the whole reason why you went, remember?” Octavia’s cheeks went redder, as she fidgeted with the mechanospanner she had picked up, and let out a small eep. “Well?” Looking away from her friend, Octavia sent the results. Caelistis roared with laughter, the autotuned noise filling the room. “What do I do?” Octavia asked, as she sat on her friend’s bed, looking down at her augmented feet poking out from under her dress. Caelistis put a comforting hand to her friends shoulder, “I think you already know what you’re going to do,” she said, as she gestured to the now impeccably clean room, “Bring him back here, I can cover the night shift easily enough,” A wolfish grin crossed Caelistis’s face, as behind her, her mechandrites began constricting around her pillow. With a squeal of joy, Octavia hugged her friend, before pulling away, “Do you think you could, adhere to the standard uniform code, before we do that again?” Caelistis looked down, her bare chest pale in the glowglobe light, before grinning at Octavia, “You never complained back at the colledgia,” Grabbing a pillow, Octavia hit her friend, “Behave yourself, Caelistis.” Never one to let a chance go by, “Or what, you’ll get your big commissar to punish me?” Caelistis retorted. Octavia’s face went pink once more, as Caelistis rolled over and onto all fours, her blanket still covering her lower body, “Oh Commissar,” Caelistis moaned, “I’ve been a bad little techpreistess, won’t you and Octavia punish me,” She emphasised the punish by smacking herself with a mechandrite. Octavia blushed harder, letting out a small eep at the sound of the smack, a hand and mechandrite covering her mouth as she looked away. Caelistis laughed again, a mechandrite fishing undergarments from under her bed, before putting them on as their owner got out of her bed. “Stop teasing me,” Octavia said, hugging the pillow to her in a huff. Caelistis ruffled her friends hair affectionately, “But it’s so much fun. Such things keep us human, stops a second iron man rebellion. Anyway, get dressed, we can grab some food on the way to the armoury, your skills are needed. A hydra is having targeting problems, needs your touch.” Calestis explained, as she pulled a robe over her head, smothing it down her slim body, before throwing her cloak over the top, “Hood’s up, let’s go.” Octavia nodded, her smile returning, as she followed her friend out into the base once more. The night had been long for Rogal. He had tried to sleep, to no avail. He had done push ups, chin ups, carved half a regicide set, polished his… laspistol, and finally managed to get to sleep. Blearly he had dragged himself to the mess hall, and grabbing mug of recaf, he flopped down at the officers table. Resting his head on his arms, he let the smell of hot recaf slowly fill his mind. “Morning Sir,” Tiberius beamed down at the tired commissar, “I brought you some breakfast.” With a grunt, Rogal pulled himself up to sitting, as the vox officer slid a tray piled high with hot food in front of him. “Thank you, Tiberius. Much Obliged.” Clapping his friend on the shoulder, Rogal grabbed his fork, oblivious to the pained look that flashed across his Tiberius’s face. Gingerly, the vox officer rolled his shoulder a few times, trying to ignore the pain from the bruise that had just been hit. He sat down beside Rogal, and dug into his own plate. “So, Sir, I hear you had a date last night?” Rogal stopped mid chew, his fork dropping into the pile of scrambled eggs. He swallowed nervously, and took a swig from his recaf. “What?” Tiberius grinned, he and Rogal had been promoted to officer and full commissar at the same time, due to some rather fancy work they had done with a damaged voxcaster, a truck full of explosives, some paint and a rather irate cultist. He knew what he could get away with, and this was one of those things. “There’s a whisper on the voxnet that you had a date last night.” Rogal forced himself to keep a straight face, taking up his fork once more, “Oh, really?” “Yes, my friend, really.” “And with who did I have this, date?” Tiberius raised his mug in respect, “They say, you had a date, with her.” “Her?” Tiberius nodded towards the serving station, and the two robed figures there. Octavia had filled her tray with bacon and hash browns, her a couple of ploins wrapped in mechandrites, a cup of recaf in another, and a third feeding her a slice of toast. Beside her, Caelistis stood with her own tray, a large bowl of the hot porridge steaming, as she added spoonful upon spoonful of the sweet brown sugar that sat at the condiments table. Rogal just watched as the pair walked off, before slowly resuming his chewing. “Her. The darling girl of the mechanicus, she who saves our asses and makes our lives easier. Emprah on earth, it’s like a gelt romance. So, is it true?” Rogal set his fork down, “It is true that we shared a meal.” “So it was a date?” Rogal stopped mid chew, his fork dropping into the pile of scrambled eggs. He swallowed nervously, and took a swig from his recaf. “What?” Tiberius grinned, he and Rogal had been promoted to officer and full commissar at the same time, due to some rather fancy work they had done with a damaged voxcaster, a truck full of explosives, some paint and a rather irate cultist. He knew what he could get away with, and this was one of those things. “There’s a whisper on the voxnet that you had a date last night.” Rogal forced himself to keep a straight face, taking up his fork once more, “Oh, really?” “Yes, my friend, really.” “And with who did I have this, date?” Tiberius raised his mug in respect, “They say, you had a date, with it.” “It?” Tiberius nodded towards the serving station, and the two robed figures there. Orktavia had filled her tray with squigbacon and squigbrowns, his a couple of ploins wrapped in cybork arms, a cup of fungus beer in another, and a third feeding it a slice of human gubbins. Beside her, Caelistis stood with her own tray, a large bowl of the hot porridge steaming, as she added spoonful upon spoonful of the sweet brown sugar that sat at the condiments table. Rogal just watched as the pair walked off, before slowly resuming his chewing. “It. The darling xenos of the mechanicus, it that kicks our asses and makes our lives more hilarious. Emprah on earth, it’s like a gelt romance. So, is it true?” Rogal set his fork down, “It is true that we shared a meal.” “So it was a date?” Rogal tried not to smile, “No, she just brought some food with her when she came to drop off a report I had asked for. I was starving, so, she stayed, and we ate, and then she noticed the time and she left.” “That’s it?” Rogal nodded, taking another mouthful of food and chewing happily, he turned his mind to the tasks for the day. “There’s also a whisper, Sir, of there being another rendezvous between yourself and the priestess tonight.” Rogal nearly choked. Coughing loudly, he drained his mug, and stood, “We’re not finished here,” He growled to Tiberius before he went and refilled his mug. This mug was drained, before being filled again, and Rogal returned to the table. Tiberius grinned at the commissar as he sat down once more, “So there is another meeting?” Rogal looked around, feeling like he was back at the schola, before he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Yes, we’re meeting again tonight. You tell anyone,” Rogal patted his holstered laspistol, “You explain yourself to him on earth.” Tiberius just laughed, “Fine, fine, this stays between you, me and the emprah. But, if I may, sir,” Tiberius saluted, “Damn fine job.” Rogal just sighed, “Actually, I could do with some help, there are some, items, I need.” “At your service, sir”. The day passed without incident, Rogal continued to work, that day making bunks for the new barracks that were being raised. Octavia placated the hydra, rebuilding its targeting core in record time. Both, however, seemed to always be not quite with it, despite their excellent work. Day passed into night, and Rogal dropped into the quartermasters shed. The grizzled, beareded quartermaster looked out with his one good eye and grunted a welcome. “Evening Atticus,” Rogal said, nodding at the scruffy man behind the counter, “Did those items arrive?” Another grunt, and the old man disappeared back into the rows of shelves behind him. He returned with a crate, thudding it down on the counter top, “Don’t this constitute some form of abuse of authoriteh or sommat?” Atticus grumbled, pushing the requisition form across to Rogal, who just sighed, “It would be, if I wasn’t trading you three bottles of amsec,” Rogal retorted, signing the form and pushing it back across the counter. He then reached down and grabbed the box at his feet, placing it on the counter beside the now completed requisition form, “And there’s an extra one in there, just between friends,” Atticus laughed hoarsely, “You have fun tonight now sir,” He croaked, taking his items and returning to the darkness of the shed. Octavia sat in the corner of the mess, watching as guardsmen and women came and went about their nightly duties, waiting patiently. Her mechandrites absentmindedly stroking at her robes, as she pondered how she would exactly conduct herself tonight. Her cognitor had not stopped running situations since she had awoke, and her fleshbrain had been chattering near incessantly, only placated by a quick… recalibration inside the hydra. She could feel her fleshbrain exerting its control, once more, as she ran a hand through her hair. She heard a polite cough behind her, and turned in her seat. Standing with a crate almost as big as her over his shoulder, stood Rogal. He smiled warmly down at her, “My apologies for keeping you waiting, priestess.” Octavia smiled timidly, “Your early commissar, nothing wrong with being efficient” Rogal offered his hand, “Shall we?” Her small hand dwarfed in his gloved one, he helped her to her feet, “I was thinking we could have a picnic, there is this wonderful spot over by the vox tent,” Rogal explained as they walked from the mess, oblivious to the numerous pairs of eyes watching them.

