Gallus Silon
This is a Warhammer 40k story posted up in 2011 by Peg Leg Dave. This is all a direct copy and paste from some old backed up web pages so the formatting definitely sucks.
Good afternoon gentlemen,
Now, I have returned and I do not mean to be the center of attention here or to take away from any ongoing threads; though I do remember quite a few people saying that they would look forward once again to my colorful ramblings on games I have been fortunate enough to play in. First things first though, I need to introduce how I found myself playing in my first dark heresy campaign. At the local gaming store, there is always much suspicion when a new game comes out, even if it comes through an established gaming company. While the Warhammer Fantasy Roleplaying game was a very good product by all reckoning, people were still somewhat curious as to how a similar company could do justice for Warhammer 40k. There is a subtle difference, one might point out, between a crossbow and a Meltagun. However, I being of the mindset that Clarke was right, sufficiently advanced technology being indistinguishable from magic, that psykers and wizards are more or less the same thing. At least, in theory.
Now, I admit I had grown very tired of the gamers all standing around looking at the neatly stacked new arrivals, so I said that if a DM would run it, I would fund it. A DM came forward, one of the more gifted DMs of the store, and said that he would run the game. I purchased the book for myself and immediately handed it to him, telling him to promptly absorb the contents so that I might have a chance to play in this game sooner rather than later. It wasn't much time at all as he soon put up a flyer to advertise the game, looking for 3 additional players to accompany myself and he as we dove into a story of heresy, dark and otherwise.
Now, at the first session, I am greeted by a group of people that isn't all bad. You see, the DM had done his job by screening what chaff he could from the wheat. There was no sense in letting anyone into this game as we were trying our best to see what the new system had to offer. Our players, or as the very cultured of us like to say, our 'dramatis personae' were as follows:
Guy (That was his first name, strangely enough) - younger than I, Former United States marine, very laid back, enjoys American Spirit Cigarettes and doesn't like to talk about the war. Plays Flames of war (United States Army) and Warhammer 40k tabletop (Imperial Guard), not a man of modest intellect, and more than not holds his tongue rather than be impolite.
Lady Sudoku (Not her real name, she was a fanatic for puzzles) - Housemother, former police officer (Just didn't agree with the job), always brought in snacks to whatever she was invited to, played Warhammer Fantasy (Dwarves) and Warhammer 40k tabletop (Orks), holds painting workshops for the less-than-capable, always played Sudoku puzzles while waiting her turn in long tabletop games. Very kind, sweet, and the perfect example of a fine lady of the game store.
The Bonzai Kid (Our name applied to him, he was always wound up and rode one of those far-too-fast Japanese Motorcycles) - Youngest of us, incredibly intelligent, more of a console gamer than tabletop, however, plays Warhammer 40k tabletop (Tau) and quotes lots of Japanese comic books. Thinks everything is 'epic' though I feel he's never really seen anything truly 'epic' in his lifetime. He was the most polite of the remaining 40k knowledgable people willing to play in our game.
Well, from here on out I'm going to refer to the people by their character names, which I will show you in a moment. Now, I must say that there were other people who were interested in playing in our game, however, due to scheduling constraints, timing issues, interest, and sensibility, these were the best people we could gather at that point in time. Please understand that had things been more perfect, we would have had a different group. However, if things had been perfect, I don't think we would have had half the fun we did.
During our first session, the DM has us all pitch a character to play, so here is how that goes.
Guy said he is interested in playing: Mordeci Cain (A name chosen by the generator from Fantasy Flight's website), Imperial Arbitrator. Mordeci is intelligent, a natural knack for solving crimes, always hears his party out before administering Imperial Justice and is on the fast track (at least in his own mind) to being promoted to more important work. Mordeci's stats favored intellect and gunplay, though everything else was at an average or slightly below. Mordeci was from a hive world.
Mordeci was approved for play.
Lady Sudoku decided to play: Devi Cimbria, Scum. Devi is intelligent, sly, sneaky, suspicious and above all uncouth. Devi is a con-artist, a thief, and far worse things. She is from a hive world and has done anything she could to survive in the lower hive. Devi's stats favor Intellect and agility.
Devi was approved for play.
The Bonzai Kid decided to try to play: Seth Moonblade, an Eldar.
We all looked up and realized that the kid had about 40 pages of information, in a three-ring binder, and was fully prepared to read them to us concerning the Eldar's background. The Dm shook his head slowly. The kid, undaunted in the slightest, lifted a tab in the binder and announced his next character to us, "Shas'O Kain, a firewarrior from . . " The DM shook his head slowly, and the kid lifted another tab in the binder. This went on for a while until the DM tired of it and said: "Just leave, son". Which, the kid did. He was not welcome from that point into our game mainly because he wanted to play anything other than dark heresy and anything other than human. When we heard the exhaust of his suicide machine (That quite-fast Japanese racing bike) fading into the distance the group looked at me and asked what I was going to play. I pointed out that the DM had my book and that I had not a chance to make a character ahead of time. The DM opened the book and said "Standby to roll some D10s" and slightly less than an hour later we have my fellow:
From a hive world, as this seems to be our luck of late, the lowest order of adept to the Adeptus Mechanicus was best served by none other than Gallus Silon (It was a rolled name thanks to a name generator, however, the pun is not lost on me.) I recall him having started with extraordinary intelligence and rather decent toughness, though he was completely useless in all other regards. I began with the natural implants common to those in the service of the machine god, though without any of the extra appendages at the moment. I spent my beginning thrones to ensure I had the appropriate things a lowly man of the Red cloth might, a las-cutter and some random electronic trinkets before saying that I was ready. The DM opened his screen, set it up, got himself a large glass of tea and then began.
The story was more or less what I would discover to be the standard fare in Dark heresy games: You are all not very important people in a very, very crowded hive with all sorts of suffering in your past, as to directly contrast to your daily sufferings. We found ourselves introduced to each other NOT at a tavern, but at a safe house, we were all summoned to by a cryptic note. Now, having my fellow respond to a cryptic note a little difficult as I, being a faithful servant of the Adeptus Mechanicus would not dare read or respond to personal correspondence while engaged in activities dictated by a senior magos. When I did show up, late, The inquisitor was waiting for us. See, as part of our backstory, we were all found to have been 'exemplary' people and 'foreseen in the Imperial Tarot' to be of use to the God-Emperor and his servants. I didn't particularly find the Inquisitor to be a compelling leader, but I was put into place by having orders put before me, signed by the Arch-Magos in charge of my Fabricator-Manufactorium commanding me to be of 'efficient assistance at all times'. Who was I to argue, then?
The Inquisitor made us part of his warband and there was a speech he made about 'grave and imminent doom that possibly could be bringing the entire sector down around our ears, but maybe not, depending on what you find out and goodbye'. We were given a series of orders that I shall provide for you all to read and discuss as you will:
1 - Discover what we can of a "Thule Syndicate" operating in the lower hive.
2 - Do not be found to be Imperial Agents.
3 - Procure anything you need in the field.
Those were our orders, and certainly, I must say that they were straightforward enough. Spy, and don't be spied upon. I understood that we had more or less the perfect cover for the assignment, we had a scum-person that could blend in with the crowds if not infiltrate the group, we had a low-level officer of what was likely to be the Magistratum and we had me, the equivalent of a menial repair-person to go about where he pleased under the supposed orders of the Machine God. It was at this time we began to plan.
You see, we weren't given a budget for this operation, which I found to be rather troubling considering that everything costs something in the Imperium and the barter-system only works in your favor if you have things worth bartering, which I certainly did not. Well, I suppose I did but they could have my collection of tools when the pried them from my quasi-alive, metallic appendages. We were told to 'deposit our findings' to a dead-drop which was at some address I wrote down, my character naturally committing that to memory for later use should we not die horrifically in our adventures.
Our plan came out to the following:
1 - Find out what this Thule Syndicate actually 'did' on the surface before diving in and finding out what they were supposedly doing when everyone wasn't watching.
2 - Procure supplies for infiltration or assault to the premises in order to gain intelligence
3 - Find a safe place to hide while waiting for new tasks as likely we would not want to travel back and forth between mid-hive and lower hive, it would attract suspicion.
As we packed up the operation to move to the lower hive, we came to the conclusion that we had rather stick close together in case something terrible should happen. There was plenty of roleplaying at this point, Mordeci telling us of his academy days and night-sticking vagrants day-in-and-day-out, and how this was a great adventure compared to his rather boring daily routine. Devi was a free spirit and admitted to having run from Mordeci once or twice, but now that we were on the same time she was assuming she was more or less free from any sort of danger of imprisonment or prosecution. Mordeci and Devi hit it off, in character, by telling interesting tales of crackdowns and shootouts from both sides of the fence. Mr. Silon kept to himself, the DM asking what I was doing, and the answer was invariably "Calculating estimated time of arrival to the lower hive" or "Considering efficiency upgrades to my existing cybernetic implants" or something similar.
Now a side tangent if I may..
You see, many folks try to do justice to the Adeptus Mechanicus by trying to do the voice. They normally try to do the voice from Warhammer 40k: Dawn of war by quoting "This Able beast should get us there" or "It is nothing for someone of my skills" or something similar. Me? I go a different approach. I lower my tone of voice and try to sound very calm and it comes out as being a near-perfect impression of that larger, green fellow from Aqua Teen Hunger force, the Mooninite. The internet, when queried, says his name is Ignignokt but I can't say I knew that at the time. Just "one of the mooninites" was the label people applied.
The Roleplaying continued as we took what was described as this large train that ran along the outside of the hive, going around its massive circumference and descending levels as it went, as though in a very gradual descending helix bent around the structure. As we neared the lower-hive we found our party interaction somewhat hampered by a bandit who announced that we should empty our pockets lest he 'brain us good'. I have no idea why all bandits in the 41st millennium are cockney, but I took affront to the situation of being interrupted on such holy a mission. I would have risen to shoot him but he had a rusted autogun leveled at us as he stood in the doorway between two train cars. The Arbite and the scum played it cool as the man was not addressing us directly, but rather everyone in the car. I asked the DM "Is the man directly in the doorway?" The Dm said that he was, as though he anticipated someone to shoot at him and he could close the door to deter someone chasing him.
At this point, I wrote something on a piece of paper and slipped it to the DM who said "Jesus Christ, okay, roll for Tech use test"
You see, I had accessed a data port covertly using my natural ability to do so through the palms of my hands, due to them being full of circuitry and what have you. I made a tech use test to tell the door's hydraulics to just, well, close at full force. Now. The machine spirit was on my side and the doors closed with more force than they had in centuries, not cutting the man into pieces but crushing most of his bones along with his softer, interior biological parts. The man gurgled and died at that point, after which everyone in the train car (party included) looked at my character, who said in a state of perfect calm, "Surely, It was a malfunction."
We ransacked the body along with half of the people in the car, who were from the lower-hive and returning home. Life was cheap down there so they saw no trouble in a stick-up artist being cruelly murdered by malfunctioning machinery, everyone helped themselves to his riches that the party had not claimed (Mainly his thrones, of which there were seventy or so, and a hold-out snub-las tucked into the small of his belt).
Upon arriving in the lower hive we were entering a realm described by the DM as more or less industrial hell meets mid 18th century London. I was aware from my Dickens that once upon a time London was called Coketown due to the coke-furnace smoke ever present in the air, so I had some idea of what we were walking into. It was then I had my first encounter with a homeless person in a Dark Heresy Game.