Octavia looked up at the crate on Rogal’s shoulder as they walked, marvelling at the size of it. He showed no sign of difficulty in carrying it, but judging from the reinforced nature of the crate, Octavia guessed it would have taken a couple of guardsmen to carry it. Looking further up, she saw the twin moons slowly drift behind a cloud, bathing the small hill they were climbing in diffused light. Her emerald eyes shone in the darkness as they crested the hill, dwarfed by the huge voxspire beside them. Releasing her hand, Rogal lowered the crate to the ground and popped the clasps, the crate unsealing with a hiss. Octavia drank in the view, as Rogal busied himself with the crate. She heard clinks and pops, and as she turned, Rogal presented her with a glass of amsec. “It took a little work,” He explained, as he rose to his feet and stood beside her, “But I think you will like dinner tonight. The Pair looked out over the base, unaware of the clouds rolling in behind them. The wind picked up slightly, blowing Octavia’s robe against Rogal’s leg, and she reached down to pull it away. Their hands met, gingerly at first, before Rogal’s huge hand once again enveloped hers. Octavia looked up at her companion, and found him looking back, his lopsided smile plastered to his face. “How was your day?” He asked, as he led her back to the picnic he had set up, a checkered blanket lying in front of the crate, laden with food. Sitting on the crate, Rogal patted beside him, and Octavia obediently sat, pressing herself close to the burly commissar. He leant down and grabbed a plate, loaded with small green fruits and thinly cut cheese. With his free hand he pulled one of the fruits from its stem and offered it to his guest. Octavia’s nose twitched as she sniffed at the morsel, “What is it?” She asked, as her cognitor scrambled to identify the fruit, “It’s called a grep, apparently,” Rogal said, twisting the small sphere between his fingers, “They’re very nice,” Timidly, Octavia opened her mouth, and took a bite from the offered fruit. Her face lit up with delight, as she quickly chewed and swallowed, opening her mouth for more. Rogal laughed, “I take it you like it?” Octavia nodded happily, “Yes. More please.” Rogal gently pushed the rest of the grape into her mouth, the leather of his glove caressing her bottom lip, causing her to shiver. Her fleshbrain tittered happily, as her cognitor quickly dismissed the idea of sucking on his finger. Rogal smiled, offering the rest of the plate to his guest, as he put his arm around her. She seemed so fragile and delicate, he thought, dispite knowing she was more durable than him. He looked out to across the base, the lights of the tents and buildings like a patch of stars fallen to earth. A small cough brought him from his thoughts, as Octavia offered him a grep rolled in the cheese, “Sir, you must eat.” She said, her emerald eyes looking up happily, her face lighting up as he carefully took the cheese wrapped fruit between his teeth. Her fingers softly brushed his stubble as she pulled her hands away, and Rogal chuckled, “That tickled,” He said, noticing Octavia’s puzzled look, “You touched my stubble, it tickled,” “Oh…” Octavia said, smiling happily again, “Does that really tickle?” Rogal nodded as he lifted another plate, this one piled high with a salad filled with leafy greens, chicken, bacon and cheese, “Yes, it really does tickle. Would you like some salad?” Octavia nodded, taking up one of the forks that had been stabbed into the meal. She offered the mouthful to Rogal, smiling happily, “You really must eat, such a body must require a lot of nutrients,” Rogal smiled around the fork in his mouth, nodding happily. He chewed and swallowed, and Octavia offered him another forkful of salad. He took it gladly, and the forkful after that, and the one after that. Octavia beamed, now kneeling on the crate as she fed her host. With the plate nearly empty, Rogal stopped, “Shouldn’t you have some?” Octavia tilted her head, “Oh, yes. I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?” Rogal took the fork and speared a mouthful of salad on it, “Yes, you should. My turn,” Octavia opened her mouth, wrapping it around the forkful of salad offered to her. She suppressed a happy sigh as she chewed, the crisp greens and tender chicken flavourful in her mouth. A cold drip interrupted the happy pair. Looking skyward, dark dark clouds stared back. Another drip, this one patting on Rogal’s peaked cap. A third, then a forth drip, as the rain began. Rogal cursed inwardly, how could he have been so stupid as to forget to check the weather. He near lept from the crate, bundling food quickly back into the collapsible containers that were their plates. Octavia stood, her mechandrites grabbing the chequered blanket and folding it, as her host quickly threw the now full containers into the crate. The rain started thudding down, droplets the size of stubber bullets pounding down. Rogal pulled his coat from his shoulders and wrapped it around Octavia, who looked up at him, her eyes glowing from under her hood, “The mechanicum complex is closer, come with me,” She called, grabbing Rogals hand and pulling him forward. With a grunt Rogal pulled the crate up under his arm, and the pair began running through the rain. Octavia nimbly moved down the hill, her augmented legs letting her keep pace with the thudding boots of the commissar behind her. The rain beat down as the pair ran under the cover of the main mechanicus building, leaving a trail of water behind them. Octavia slowed, leading Rogal past the secutors at the main bulkhead, and down the maze of corridors that lead to her room. Opening the door, she let her guest in, and with a thought activated the glowglobes, bathing the room in soft even light. She turned to face her guest, and her fleshbrain squealed with joy. His chest heaving, soaked to the bone, Rogal stood in the doorway, crate over his shoulder, his white shirt plastered to his chest. He took his hat off and wiped his brow with his arm, a futile gesture, as it just moved the water around. He smiled sheepishly, “Do you have a towel?” Octavia’s eyes went wide, and her mind into overdrive, where were the towels, she had spent all morning cleaning and now could not remember where she had put the towels. Letting out a small eep, she hurred into the bathroom, her mechandrites wrenching the linen cupboard open, her eyes scanned up and down the shelves. Her towels were small, made for people the size of her or Caelistis, not for someone as broad shouldered as her guest. Her fleshbrain pointed out that this was not a problem, so long as he was dried off eventually, that was all he needed. Her cognitor ceded the point, and she grabbed a fluffy red towel, before returning to the main living area. Rogal stood with his back to her, his hat on the table and his shirt in his hands, as he wrung it out over the sink. Octavia’s breath caught in her throat, as she watched the muscles in Rogal’s back twist and move as he wrung the water from his shirt, rivulets from his hair making their way down over corded muscles. She let out a small whimper, and forced herself to move. Taking the towel in her hands, she gently dabbed at Rogals back, causing him to stiffen. “Octavia?” She let out an eep, before composing herself, “Rogal?” Pausing from wringing his shirt, Rogal stood up, “What are you doing?” Octavia reached up as far as she could, her mechandrites helping her to dry her guests broad shoulders, “You are my guest, I am being a good hostess.” Rogal shrugged, “I can dry myself, you know,” Octavia nodded behind him, “I am aware of that,” She said, her fleshbrain relishing the feeling of Rogal under her mechanical fingertips, quickly added, “But this is mechanicum hospitality, now please, take a seat.” She said, pulling a chair