Now, I don't look down upon those without homes, and in fact, I have wondered what it would be like to take to the rails for a year or two just out of adventuring spirit but this man was getting on my nerves even out of character. He was described as having wild hair and asking every five seconds for money, saying that this was his sidewalk and that we were bastards, but then seconds later he would say that he was sorry and coming off of narcotics and needed 'just a boost'. Before I could do anything, Mordeci, the Arbitrator, decided to act officially. Mordeci took out his baton and began to beat the man mercilessly about the face for having the gall to beg before an officer of the Magistratum, and for not having a job, and for being a freeloader on society, and a dozen other things the man was certainly guilty of. After the beating, the man was laying in a pool of his own blood, not dead but certainly not likely to wake up any time soon. It was at this point that the scum searched him and found a hundred thrones in very small denominations. Apparently, this beggar was doing very well for himself. In addition, upon a further search, it was discovered the man had a tooth made of platinum, and keys to an apartment.
We were somewhat dumbfounded as to what we had happened upon and halted the game to ask if the DM was using a random loot generator or what was going on. He explained that some middle class or lower class people often do feign being homeless in order to beg and make decent money doing so. We had just happened upon such an individual, and that we needed to get back to the game.
So, upon this revelation to my character (Told to us by DM fiat through the Arbitrator as a mouthpiece), I decided to practice a fair piece of street dentistry by extracting such said platinum tooth. Unfortunately, he woke up mid-extraction and had to be sedated again through the application of a lateral cranial impact.
We decided to follow the keys back to the apartment by checking the imprint on the keys with local residential areas within walking distance (assisted by our scum asking around some of the local drinking establishments). When we found the house, however, we were in a fair bit of trouble. It was a basement apartment and from what we gathered it was a local equivalent of a crack-parlor. Now, I understand that someone might want to go through as little trouble as possible to find a safehouse, but we were rather stubborn people and that house was more or less decidedly ours, as soon as we cleaned the tenants out. We set up observation for a time, and the scum got close enough to the windows and doors to find out the place was more or less a fortress.
The windows, the doors, everything was reinforced and air-tight, there was no way we could sneak in there.
"Air tight?" I asked the DM. "Yeah," he says. I ask how they get their air and he says that it is recycled through an atmospheric conditioning unit on the side of the building. I asked why this was, and he said: "Because the air quality is terrible here and they're rich enough to want perfectly clean air."
So, I had the quandary of pests in the basement apartment we wanted, which was a perfect place amongst other things as it was a fortress, reinforced everything and blended in quite well to the surrounding area. I decided I had a solution to our problem. It was at this time I asked the DM if there was any equivalent to a hardware or general goods store in the locality.
Now, my plan centered around being able to find copious amounts of Chlorine so that I might make Phosgene, Lewisite, or any of those nasty Chlorine gasses and then introduce it into that air scrubber in order to more or less clean out the riff-raff in short order.
I passed a mild intelligence test to figure out how to make the stuff (As I gather, simple chemical weapon information is probably small potatoes compared to working around Fusion powered anything) and then successfully navigated a series of transactions which gained me several gallons of the appropriate materials.
Now, our officer created a diversion by scaring the tenants of the house away by doing a foot-patrol and asking to see people's Identifications and various other harassment techniques that are often used against hooligans, while our Scum kept a lookout and I began to play with the atmospheric processor of this building.
I do pardon for making so simple a mistake, you see, my spell-check auto-corrects as I go along and it tends to choose the wrong word sometimes. Then again, I am equally at fault for choosing the wrong word sometimes.
So, there we were. Now, there was a slight mistake in mixing the atmospheric gasses and my own concoction as I flubbed, critically, one tech-use test out of three. I thought it was a majority-rules sort of situation but apparently, each governed a separate part of what I was trying to do. Here's what happened behind the scenes.
Test 1 - To correctly measure the right amounts of chemical for the desired effect. (Passed)
Test 2 - To introduce the chemical to the building without setting off an atmospheric contamination alarm (Pass)
Test 3 - To introduce this chemical to ONLY the basement - Fail
Where I had initially wanted only to kill a few drug dealers and other miscreants I had accidentally introduced the residents of the apartment complex to some very effective and very permanent sleeping medicine.
Having Euthanized a few hundred people didn't exactly get me corruption points as it was a mistake, but I tested anyways and succeeded in 'not feeling terribly bad about having killed people but somewhat upset at having failed to interface correctly with a machine'.
Now the party at this point has no idea what's going on, so we decide to sit around and wait a while. . .
We decided to sit around at a local diner (The worst greasy spoon in the Galaxy, as the DM put it) and have a cup of coffee while things 'settled' back at our soon-to-be-safe-house when there were some shouts in the streets and a few sirens of the equivalent of a rescue-brigade. The Arbite asked if anything could have gone wrong in my execution of the plan, to which I replied
"I believe I have accidentally euthanized the entire building"
There were stares between the players and then stares at me, which I took to be stares at my character.
"Mistakes were made" My fellow admitted, as sullenly as he could. The other two players were horrified but two hours later we went to our now-empty building with 'Do not cross - contaminated' tape over the windows and doors. I fixed the atmospheric processing unit and we entered our new-empty basement safe-house.
Thus ended Session One. Thank you for listening and that's all I have for now.
The Continued Adventures of Silon, Mordeci, and Co. (I was contemplating using the title "Broke and Fixed again: A Mechanicus Tale")
For those who read yesterday, I posted the first installment of what I do dearly hope to be an ongoing storytelling, the Adventures of Tech-Priest Silon, Mordeci the Arbitrator and Devi the commoner. Scum just doesn't seem nice, now does it?
Yesterday when I left off, we had just inherited what some may decide to call the "Crime scene house". Even though the whole place was not ours for the keeping, the landlord eventually moving other people in after discounting the rooms people had asphyxiated in thanks to my mechanical blunder (or as it was pointed out repeatedly "That time you murdered the whole building"), we inherited the basement as it seemed the Landlord was under the impression that the gang that had claimed such space was still in attendance. This of course was assisted by Devi looking appropriately "Thug Life" as it were, sitting on the stairs from time to time and drinking from a 40 oz (Or 1,182 point something milliliters for our metric friends). Having established a foothold we started on our surveillance in earnest upon the group known as the "Thule Syndicate".
Now, attempting to gather information as best we can, and firmly believing we were smart enough to be on our own, we split up into three teams of one.
At this point, I realized I should have tagged along with the other team or stayed at home and spent time jacking into a data-stream or something more or less what I chose to do, which was to attempt to 'converse' with 'the public' concerning what I needed. Some read a low fellowship score as being bad with words, and I disagree. I think a low intelligence means being bad with words. A low fellowship means you do not know how to use them around other people, you have no social graces, no empathy and no 'gift of gab' as it were. I had a low fellowship. It was going to hamstring me, but before I get to what happened to Mr. Silon, Tech-adept of low station, I will tell you what happened sequentially as the DM went one-on-one with each person, I being the last.
Devi, being a woman did get the chance to go first in this encounter. She went into a terribly run down saloon, the sort of place with grease on the windows and spit in the glasses and water in the beer. There were loose, bent nails in the floorboards and none of the stools sat just right, the sort that rock under your weight from age. The bar paid her no mind as she fit right in, and between rounds of, well, I can't say I'm acquainted with the game of 'hold your hand flat and stab between the fingers as swiftly as you can' but I know that I'd be laughed out of such an establishment for calling it that. Well, she played that, and with her agility she passed every time, wetting the old tables with blood and talking trash with the local toughs. Between games of "Don't stab your fingers," there was a bit of information acquired concerning the "Thule Syndicate". This will be shared later.
Mordeci, well, he managed to check in with the local Magistratum outpost which just happened to be run by one of his cousins, and jack-jaw his way into interrogating some of the local scum dumb enough to have been caught. One or two interrogations via beating people up creatively, he learned what he could and then used the same knowledge in conversation with the local law enforcement. Local law shared in turn what they knew about the subject and over many pastries, a brighter picture was painted of our potential investigation.
Myself, well, I must admit that my own shenanigans were slightly more involved because I was completely inept at the human interaction "thing", as my fellow would see it. You'd think that because my fellowship was so terribly low that I might just bump into a few people and gain no information whatsoever before deciding to go home empty-handed. Yes, and no. Silon, fresh from his peaceful slumber after gassing the inhabitants of a residential block, walked toward the largest throng of people he could find and then began eavesdropping. Or rather he was attempting to do so covertly. Which means he was standing in plain sight listening to everyone, standing perfectly still at that. Without Bionic ears and other parts, I was doing my best to hear anything about "Thule" or "Syndicates" when I was approached by a pair of relatively unsavory individuals who were very intimidating. One had a mohawk, one did not. I stood very still on the street corner, right next to the lamp post and these gentlemen attempted to shake me down, apparently completely unafraid of invoking the wrath of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Now, they were in my face, screaming, doing all sorts of terrible things and calling me names. They even attempted to take a few practice swings at me, threatening to "Cave my smart head in" and other such, but I was quiet. I was quiet because I had just successfully interfaced with the traffic system and was seeing through the surveillance cameras. After successfully blocking any images of myself from the system, I re-routed a city bus full of people straight through the intersection and caused a strobe-effect from the traffic lights to blind the driver, causing the driver, in turn, to run the two individuals in front of me over. Now, you might be saying that can't be the end of it. Unfortunately, you cannot so neatly tug a chain of events into play and then stop it at your whim. The bus went on down the sidewalk, running people over as the driver slammed on the brakes, rolled it and then tumbled into a marketplace. There were further traffic fatalities as a result of me tinkering with the lights and I said my appeasements to the machine spirits, encouraging them to 'play free while they could' before quickly exiting the scene as fast as I was able.
Now, I began to feel a bit cheated by the DM for these things to have happened, but I realized that I was trying to do things the way an adept of the machine god would, seeing as that I was gifted in nothing but technological ways and intellect, these would naturally be my foremost weapons against any assailant I encountered. Upon arriving back at the basement of the-house-that-I-killed (DM wording), I found the other two had been waiting for me and were excitedly chatting about what they had found about the Thule Syndicate. They looked at me and I looked back at them. They asked "So, how was your day" and I responded with a very, very calm "Accidents occurred."
Mordeci said "What, nothing like yesterday I hope?"
I responded, "Nothing like yesterday, today the cause of death was blunt force trauma."
They were quiet and then asked "how", and I explained about the bus, and the accident, in as calm, collected and objective a manner as I could. They were horrified but managed to compose themselves, beginning to lay out the intelligence they had gathered. They had more or less accepted me as not quite a party member and more so a force of nature that occasionally gets things done. Now, onto the subject of the 'big bad men' we were sent after. The Thule Syndicate or, "The Syndicate" as it was known locally, was involved in two things. On the surface of things they were running an urban reconstruction campaign, cleaning the streets with private security teams, getting rid of criminals, pushing out existing narco-barons and dope fiends, helping people get off their addictions and even running a few homeless shelters. The Syndicate was run by a man by the name of Erasmus Thule. Thule was gaining popular support in the lower classes, though for what was unknown. The second thing known about the Thule Syndicate was that they were apparently involved in a rash of disappearances of prominent people, Imperial Clergy, Outspoken political adversaries, gang members, and so on. Their army and popular support had allowed them control of a very large portion of the lower hive and defended their turf so well that most criminals stayed far, far away in fear.
I mentioned that all I discovered is that a metropolitan bus transfers a tremendous amount of force when it collides with a human being. The group was quiet again, but we moved on.