out from the table in the middle of the room. Rogal sat, as Octavia draped the towel across his shoulders. She lifted his jacket from her shoulders with her mechandrites, draping the water soaked coat over the back of another chair, before removing her own cloak. She shook her head, small droplets flying, before returning to her guest. Taking the towel in her hands, she began to dry Rogals hair. He sighed happily as she buried her hands in the towel and his hair, ruffling this way and that. Her mechandrites slunk out and over his shoulders, finding knots in the muscles and working at them. Rogal moaned happily, his head sinking forward. Octavia left the towel and moved her hands over the broad nape of the commissars neck, her nimble fingers tracing across the muscle bundles. Her mechandrites wrapped up and under his arms, as Octavia went up on tiptoe to hug her guest from behind. The sound of rain on the roof of the complex was the only thing that could be heard. Octavia sighed, “Thank you for saving me,” she whispered, her heart fluttering in her chest. Her fleshbrain hugged itself with joy as her mechandrites lazily traced lines across Rogal’s broad chest. She felt his breathing, the steady thump of his massive heart, how the muscles in his shoulders were tensing once more. A deep rumble started in his chest, “I couldn’t let them hurt you,” He whispered back, reaching up with a huge hand to cup her face. Her chest went tight, her fleshbrain cheered, this was it, he was going to turn her head, their lips would meet, and- He gently stroked her cheek as he stood. “We never had dessert.” He said, grinning awkwardly. He crossed the room in a couple of strides, and opened the crate once more. From within he produced a small domed item and a packet of red fruits. Octavia’s eyes went wide, “Are those?” Rogal nodded, “Stawberrys, I heard somewhere that you liked them,” he said as he sat down again, placing the punnet of strawberries down beside the bronze domed egg. Pressing a button on the side, the dome popped open, a chocolately smell filling the air. “I also heard that you like chocolate,” Rogal said, his lopsided smile beaming. Inside her head, Octavia’s fleshbrain squealed with delight, her cognitor joining in, for the love of chocolate. Her mouth watered, as she watched Rogal dip one of the bright red stawberries into the dark chocolaty pool, pulling it back up with a skilful twist and offering it to her. Her lips locked around the morsel and she bit down, leaving just the green stem in Rogals fingers, and she whimpered happily. The pair sat, as Rogal prepared another strawberry. Pulling her knees underneath herself, Octavia knelt on her chair, leaning over the table to get closer to her guest and his gift. He presented her with another, which she took hungrily, her lips skimming his now ungloved fingertips as she bit down. Her eyes half closed with delight as she chewed, she sighed happily. Taking a strawberry for himself, Rogal dipped it into the molten chocolate, his attention more on his hostess than on his actions. His fingertips dipped into the rich dark liquid, and he jerked his hand back, strings of chocolate dripping. Octavia licked her lips, and looked at her guest with wide eyes. Rogal felt his insides melt like the chocolate dripping from his fingers, as he offered Octavia the stawberry. She took it greedily, and her fleshbrain took its chance, her tounge flicked out and across Rogal’s fingers, collecting as much of the chocolate as she could. Her cognitor stood mute as she moaned happily. Rogal’s brain just froze, his manhood taking over in his moment of weakness. His other hand reached up to Octavia, and buried itself in her hair, as he pulled his other hand away, leaving a small trail of chocolate at the corner of Octavia’s mouth. Her tounge darted out, licking hungrily at the chocolate, as Rogal dipped a stawberry for himself and threw it into his mouth. Octavia nuzzled her head into his hand, and pulled herself onto the table, crawling forward. Rogal’s mind barely registered anything, lost now in her emerald eyes, as his primal brain took over, reaching forward to take an augmented hand in his own. Octavia’s fleshbrain moaned happily, “I never got to thank you for saving me,” She whispered huskily, as their faces got closer, Rogal’s hand tightening in her hair. He leaned closer, his nose brushing against hers, her breath hot against his mouth. With a crash, they both gave in to their humanity, their lips meeting with a literal spark as Octavia’s potential coil fired. The pair jerked, before coming back together, Rogal’s broad hand sliding up her arm to her shoulder and pulling her closer. Octavia whimpered, her mechandrites snaking forward to wrap themselves around the commissars neck and over his shoulders. Rogal stood, Octavia rising to kneel on the table, her hands splayed across his chest, before he leaned over her, pinning her down by her arms. Her fleshbrain cried out in happiness, “YESYESYESYESYES” it cried, as her cognitor hoped the table was strong enough to support them both. Octavia moaned into the kiss, her tounge flicking out to meet Rogals, and was overpowered by the broad muscle. A mechandrite twitched, activating the auto seal feature on the chocolate pot, before it fell, rolling off the table with a thud. Only Octavia’s cognitor noticed, as her fleshbrain indulged itself, arching their bodies back, pressing against the steely muscles of their guest. Rogal pulled back, taking a deep lungful of air, before burying himself in the nape of her neck, his tongue running across the electoo at her throat. Octavia bucked, the little licks at her throat causing shorts in her electoos, and spasms of pleasure down her spine. Her fleshbrain writhed in ecstasy, moaning loudly. Her cognitor managed to silence most of them, but the occasional one slipped past. She felt Rogal shudder against her, as her mechandrites dragged themselves across his back. Her cognitor picked up sounds from outside the door, and tried to tell someone, but was promptly drowned out by more moans and smutty talk from the fleshbrain. The door lock clicked and the pair froze. Rogal slowly lifted his head from Octavia’s neck, as she tilted her head back to look. Caelistis poked her head into the room, “Oh, Octavia, I didn’t know we were expecting guests this early,” she said, with a sly smile on her face. Rogal gently released his grip on her arms and stood, Octavia’s mechandrites trailing lazily from his shoulders, before slowly dragging their way down his chest and back to beside their owner. A mechandrite subtly moved down her leg, straightening her skirt. Rogal bent and picked the egg heater from the floor and set it on the table, before sitting down and pawing at his hair nervously. Octavia had rolled off the table and now stood beside it, her mechandrites playing with the edge of her skirt. Caelistis grinned, “Well, if that’s the case, I should get going, I was just stopping by for a change of cloak, but I think I have a spare in the work shop.” She tapped her forehead in mock salute, “Commissar, Octavia, have a good evening,” The door clicked shut, and the sound of rain on the complex roof was once again the only noise in the room. Caelistis closed the door and walked down the hall. She rounded a few corners before bursting into laughter. She had not intended for that to happen, having expected her friend to rememeber their old code from the colledgia for letting the other know they had guests. Caelistis almost skipped back to the vehicle pit, and when she arrived, walked to a particular chimera and knocked on the back hatch. A knock responded, and the hatch opened, Tiberius’s grinning face popped out and looked around, before opening the hatch wide. “Thank you, Tiberius,” Caelistis said, before stifling a giggle, “You won’t believe