Infiltrating the group seemed impossible, as Mordeci informed us that all informants within the organization had gone silent at near the same time, and any attempt for an under-cover operative of the Magistratum to penetrate the syndicate had failed, usually the officer's head showing up in a paper bag on the precinct's doorstep within a few days of the beginning of said investigation. We were beginning to wonder how in the hell we would crack this place open when there was a knock at the door. Perfect timing, DM. Mordeci grabbed his shotgun, Devi had her compact laspistol and I, well, I kept myself seated as I felt that the group did not trust my instincts concerning human interaction choices.
At the door, there was not a gang, or a team of trained killers, or a mutant or anything else of any real imminent danger. There was, however, an envelope.
The coast was checked thoroughly to make certain there was no one dangerous around the corner, or lurking nearby, or ready to do us harm in any great way. We locked the door, and we sat around while Mordeci (Somewhat the de-facto party leader) read the contents. The letter said to "Come alone" and gives an address. Now, as far as traps go, this one was not very subtle at all. So, knowing this DM as I did, I had to assume it was not a trap but rather some form of plot-hook in order to get us to walk in the direction he wanted. As well, I think he could tell he was stumped to a degree on how to get us as a group to his objective.
The address was apparently a closed theater in a crumbling ruin of a district not far from the boundary of where the Thule Syndicate operated. We arrived, alone, well, the three of us were alone and well armed but more or less alone as we could be given the circumstances. Out of the ceiling comes these bright lights, which don't focus on us but instead focus on a man standing on the stage. "I am Erasmus Thule," the man says, then adds, "And I hear you have been asking about me."
I do recall clarifying on a point. "I asked no questions concerning you." And to his credit, our opponent knew when to ignore those who were 'different' and instead focus on the likely leader of our group: the officious looking one. Mordeci stated that that the man had a certain flare for the dramatic, to which Erasmus seemed amused. Erasmus asked, "Why have you been asking about me?" I asked, flatly "Why did you covertly arrange to meet us in an abandoned Theater?" He answered, "Because theaters are good at keeping loud noises inside them." I began an analysis of that statement with an audio-sweep of the building by shouting at varying volumes in different directions. A half minute later, after being quieted by Mordeci and my calculations only half done, I stated that "Mr. Thule's statement seems correct."
I am told by Mordeci to "Go misbehave somewhere else" and I describe my character slinking away, more sulking than anything as he and his accurate observations concerning the acoustic qualities of the building were unwanted. I milled around in the lobby, finding various things to fix (A few lights, a door hinge, an intercom, a popcorn machine) but soon was out of projects and so I did put my tools away to wander back into the room to find Mordeci shaking hands with Mr. Thule and Mr. Thule saying "let's go, boys". The overhead lights shut off and ten armed thugs emerged from various hiding places to escort Thule from the building. I asked at this point what Mordeci had found out, only to discover that he had talked our way into the 'Syndicate' pending we dealt with a few "road bumps" to prove ourselves.
Being that this is the sort of thing an undercover acolyte agent is expected to do, I by and large expected morally ambiguous shenanigans to ensue.
I was not disappointed.
The First mission we did to prove ourselves was to assassinate the community leader of a small talent show popular on the poorer side of town. This community leader had dealings with gangs in the past, was at one point a really ruthless clan-leader himself. After being 'born again' into the "light of the Emperor", he took up a much smaller position in the world by being a community leader, helping control the crime problem, running a soup kitchen and now this small talent show. By small I mean less than a thousand people attending, and as venues in the hive go, it's not all that great. Our initial plan is just to sneak in and sneak we do, as best we can at any rate. We get in with the crowd, none of us managing to take any weapons of size, between us is a compact revolver and a compact laspistol, and of course, my own innate ability to destroy things with the power of science.
So, Sneaking in as we do, we mill around with the crowd and prior to the show kicking off there is an imperial preacher, the same one by party reckoning that turned the former ganger around. He takes the stage and begins this speech about how even the most wicked and debased of us can be turned around by believing in the divinity of the God-Emperor. He then asks that those of us with the will and way to give, generously, to the local shelters so that the hungry can eat tonight. The crowd is moved and ushers pass the collection plate around, which quickly fills thanks to the pattering of thrones going into the pot. When the collection plate comes to me, I decide to pour the entire contents into my robe and pass a stealth check, to my amazement, to succeed. Mordeci is mortified at this and says "Put that back," To which I reply "our direction comes from a higher power, this money supposedly serves the same purpose, I am merely doing what is logical, taking my cut." Even Devi finds my behavior to be in poor form, but I counter. "I do not recognize this saint, I believe it is spurious." We get looks from some of the surrounding people but I pass the plate on. Mordeci whispers into my ear, "You wouldn't know an Imperial saint if it bit you." To which I replied, "If they go around biting people, it is safe to say they are not an Imperial saint." Our verbal jousting complete, the lights dimmed and the preacher left the stage. What followed was more or less vaudeville of the 41st millennium. A man came on the stage in poor clothes and told jokes, he then left the stage, another person came out and played the Harmonium, then a pair of ladies had a series of songs together. I let Mordeci know that I was going to use the noise and lack of light to maneuver backstage in an attempt to cause a distraction. He mentioned that he would then leave a few minutes after me, with Devi, posing to be husband-and-wife, in order to capitalize in on the distraction to kill the target back-stage.
Now, I did try to move stealthily, but the DM imposed a very very healthy minus to my attempts to move silently, mainly because every step was 'ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching" from the many coins in my pockets. The people seemed not to notice overly though, as Tech Priests and their ilk are more or less always making odd noises or behaving in ways they do not understand. Oh, how thankful I was for ignorance that day. Now, I attempted to maneuver Silon to the stage entrance, where I was admitted, easily, as they assumed I was there as a technician for the faulty generator.
Faulty generator.
Faulty.
Must Fix.
I immediately found my way to the generator where an old man sat in dirty clothes attempting to explain his problem. There was an explanation of some sort that he needed the 'electro-mo-tricity' to shock his animal. Why? Well, as it would happen the DM was ripping pages from history. See, long ago when people were amused by animals on stage (prior to them being amused by them on the internet), folks would come from all around and parade about their unique critters. Some had hens that could play bingo, others had parrots that could sing, and some even had mules that could count, communicate, and do basic arithmetic. Certainly not, you might say, a trick is at work here. Certainly, there is a trick, and that trick is called electricity. See, to give the illusion that a mule can do math or count, or so on, the con-man will tell the audience that he taught the mule to 'communicate' by stomping its hooves. Guess what a mule does when you jolt it with electricity. Yes. Well, this man had some sort of creature that was more or less mule-ish but not a Grox (I have never seen a picture, but have heard plenty about them). He said that without the generator working he couldn't do his act and he'd be thrown out on the street. He said his mule-creature would starve and he'd be all alone. It was meant to be stirring to a human being with a sense of warmth in their heart when animals are mentioned.
Mr. Silon, to his credit, was unmoved.
Silon told the man to take the stage and that he would tend to the abused machine as best he was able. And so, as the old man began his introduction with his animal, explaining how he had taught it using good Imperial book-learning, Silon worked upon the generator. There were two tests. One was to fix the problem. This, I passed easily. Now, there wouldn't have been another test had I not been . . tempted by my character's calling to Improve the machine to a degree. You see, it was running at sub-optimal efficiency. It had sat there, and rusted and been all alone backstage at this den of shenanigans and none had cared for it, spoke to it, soothed its machine spirit. I knew it wanted to be more than it was, I knew it wanted to be all that it could. So, I completed a very-hard tech-use test to effect repairs so that the generator would be operating at factory-fresh efficiency.
Problem was, the man was in the middle of applying voltage to his Mule.
So, one second the Mule twitches and finishes the count to four, and the crowd applauds. Next second, lights flare, and the mule seizes, sparks shooting out of its mouth, electricity climbing between its ears like Jacob's ladder, fur standing on end. I watch the generator to ensure it is operating correctly, as one must during these changes in output to ensure that, well, it maintains its new vigor. I am told by the DM that I can see the Mule illuminated through the curtains. I say "that is fascinating" and turn my attention, briefly, to the incandescent mule before returning my attention to the generator. The mule explodes, showering the audience and there are shouts of "HERESY!" "WITCHCRAFT!" "WARP DABBLER!" The crowd throws things at the stage, a few shots ring out. The reformed gang leader jumps right past me and goes through the stage exit door. I, realizing the machine is all well, say farewell and then chase after him at my lumbering gait, losing coins along the way.
He runs right into Mordeci and Devi who manages to apply the Macho-Elbow to knock the poor former-ganglord over onto the pavement. Our target Unconscious, Mordeci bars the door to anyone attempting to follow while looking down the alley in both directions. There's a car at one end blocking the way (likely belonging to our former ganglord target) and at the other end some trash bins. Mordeci and Devi listen to the inside of the theater come apart as the crowd has turned on each other, violence broken out in full. People bang on the side-door furiously, trying to get out. Mordeci and Devi begin to furiously formulate this plan of action to kill this man, make it look like he was wounded in whatever-nonsense-the-tech-priest-cooked-up-in-there, and then leg it back to our hideout. It was at this time that the car's rear tire flattened our ganglord's face (I had slightly failed a driving test to stop before hitting my cohorts after having passed a tech-use test to soothe the vehicle into working for me willingly). I said to my companions "HE WAS A VICTIM OF RECKLESS DRIVING, GET INTO THE VEHICLE."
Now, we go screaming down this alleyway, tires screeching and us flying through traffic, into another alleyway, and at breakneck speeds the whole way. Reason? Silon has determined to let the vehicle determine where it is the happiest driving, which it being a big-block engine, is at high speed. Silon is a poor driver in this case but he manages to barely not murder the entire party on a handful of tests. Eventually, the party shouts him for him to slow down and begins to give him directions so that he doesn't kill everyone, despite him having been rather successful at not only acquiring funds, distracting the 'enemy', killing the target, and even now happening upon a vehicle for them. They were ungrateful but Silon realized they did not see the world as he did, and as such he would suggest cauterizing those emotional parts of the brain sooner or later.
It was about then we had a problem with some other gentlemen wielding firearms. You see, just because someone is a former ganger, and a ganglord at that, other people, former opponents of the said person during their tenure of crime-lord are likely to not 'forgive and forget' just because they stopped being who they were. Now, an iconic vehicle for this said person then drives recklessly through their territory, and then, gentlemen, you have trouble. We were having ourselves shot at by two vehicles approaching from the rear, While these lads were having a shooting contest courtesy of our trunk and rear window, we returned fire with what pathetic firepower we had while Silon did his best to swerve around traffic and keep us from all dying of sudden-ejection-from-a-now-stationary-object.
Mordeci was empty and soon was Devi, the vehicles behind us were holed but not terribly and they kept pouring rounds into us with autoguns, auto pistols, and even a shotgun blast or two. Mordeci reached under the seat and said "come on, come on", the DM making him perform a spot check to try to find hidden guns, assuming that just because someone was a reformed ganglord they were not without an insurance policy. By this time, the party realizes that I have not shot at anything this entire time and Devi yells above the wind whipping through the open windows "Silon, are you armed?"
Silon informed them that yes, he was.
Mordeci said, "THEN SHOOT AT THEM YOU IDIOT."
Silon began to object, that driving and shooting were not simultaneously possible without risking errors as he was driving through a now residential block at high speed and the vehicles were at a distance sufficient enough to . .