what I just did.” Rogal tapped his fingers against the table nervously, waiting for his simple brain to come up with something to say. A witty quip, a reassuring statement, anything to break the tension. When he retold this part of the story, he would claim the emprah himself was applauding him, as a peal of thunder rocked the complex. Octavia screamed, half jumping, half collapsing into her chair once more, her tiny shaking with fear. Her mind flashed back to the battlefield, the booming of the orks landing, the terror as she scrambled to find a safe place. Her mechandrites lashed around her protectively, as her mind flowed unbidden with memnor files. The Orks gruesome maw, the stench of blood and ozone, the warm feeling of someone’s arms around her. Her mind paused, that wasn’t right, her cognitor complained, no one hugged us. Opening an eye, Octavia found herself face to face with her commissarial guest, wrapped in his powerful arms. “Easy there, little lady,” he whispered softly, stroking her hair, “It’s just the storm, no orks.” With a whimpering sigh, Octavia leaned into Rogals chest, and hiccupped. A medchandrite snaked around his arm, as she pulled him closer, “It was horrible,” she mumbled, “So green, so angry,” Rogal just nodded, “I know, it’s going to stay with you for a little bit,” he said gently, octavia feeling the rumble in his chest as he spoke. Her fleshbrain seized it’s chance, “Can you, stay with me, for a little bit?” she asked, looking up with her emerald eyes. Rogal stiffened slightly, as a mechandrite slid around his chest and stroked at his back. Another crack of thunder boomed, and Octavia whimpered, burying herself in his chest even deeper. He curved his shoulders around her protectively, whispering a soothing litany in to the top of her head. Looking around, he spied the egg heater, and the remains of the stawberry punnet. He reached out, activating the egg once more, the rich chocolate smell filling the room. He quickly dipped a red berry in the molten confection, before offering it to Octavia, “Here, It’ll make you feel better,” He said, gently pressing the coated stawberry to her lips. Those pink lips parted to accept the morsel, biting down slowly, a droplet of juice trickling down her chin. Rogal wiped it with a finger, as his hostess ate happily, sighing as she leaned against his chest once more. The rain got heavier, and thunder boomed once more, shaking the complex, but there in Rogal’s burly arms, Octavia felt safe. The pair stayed like that for a while, Rogal’s huge form kneeling beside her chair, his arms around her, her mechandrites wrapped around him. Time passed, quiet nothings were murmured, before Octavia looked over Rogal’s broad shoulder to the ornate chronometer on the wall, “We should sleep,” She whispered, trailing a hand down Rogal’s chest, tracing the outline of the muscle, “I should go then,” He whispered back, going to pull away. Octavia’s mechandrites tightened around his arms. Looking up at him with her brilliant green eyes, Octavia pouted sadly, “Cannot you, stay? Please? You stopped the flashbacks before. I need to sleep. Please, stay?” Octavia’s cognitor nearly retched, how pathetic she sounded. Her fleshbrain growled, pointing out her cognitors inability to stop the flashbacks, and how this was the most efficient option. Octavia’s cognitor retorted with claims of hormonal instability and the weakness of flesh, before Rogal’s soft voice interrupted everything, “I suppose I can stay. For a little while longer,” He said quietly, gently nuzzling at the side of her face, his stubble rough on her cheek, “At least till the rain stops,” Octavia slid a hand around his neck, “Thank you, sir,” Gently disentangling her mechandrites from around his arms, she stood, pushing her chair back, She stroked Rogal’s sideburns with the back of her hand, before turning, leading Rogal by a mechandrite wrapped around his wrist to her bunk. The pair paused, looking at each other with puzzled looks.

The bunk was standard issue, made for one man, of average size. Rogal was far from average size. “This could be a problem,” Rogal said, sitting down on the bunk gently, hoping his weight didn’t upturn it. Octavia nimbly climbed beside him, her augmented eyes taking in the situation. Diagrams and figures scrolling past her vision, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “This is no problem,” she said happily, dropping down to her knees on the bed, “You see, its quite simple. You do not intend to sleep here, do you?” Rogal shook his head, “Sorry, no.” Octavia just smiled, “That is okay, you would not get optimum sleep here anyway, my fellow techpriestess sleeps loudly, and you lack the augments to block it out. However, you can lie with me for a while, can you not?” Octavia put her hands on Rogal’s trunk like thigh, as a mechandrite ruffled his hair. The commissar couldn’t help but smile. “I can,” “And you would wish to minimise the amount of disruption your departure would cause, wouldn’t you?” Rogal nodded “In that case, I have a solution.” Octavia’s fleshbrain grinned in triumph, as her mechandrites moved around Rogal’s body once more, pulling his arms this way and that, lowering his body to her bunk. Rogal’s legs hung off the end of the cot, but that was the last thing on either his or Octavia’s mind. The petite techpriestess pushed the commissars arm perpendicular to his body, draping the other across his broad chest, before lying down in the hollow she had created beside him. She snuggled close to his broad chest, her head on his bicep, her mechandrites pulling his forearm over her waist. She could hear his powerful heart thudding in his chest again, a slow pounding rhythm, supplanted by his lazy breathing. Her fleshbrain had melted to the floor, moaning happily, hugging itself with its mechandrites, as her cognitor began her nightly preparations for rest rituals. Memnor files were logged and, backups were started, her power down self-test began running, as her bright green eyes dimmed, before she closed them. Her cognitor sent out the signal, and the glowglobes powered down, leaving the studio like quarters bathed in the soft blue light of various other machines in the room. A contented sigh escaped her lips, as Rogal’s finger gently traced a spiral on her hip and thigh. Her fleshbrain curled into a happy ball, her cognitor sat in its metaphorical chair, and Octavia drifted off to sleep, a mechandrite lazily coiling around Rogal’s arm. The commissar lay there, staring at the ceiling, for a long time. Was this heresy? He shook his head, this was about as far from heresy as he could get. He was being human, and Humanity was what the emprah cared for. Not for machines, the that was the realm of the omnissiah, not for the xenos, but for Humanity. He let out a sigh, his mind twisting as he tried to make sense of his situation. He was just a simple man, who did what he was supposed to. That’s what was bothering him, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He lay there, the cool metal of Octavia’s mechandrite gently caressing his arm, her tiny frame cradled beside his own, as he considered his life. His past, his future, and how the small techpriestess fitted into it all. The numbers on the chronometer clicked past as he pondered, before, with a small sigh, he gently disentangled himself from his hostess. She whimpered in her sleep, her mechandrites pawing at him as he sat up. He gently placed a pillow under her head, before he stood, suppressing the groan caused from his stretching. Grabbing the blanket that had been bundled at the end of the bed, he draped it over the sleeping techpriestess, her mechandrites pulling it closer to her. Quietly, he collected his shirt, coat and hat, and lifted the supply crate. With a quiet click of the door, he stole away into the night.

On the table in the middle of the room, the egg heater sat, its operational light blinking quietly in the dark. Tiberius winced as Caelistis rubbed the ointment over his back, “Could you be a little gentler?” Digitised laugher filled the chimera cabin, “Oh you weak little man. It’s just a bruise,” “Just A bruise? My back feels like it’s been run over by a baneblade,” The Vox officer said, before biting back on a grunt of pain, “It looks like it too, the bruises make this wonderful banding pattern. Sometimes, just sometimes, your weak squishy flesh is quite beautiful,” Caelistis said, dragging a mechandrite down Tiberius’s spine, admiring the purple lines on the man’s back. Her hands and another mechandrite soaked a cloth in ointment, before dabbing gently at the bruises. “Yeah, well this weak squishy flesh still has feelings, you cold, hard, mechanical marvel.” Tiberius said, reaching behind him to playfully squeeze at Caelistis’s thigh. The techpriestess smiled, Humanity was a wonderful thing, she mused, as she kissed the vox officer on the back of the neck. ogal returned to his tent, dumping the crate to the floor with a thud. He threw his hat to the table and his coat over the chair, before sitting heavily on his bunk. Running his hands through his tousled hair, he let out a grunt of frustration, flopping back to stare at his ceiling. Reserved to his fate of another sleepless night, he rolled off his bed and stripped down to his undergarments. Stretching his powerful limbs, the commissar warmed up, before starting his night time workout. It wasn’t long before he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The hours melted away as the commissar huffed and grunted, his huge muscles burning, before he finally crashed back into his bunk.

Rogal’s eyes opened to slits, his chronometer’s alarm blaring. He silenced it with a slap, and rolled over in his bunk, wishing to the saints for a few hours more sleep. Instead, he knew he had to get up, duty needed to be done. He rolled out of bed, his blanket wrapped around him as he shuffled to the sink. Rubbing his stubble, he looked at himself in the mirror, tired eyes looking back at him. Stifling a yawn he took his razor and began to shave, hoping it would be a quiet, uneventful day. Octavia’s mechandrites moved, searching for her guest in her bed. With a saddened sigh, she confirmed what she already knew. He wasn’t there. Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked around blearily, her augments filling in the details of the night before with the light that now flooded the room. Where they had sat, how his huge frame had left the sheets disturbed, the egg heater still on the table, his gloves sitting beside them. Her Cognitor jumped, his gloves. He needed his gloves. Uniform codes demanded he have his gloves. Throwing her cloak around her shoulders, Octavia yelled a hurried goodmorning as she raced past her still sleeping roommate, the door slamming behind her. Caelistis moaned, rolling over and pulling her blanket over her head. Her augmented feet were soundless as Octavia ran, her red cloak streaming behind her, caught by the wind. She defty avoided the morning bustle of the compound as she made her way to Rogal’s tent, his gloves clutched to her chest, her mechandrites gently pushing people out of her path.

Rogal hummed to himself as he continued shaving, savouring the cool lather on his cheeks. The blade sounded like a knife over toast as he dragged it over his stubbled face, before flicking the white foam into his sink. He finished shaving, washing his razor and replacing it in the little cup by his mirror, before burying his face in a fluffy black towel. Wiping his now smooth face, he threw the towel over the bar, and returned to his bunk, flipping the lid of his foot locker with a boot. He knelt down, unpacking a fresh uniform for the day ahead. Socks were joined by trousers, and then undergarments, and a small pile of clothing took its place at the end of the Commissars bunk. Octavia saw her objective and put on an extra burst of speed, bounding gracefully forward towards the tent. Rogal threw his blanket back onto his bed, and peeled off what he had slept in. Octavia threw the tent flap open with a mechandrite, skidding to a halt, the flap closing behind her with a gust of air. “Rogal, you forgot your-“ Her words caught in her throat, as her fleshbrain squealed like a juvie on emprahs day. Rogal stood frozen, bent over his bed, dogtags around his neck, a fresh set of undergarments in his hands, and his… laspistol openly carried. Octavia’s cognitor spluttered, questioning the compatibility of her hardware. Her fleshbrain lounged languidly on a metaphorical couch, ducking down and peeking over the arm, and muttering about lascannons. An eep escaped from Octavia’s lips and the pair of them blushed a deep crimson. Rogal’s body powered into action, snatching his blanket from his bed and throwing it around himself like a toga. He then pulled his undergarments up, looking sheepish, his weapon now holstered. Octavia’s mechandrites had leapt to her mouth, one breaking off to fan his mistress, as she desparately forced the Memnorpicts from her mind. “Priestess, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Rogal managed to stammer, his body snapping to parade rest. Octavia’s fleshbrain marvelled at the man before her, such perfect proportions, she noted, perfect proportions. Her cognitor continued drawing a diagram of a piston, pointing out how a piston needed to fit in order to work. Her cheeks still flushed, Octavia offered her bundle forward, “You forgot your gloves, which are a part of your uniform. Which means that without them you are in violation of uniform codes alpha three niner seven, and section delta two four. Both of which carry a punishment of five lashes.” Her fleshbrain conjoured images of her tied to the lashing post. She shook her head to clear them, offering the gloves to Rogal once more. He grinned nervously, reaching out to take the leathery items from metallic hands. “Thank you, Octavia,” He managed to say, “But, do you mind, calling out first?” Octavia blushed harder, “But this was the most efficient way to get to you, what if you were to be inspected? You would have been strung up on the post and flogged and your back would be covered in scars and-“ She was silenced by Rogal’s finger to her lips, “It would have been mine to bear. You’re too kind to this humble servant of the Emprah,” He said, before pulling her close to hug her, his hand stroking down her spine, “But thank you. You’re a shining light of the Emprahs work. I’m truly blessed to have you in my life.” Octavia froze, unsure of how to react. Her fleshbrain cried out for her hug back, to wrap her mechandrites around his neck and chest once more. Her cognitor said to go, she had work to be done, her efficiency had already been impacted upon enough for the morning. She hadn’t eaten, her cognitor pointed out, and she required sustenance. Her stomach grumbled, and Rogal pulled back, “You’re hungry?” Octavia nodded, “I may have moved my standard sleeping pattern forward a couple of hours, due to, other commitments,” she said, fidgeting with the hems of her sleeves, “And in my hurry to bring you your gloves, I may have neglected to eat.” Her cognitor childed her for letting her fleshbrain have such liberties. Her cognitor pointed to all the dips in her work, and the correlation to Rogal’s actions or her fleshbrain’s activities. Her fleshbrain grabbed her cognitor, and pointed to the commissar, explaining quickly the finer points of human nature and male anatomy and its effect it could have. Her cognitor tittered sheepishly, before ceding control once more to Octavia’s fleshbrain. She breathed in deeply, the smell of soap, sawdust and clean linen filling her head. Rogal released her from the hug, “In that case, it’s very rude of me to keep you. If you give me a moment,” he said, tugging at his blanket, “I will dress and escort you to the mess? If you would like, that is?” Nodding happily, the petite priestess of the mechanicum took a seat, watching the Commissar. Rogal looked around the tent nervously, “I’ll just go change then,” he said, collecting his uniform from the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. Octavia’s cognitor clipped her fleshbrain over the back of the head, “Really?” It asked, “You really thought he would act like a gelt romance character and change infront of you? You really should