Mordeci ordered Silon, in the name of the Emperor, The Omnissah, and everything else "to just point his weapon out the door and pull the 'frakking' trigger!"
So Silon pulls out his Laspistol and blazes out the window while driving, just wildly firing. After a half-dozen shots, the DM rolls a few dice and chuckles. What happens next saves our asses. I had missed so terribly bad by myself having been terribly distracted at the time of our combat that I shot a few bystanders on the sidewalk, causing a panic of people running everywhere, which in a hive is more akin to a stampede. This rush of bodies blocked our pursuers, which did grind over a few dozen people before coming to a halt. We saw the crowd descend on the vehicles, what remained of the crowd at that rate, pulling the occupants out, intent on making them pay for brutalizing their fellow citizens.
We were all quiet in the vehicle for a time, coming back to our safe-basement and parking the vehicle a few blocks away to ease any suspicions that we were involved in any way. Silon said his farewells to the car and we went to the basement to do a thorough check of our supplies before the next 'mission'. My total haul from the collection plate, minus the coinage that was lost in the scuffle on the way out, was 273 thrones. A nice operating budget for some very low-level operators. It was at this time we heard a familiar rapping upon our door. Who could it be? We opened it to find another lonely letter on our doorstep. Mordeci checked to see the coast was clear before closing and locking our door, taking the letter to the table where he read it aloud.
"Good job on the Ganger. Next, I must ask you to Kill the leader of the PDF company for this level of the hive." We thought we might have something worthy, at least Mordeci did in the letter itself as it implicated a man in a conspiracy to murder. However, the DM pointed out the paper was printed, and that Silon confirms that the paper is generic, belonging to any number of printing stations for any number of cogitators. I don't remember saying this in character, but the DM did so I kept my mouth shut. We pooled our resources and the DM let us know he was going to call our second session to a close. He forgot to mention our total gain of XP from the first session so told us we "earned an even eight hundred" for our efforts. This was more than enough to level up and play with. He told us to begin thinking of next weeks session, the demise of the PDF commander and bid us all a good evening.
And gentlemen, that's the story for next time. How we killed a man with an elevator.
All the best,
-Dave-
I recall having promised you all the continuance of a story detailing the adventures of one Mr. Silon, his Magistratum-friend Mordeci and Devi the criminally-gifted. Prior to my beginning of this, the third installment, I ask that you ready yourselves to sit down for a bit of reading as this story certainly isn't as short. You see, It is about this time that the game begins to 'accelerate' as it were, as the DM wanted to 'move things along' instead of having us continually chase gutter-scum hither-and-yon for ten levels.
I am certain that when the DM gave us the monumental task of killing a government official, he never thought we would have had such "catastrophic success" as a strategist would put term it. You see, we didn't have a single inkling of a plan beyond "walk in and find the fellow, ventilate his body, then leave." And why not? The previous incarnation of this plan had worked beautifully well, we now had transport (highly visible and full of holes), funds, and some degree of notoriety on the street. All of this was accomplished, mind you, without any of us being wounded in any significant fashion. Perhaps we were too cocky or possibly we were fresh from other gaming systems but this mission would certainly underline how very lethal Dark Heresy is to your character's ambition, or the very least their life.
Upon reflection, I seem to recall that our characters simply woke, armed themselves, locked the door and walked to where the ganger-mobile was parked some blocks away. We found that one of the surest insurance policies in the bad part of town was to have a vehicle riddled with bullet-holes, missing most of its rear window and body trim. The vehicle was unmolested beyond what it had suffered the previous day. Before allowing any to drive, Silon, the lowly tech-adept spent time in deep prayer, ritualistic incantations and a merry jig all supposedly to Appease the Machine-Spirit within the beast. Now, I know what you're thinking, and no I did not make a "This able beast shall get us there" quotation, but Mordeci did and Silon silenced him with a curious agreeance "As the Omnissah wills it."
Silon was allowed to drive to the . . . well, it was then we all realized we had no idea where precisely the PDF base was, or if this commanding officer was full time or reserve or even how things worked in the hive. For all we knew he could be a minor noble in the spire or some wealthy businessman who had the dubious honor of commanding a PDF company in the lower hive. So, Devi came up with a plan.
"I look around for Recruiting posters."
Naturally, this being the Imperium of man and the Imperium of man needing all the bodies they could get, posters were virtually everywhere to be seen. We read the address off the bottom for the local recruiting office's location. We attempted to make our way to the address, getting lost once or twice before real disaster struck. With a clatter and a knock, the engine died. It was, to be fair, not the end result of the Machine Spirit having been angered by our transgressions. It was something far more simple, actually. We were, for lack of a better word, out of 'go juice' and the gauge read empty. Mordeci smacked the back of Silon's head and asked why he didn't notice that the fuel gauge was almost empty, Silon admitted having never driven a vehicle before. There was a moment of stunned silence, then anger as Devi and Mordeci realized in character that the man/machine that had insisted on driving this entire time had virtually no experience with any form of operating a wheeled civilian vehicle in traffic.
We managed to push the vehicle off to the curb and then decided to ditch it as it was most likely going to attract attention just sitting there full of bullet holes. There are bad things in the lower hive, agreed, but Magistratum officers are on the occasional lookout for suspicious vehicles and this holed and holy machine fit that role most perfectly. Silon would refuse to part with the machine at first, the other party members informing him that it had served valiantly and that it would find new friends that would take care of it. After having failed to detect their blatant lies, Silon was determined to at least acquire a memento helped himself to the Tire Iron. Or rather, this happened.
Myself: "I'm going to search the vehicle over and see what can be salvaged"
The DM: "Roll search"
Myself: "uh, Pass, barely by two points"
The DM: "While searching the trunk you feel the Omnissah guiding your hand, and you recover what you believe to be a real treasure: The tire Iron.