be tied to the post and lashed,” As that thought left her metaphorical lips, Octavia’s cognitor realised its mistake. Her fleshbrain giggled, filling Octavia’s mind with images of her shackled to the post, her hands high above her head. Her cyber mantle prevented flogging in the traditional sense, but there were other parts of her that were still sensitive to punishment. Her fleshbrain weaved a scene, Rogal standing, shirtless, a disciplinary lash in his hands. Her Cognitor struggled to supress a moan, valiantly trying to distract Octavia with the new plan for networking the hydra’s targeting cores into an overlapping defensive pattern that would maximise shot effectiveness. Her fleshbrain thrashed, as the imaginary Rogal tore her skirt away from her, before standing back. Her mechandrites gripped to the chair and around her arms, as Her cognitor tried desperately to sever the links her fleshbrain was making. It could hear Rogal pulling on his boots, he wouldn’t be long. If they were seen like this, her cognitor wailed, it would be the end of all they were working for. It promised to help her fleshbrain if she would just stop her imaginings right now. Her fleshbrain ignored her, the imaginary Rogal stood at his full towering height, and snapped the lash across his gloved palm. Her cognitor heard the click of the door being opened and begged her body to open its eyes. The Imaginary Rogal raised the lash, the shadow cast across bare flesh. The Real Rogal walked towards his guest, buttoning his jacket. Octavia’s sat smiling, her eyes shut, her head on her hand, leaning on the table. “Octavia?” Rogal called softly “Octavia,” The words from the imaginary Rogal were firm, the lash started its downward arc. Rogal reached out, gently tapping his guest on the shoulder. The lash snapped down across pale flesh, leaving a bright pink mark. Octavia’s eyes snapped open, as her mechandrites crushed into the wood of the chair. Rogal looked at her, puzzled, “Are you alright, priestess?” He asked, slowly pulling his hand back from her shoulder. Octavia smiled, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks and stomach. Her cognitor forced her to her feet, her mechandrites releasing the chair from their vice like grips. Rogal looked at the chair, his brow furrowing further, as Octavia replied, “Sorry, I am still undergoing my morning power on self testing. It was delayed by my journey here.” She lied, smiling as sweetly as she could. Rogal reached past her and picked up his hat, putting it under his arm. “You realise I have no idea what that means?” He said, as he put his hand to the small of his guests back, gently guiding her towards the tent flap. Octavia nodded, her mechandrite going to push the tentflap open, but Rogal’s huge hand beat it, pushing the heavy fabric from their path. The sun shone down, bright and warm in the morning sky. Setting his cap at its favoured jaunty angle, Rogal pushed the petite priestess forward once more. The base was still wet from the storm the night before, but the grass and trees that were present had taken on a freshly watered lustre. If there had been any doubts about there being something between the burly commissar and the dainty priestess, their walk to the mess destroyed them as completely as an exterminatus. Guardsmen and Mechanicum alike watched the pair walking together, Octavia taking two or three steps to each of Rogal’s long strides, as they smiled and talked about nothing in particular. As the pair entered the mess, the chatter became a whisper, as hearts broke, bets were won and lost, and then a cry went out. A mug shattered, and Rogal’s head whipped around. Grinning sheepishly, Tiberius shook a recaf covered hand, blowing to try and cool the burning sensation. Rogal rolled his eyes, tucking his hat back under his arm. Octavia looked up at her companion, and he looked down, “Save me a spot, I’ll be right back,” He said quietly, pushing her towards the severving line. Rogal strode across the mess to his friend, his smile quickly growing as he approached. He saw the patches hiding at Tiberius’s neck, as the vox officer wiped his hand with a napkin. “A good night then, Sir?” Tiberius asked, as he scrunched the napkin and tossed it into the bin beside the recaf table. Rogal clapped a hand down on his friends shoulder, savouring the jolt of pain he knew he had inflicted. Tiberius’s hands clenched as tightly as his jaw, his breath escaping from between his teeth with a hiss. “An excellent night indeed. Yours?” Tiberius winced as Rogal’s hand lifted, blood surging back to fill the new bruise. With a tired grin, he replied, “Yeah, wasn’t too bad at all sir. I have some new reports coming in from the fleet you might be interested in, so I’ll see to it you get the slates.” Rogal nodded, “Much obliged as always. Any new whispers on the vox I should be aware of?” He asked, tipping his head to other officers as they passed. Tiberius shook his head, “Nothing really, just how you and the priestess with the blessings were seen leaving your tent together.” With a sigh, Rogal poured himself a mug of recaf, drinking down the warm beverage in a long draught, before pouring himself another. “Right, well, do what you can to quash that, I’ll be around later to look at those slates.” “As you wish, Commissar,” Tiberius said, tapping his forehead in mess hall salute. Rogal strode back to the serving line, taking his spot beside Octavia once more. A mechandrite offered the Commissar a tray, as they shuffled forward in the line. “People are watching us,” Octavia whispered, her other mechandrites swaying warily behind her, “We’re somewhat of an item, apparently,” He whispered back, feeling the colour return to his cheeks. Rogal just wanted things to be simple. They shuffled down the line, the cooks serving the breakfast all smiling at him, giving him nods of respect, as he grinned awkwardly. Years of good relationships and firm but fair justice had enamoured him to the battalion, his willingness to only be a commissar when he needed to be, and to act more like an NCO cementing his good standing. Their plates loaded high with food, the pair made their way to an empty table at the back of the mess. Rogal placed his tray on the table, before pulling chairs out for his red robed companion. Taking her seat, Octavia set her own tray down, mechandrites reaching out to stabilise her mug of recaf and grab a napkin, as she twirled her fork between her fingers. Rogal set his cap down as he took his seat, inhaling the delicious smell of the fresh cooked meal. “Where’s your friend this morning?” Rogal asked, before taking another mouthful of cereal, the crisp grain flakes crunching as he chewed, “My friend? Preistess Caelistis?” Rogal nodded, shovelling more food into his mouth. Octavia shook her head, “I have no idea, it is strange that she should be late. She was in our quarters when I left this morning, but I have not seen or heard from her since. Why do you ask?” Rogal swallowed, clearing his throat before he spoke, “You two seem close, I’ve seen you together quite often. Seems odd she isn’t here, is all,” Octavia pondered her friends absence, her mechandrites buttering her a slice of toast, which she took in a metal hand before nibbling. “Caelistis often works strange hours,” Octavia explaned,”So it is possible she is on a different diurnal cycle than standard.” Her cognitor ran over all her interactions between her and Caelistis in the past few days. Rogal watched as her nose twitched, a mechandrite drawing in the air absentmindedly as she pondered, “However, she has been working different shifts than usual. She has assigned herself to chimera maintenance twice, both during the middle of the day, and across the second and third night shifts. Chimera’s don’t need that much maintenance,” She said, thinking out loud, Rogal nodding as he ate. Tiberius walked past the table, “Oh, just so you know sir, I will be out of the vox tent from eleven hundred to around fourteen hundred, Cleo will be taking care of things,” He said as he took a seat, sitting across from the commissar and the Techpriestess. “Are you two busy today?” Rogal nodded, “We’re working on another barracks today, should have the frame up by nightfall, and enough beds to fill the first.” Octavia placed her fork down on her now empty tray, taking her mug of recaf from the mechandrite offering it, “The hydra defence grid is being overhauled. After the incident on trealsday,” Octavia stumbled over the strange name, “We found the gap they exploited, so we are reconfiguring the targeting cores to form a tighter scanweave over the base.” Octavia’s eyes brightened as she continued, her cognitor relishing the chance to do what it was good at, “By tightening the scanweave, and then synchronising the firing algorithms via a low band noospheric connection, we not only increase protection, but lower the amount of wear on the hydra batteries, as each tank will fire fewer shots individually, but as they fire in concert, the same volume of fire is reached.” Tiberius’s face was blank, he had stopped listening after hearing about the defence grid being overhauled. Rogal had been lost at the idea of low band noospheric connections, but he understood most of it, “So each hydra only fires once?” Octavia nodded, “ A four round burst, but that’s only one flak shell per barrel. The hard part is getting everything synchronised properly, but that’s why we’re using low band noospherics, as opposed to high or very high vox.” A concerned look crossed Tiberius’s face, “Does that mean you’re going to be around the Vehicle pits today, priestess?” He asked, as nonchalantly as he could, Nodding happily, “Of course, where else would I be? Aside from the command centre, for when we set up the overarching targeting hierarchy, or the noospheric server system, for calibrating the low band synchronisation,” Her cognitor paused, before continuing, “So I suppose I could be around the vehicle pits, but I could be many other places.” Her fleshbrain sighed, shaking its head at her cognitors obsession with details. “Why do you ask, vox officer?” Octavia’s cognitor pushed for information, watching with curiosity as subtle facial tics spread across Tiberius’s face. “Oh, no reason, priestess, just curiosity.” Rogal’s ears pricked up, Tiberius was never just curious. “Just curiosity?” The commissar echoed, his grey eyes piercing with commissarial strength. Tiberius looked away nervously, before tapping at his ear, “Whats that Jenkins? Right? Yes? Yes. I’ll be right there, Out.” The vox officer said, before standing, pushing his seat in with his leg, “That was private Jenkins, something about some new codes not being accepted by the voxnet, I’ll see you two lovebirds around,” He said, winking before he ran off, praying to the emprah to not feel a lasbolt at his back. Rogal and Octavia sat dumbfounded, watching the cheeky Vox officer dodge his way through the mess and out the door. Octavia’s fleshbrain giggled, lovebirds, she liked the sound of that. Her cognitor sighed, taking advantage of the fact it was dominant again, and continued its work on the noospheric topology she needed to create. Rogal stood, collecting both their trays, “I’ll see you at lunch?” He asked, reaching down for his cap. His hand hit table and he looked down. Octavia’s mechandrites were offering it to him from where she sat, smiling up at him, “If it pleases the Commissar,” she said, “Will you meet me at the vehicle pit?” Rogal nodded, taking his hat from her mechanical tendrils, “Sounds like a plan,” Octavia’s mechandrite traced down the Commissars hand, craving to be near him for just a little while longer. His gloved hand twisted, wrapping a mechandrite around his finger, before gently pulling away. Octavia watched as he turned on his heel and strode away, the crowd in the mess parting to let him through. She sighed happily and took her recaf mug in both hands, taking a sip and collecting her thoughts. “Well that was sweet,” Caelistis said, plonking herself down on the table beside her friend, a piece of toast cluched by a mechandrite as she pulled her hair and cables up into a ponytail. Octavia blushed, “So you were watching?” “Me and everyone else in here,” The slender techpriestess said, before taking a bite from her toast, “You really are living a gelt romance, it’s sickening.” Octavia hid her mouth behind her mug, taking a sip to cover her discomfort, “It’s not that bad, we just-“ “Just so happened to be preforming some rather complicated and delicate calibrations on our table?” Caelistis said quietly, her grin wolfish. Octavia went a brighter red, her mechandrites pulling her hood further forward. “You just happened to end up in his tent this morning?” “That’s a misunderstanding, he had forgotten his gloves, I was merely returning them,” Octavia said plaintively, “I didn’t want him to get lashed, you know that he would have gotten ten lashes for that? Ten lashes!” Caelistis grinned at the idea, a man that husky could take a lot of punishment. His commissarial training would make him hard to break, so feisty, so defiant. She giggled, “Yes, ten lashes, and he wouldn’t have blinked,” A pair of mechandrites folded themselves angrily as Octavia pouted, “No. Don’t you start with that. I know what you’re like. Don’t think I don’t remember what happened between you and Phanes,” Caelistis put a hand to her mouth in mock horror, “Oh, that? He was fine, I replaced his mechandrites and arm myself,” “His arm?” The taller techpreistess looked away, “Oh, right, you didn’t know about that bit. I, well, I may or may not have disassembled his arm a little.” She said sheepishly, “But that’s beside the point.” Octavia looked puzzled, “There was a point to that?” Caelistis shrugged, “Probably, you know I’m no good in the mornings. Anyway, I just dropped by to get some breakfast, tell you I won’t be around till late again tonight, and see how your night went,” Her grin turned wolfish again, “But if what I saw last night was anything to go by, you had a very, very good night,” Octavia smiled, “You could say that,” She said quietly, her augmented eyes brightening. Caelistis’s eyes went wide, “You didn’t?” Tilting her head, Octavia just looked at her friend, her small smile stilly playing on her lips. Caelistis reached out with a mechandrite, planting it on her friends slim shoulders, “Did you?” “Did I what?” Octavia’s fleshbrain entertained itself with the idea of what could have happened if she had. “Did you and he…?” Caelistis mimed some rather suggestive actions with her hands and mechandrites “No, we did not. He was a perfect gentleman. He stayed for a while longer, we talked, and he left.” Her cognitor forbade her from letting any more details slip, citing that any number of ears could be listening. Her fleshbrain just noted that he could have been a perfect ruffian, and she wouldn’t have cared. “Speaking of last night,” Octavia continued, looking at her attractively dishevelled friend, “Where were you?” “Vehicle pits, Chimera maintenece.” Caelistis said, before taking another mouthful of toast. Octavia’s cognitor opened a new menornote, adding a few lines about chimera maintenance. Her fleshbrain wondered how she could get that same messily attractive look as Caelistis, running metaphorical hands through conceptual hair. “Right, chimera maintenance. Same again tonight,” “You know it,” Caelistis continued to look away, taking another bite of toast. Rising to her feet, Octavia excused herself, “I’ll see you in pits then, enjoy your breakfast.” Pushing her chair in with a mechandrite, the petite priestess made her way from the mess. Her cognitor buzzed, pulling up information on the chimera maintenece schedules, her friends working hours, and the strange anti bruise ointment smell that had been around her a couple of times that morning. First with Vox officer Tiberius, and now again from Caelistis, her cognitor found it most curious. She wandered, lost in her thoughts, her cognitor multi-tasking, allowing her to dodge and avoid the bustle of the base as she made her way to the vehicle pit, while still keeping focus on the quickly expanding web of intrigue that Caelistis had begun. She greeted her mechanics team, as she walked into the main workshop, a chorus of staticy binary based good mornings and hellos chattered back at her. Logging into the workshop noosphere, files were quickly shared between Octavia and her team. Without a verbal word, the team merged their collective consciousness under Octavia’s command. Her fleshbrain sat quarantined, happily lounging on an imaginary couch, as her Cognitor orchestrated the collective consciousness of the mechanics team, each magos, artificer, and coder working together, fabricating and constructing the new noospheric server, as well as the broadcasting antennae and receivers for each hydra, and all the associated codes and programs. The morning quickly progressed, seconds blurring into hours.

Rogal tapped gently with his chisel, the small scrolls of wood falling aroung his boots as he worked. The sounds of construction filled his ears, as one of the men started singing, the hymnal of work carrying clear in the air. Soon, more voices took up the tune, before Rogal himself joined in, his powerful voice rumbling along with the bass line. The men worked, the sun shone, and Rogal felt like the emprah himself was smiling down on them. The men worked hard, the new barracks frame coming together quickly, as teams moved in concert, hewing logs into planks, sawing those planks to size, the pneumatic whump of nailguns puncturing the crisp morning air. Rogal paused from his work, putting down his tools and taking up the drinks crate. Hoisting the box to his shoulder, he moved about the worksite, handing out drinks and compliments, and generally maintaining morale like a good commissar should. He walked up to a team of rookies, laughing and rough housing as young guardsmen did, offering drinks and other refreshments. The young men downed their tools eagerly, the one closest to Rogal dropping his nailgun a little too enthusiastically. The pneumatic tool bump fired, three whumps in quick succession, followed by a roar of pain. The crate tumbling from his shoulder, Rogal cluched at his arm, blood trailing from the nails that had speared through. Bottles smashed as the crate hit the ground, solider’s racing over, the unfortunate rookie slammed to the ground roughly by his commanding officer. A medic shoved his way to the crowed over, shouting to be let through. The nails in his arm looking like silver icicles, bright red blood dripping down, seemed so foreign to the commissars eyes, as he studied them with detached fascination. He flexed his hand experimently, and grunted with pain, white hot lances firing up his arm. The rookie soldier had been dragged to his feet once more, his face pale as he faced the consequences of his actions. Rogal’s breathing was laboured, as the sergeant spoke, “What shall we do sir?” Rogal roared in pain again, as the medic gingerly poked and prodded at his wounds, before Rogal shoo’d him away with his good hand, before he took a good hard look at his assailant. “Gross negligence is heresy,” Rogal began, his voice strained, “how old are you, son?” The guardsman whimpered, his sergeant delivering a swift punch to his ribs, “Nineteen, Sir,” He gasped out, coughing from the blow, “Right, well, think yourself lucky. I’ve heard of men getting thirty lashes for things like this. You’re only getting ten. Sergeant, take care of the rest.” The rookie was dragged away, his face pale, as his sergeant was heard to mutter, “You’re a damn lucky fool, the Commissar is a good man. You owe him.” The Medic tutted impatiently, “Really sir, I need to have a look at that arm.” Rogal sighed, offering the injured limb up for inspection. The nails had punched straight through the massive muscles of his fore and upper arms, and by the grace of the emprah, not hit a single bone. The medic whistled, “Impressive, Commissar. Him on earth seems to have claimed you as his own. Rogal just winced as skilled hands with nimble fingers pressed and prodded around the metal spikes. The medic looked up at the Burly commissar, “Now, we can do this quick and simple here, or you can go to the infirmary.” Rogal sighed, he hated the infirmary. Turning his head, he straightened his arm with a grunt. The Medic just sighed, “You’re a brave man sir,” Reaching into his medkit, he pulled out a rubber block, some vials, and a couple of bandages. Offering the block to the commissar, the medic said, “You might want to bite down on this. Things are going to hurt.” Rogal nodded, as the men upturned the crate for him to sit on. He handed his hat to another guardsman as he took his seat, placing the rubber block in his mouth. Offering his arm to the medic, he looked away again. “Ready sir?” Rogal nodded, his reply muffled by his gag. The medic grabbed a pair of pliers from the workbench near by, and grabbed a hold of the first nail. Rogal’s roar was muffled by his gag, as his arm jerked, blood spraying as the medic tore the first nail out of his arm. His breath ragged as he panted, his jaw tensed against the rubber block, as the medic tipped the content of the first vial over the bright red wound. Rogal howled again, pain lancing up his arm, his vision going white at the edges. He spat the rubber gag away, sucking in huge lungfuls of air. He managed to grin at the medic, “You were right, that does smart,” The medic smiled, allowing himself some black humor to lighten the mood, “Could be worse sir, you could have wanted it chopped off,” Rogal nodded, “Yeah, could be worse. Next one, please?” The medic nodded, “Ready?” Another grunt, another spurt of blood, and Rogal howled at the sky, before the medic grabbed his arm and dumped another vial worth of liquid on the second wound. The Commissars broad shoulders heaved as he gasped for air, grunting and growling at the pain. Again, his breathing slowed, the white hot pain shooting up his arm fading to dull aching embers. The slightest movement hurt, the muscles protesting against the nerves, who were in turn hating anything they could. Taking a deep breath, Rogal nodded at the medic, “Last one,” “Last one. Ready sir?” Rogal nodded, a small part of him wondering if this had really been such a good idea. The medic grabbed his pliers once more, and pulled at the silvery rod buried in the meat of the commissars arm. With a bellow like a rampaging grox, Rogal tore his arm back, the nail ripping free, blood spraying across the ground. The medic threw his tool to the ground, grabbing the final vial and dumping the contents over the gash in Rogals arm. His free hand balled in a fist, Rogal lashed out at the workbench beside him, his powerful fist pounding into the side. The whole bench shook, as the hulking Commissar stomped his boots and hit the bench again. The Medic started binding his arm, the first white bandage covered in red by time he had finished wrapping. The second bandage stayed cleaner, as he fastened a sling around Rogal’s neck. “You’re going to need to keep it elevated, sir. You can’t do much else today,” Rogal looked down at his bandaged arm and sighed, gingerly trying to flex his fingers. He was rewarded with lances of pain. “How long till I can use it again?” The medic thought for a moment, as he packed up his kit, “A few days. That stuff I put on there will speed the healing, though you might want to see the doctor for some pain killers.” Rogal sighed and nodded, “Understood,” “Look on the bright side, at least its lunch time.” The Commissar sighed, as he placed his hat on his head, “At least its lunch time.”