While they were walking down the crowded sidewalk, Silon holding the tire iron out as a dowsing rod (in what way better to attempt to scry the direction of the Omnissah's will than by through a divine instrument?) They passed a street preacher who was ranting and raving about the evils of the hive biting off the heads of the righteous. Silon passed him without thought, for this man was incoherent and illogical. Devi recognized the preacher as the one speaking before the . . . incident at the theater. The man was fire and brimstone, apparently magnificently pissed off at having lost his greatest supporter, his proudest student, the best convert he had. It was interesting to see how the DM showed us eventual outcome of our choices, the sum total of our decisions. This man, once a rising star in the Ecclesiarchy for having converted a major ganglord and then turned his flock to working good, was now to live as a street-preacher, surrounded by second-hand toughs and yelling whatever he thought the Emperor thought appropriate.
We walked on for a time, Silon unaware of the outside world, only following where the 'Wrench of Divine Adjustment' dictated, spending his entire focus on the holiness of this object and it's will. I have always believed that if you are going to play a zealous man, do so with the zeal to match your character. A paladin does not 'eat breakfast', a Paladin 'sups the breakfast which has been granted unto him by his holiness on this day, a most blessed day in service of his lord god.' A Paladin does not "attack bandits", he "defends the goodness of the people against any incursion of evil, great or small, with all of his heart for all of his days". However, Silon didn't have a floating head in the sky, but he had the Tire Iron and he would follow it. Devi and Mordeci did make jokes behind Silon's back but he accepted their skepticism, fully prepared for the Omnissah to show his logic in time. Silon was prepared to forgive their ignorance.
As the Tire Iron had guided us to the appropriate place ( or that we arrived there incidentally by DM appointment) a short amount of time later we found the Imperial Guard Recruiting station for this part of the lower-hive. It was a long storefront with all sorts of silly posters that most modern military recruiter's have. Broad chested men with square jaws looked proud in front of an Aquila, standing for Hatred, Pure, hatred, and the Imperial way. We walked in and immediately Mordeci came to the front, not wanting to be represented by Mr Silon, whom was truly fascinated by the model and pattern of copying machine prevalent in this office. He asked the man behind the desk "Is this the recruiting office for the PDF?" The desk sergeant growled out a "Why? Join the real guard, good pay, good benefits, and we'll have you killin' aliens before the year is out!" This sort of man was obviously on a quota and thought we had intended to join. Mordeci flashed his badge and said "Is this the recruiting office for the PDF?" to which the Desk sergeant said "no, officer, that's two blocks to the West . . . sorry . . I just thought." We left before the man finished his apologies at having considered us cannon fodder. Silon blessed the copier on the way out.
The PDF recruiting station, was, by comparison, a much more spartan place. The posters looked much sadder in comparison to the technicolor glory portrayed just blocks away. We were told the poster had a guardsman hand-stenciled and "DO YOUR SERVICE" written under it. As though there were choices in the matter. We entered and it was run-down hell. The lights flickered, the floor tile was peeling up, the counters were dirty and there was some young man fresh from training sitting behind the desk. Silon had to test in order to keep his focus on the mission at hand, because there were so many things ...so many, many things that needed repair, mending, soothing, caressing care and he needed, NEEDED to help them. The party restrained the tech-adept and reminded him of the mission. Silon held the Tire iron close and murmured incantations while Mordeci questioned the man behind the counter "Where is the Colonel of your regiment?" The young man appeared stunned that anyone was actually in the building, but Mordeci's trick with the badge brought him around to seeing that our mission was not merely interrogative but certainly more official. We were informed that the colonel had taken leave to go hunting with his friends. We asked where he hunted. The said that the Colonel hunted in the warrens beneath the hive with his other, noble friends.
So, we found that this mission had just literally gone to shit.
Finding a way down into the worst parts of the hive isn't as easy as one would think, you see, they put all sorts of barriers up to ensure that nothing from down there decides it wants to come up and ruin life for more civilized folk. Eventually we did hear rumors that a freight elevator in an abandoned factory went straight down to the bottom of the hive, as the steelworks it once was hunted scrap and slag to re-heat for use as cheap building materials. It wasn't a perfect lead but it was the one the DM gave us so we walked for hours, and were completely, COMPLETELY exhausted by the time we found the Factory. It sat there, doors chained, closed, and rusted. The complex was in ruins, had been picked partially apart by scavengers. The concrete was split and broken. However, there was someone home, there were flickering lights int he abandoned complex, the burning lights of squatters at camp. We found a hole in the perimeter where the indigents had breached the wall, and Devi deactivated a few rudimentary traps left for us to find. Now, these traps weren't of the dangerous sort but were more of the 'raise the alarm' sort, cans on strings and that sort of thing. We ran to the building's edge and Mordeci peeped through a broken window, looking to see if there were any of the locals on the bottom floor. Startling these folks would have been a bad idea, we figured. Best we sneak through completely.
We had all snuck into the machine-works of the idle forge successfully, finding no patrols, no indigents directly visible, and nothing frightening or terrible in any way whatsoever. Well, at least that's what the rest of the party had thought. Silon was beside himself, running his fingers over all of the idle, rusted machines and realizing that it would be a glorious agent of the Machine God blessed much with the Omnissahs touch that could return all of these machines to working order. If only he had the skill. Silon sighed and continued walking with the party, holding the Tire-Iron low, spirits seemingly quashed by being surrounded by such terrible industrial waste as idle machinery. The only thing that moved him at all was activating the Elevator to the Warrens, something requiring a side-quest in trying to find a functioning power-cell in the place and then hooking it up. Several tech-use tests later the platform began the long, groaning, grinding descent into the unknown, leaving the dim light above for absolute darkness below.
Seeing as there was nothing to do but likely ride the clattering, ancient elevator for several hours, Mordeci began to tell stories. He told us about how once his father chased a Murderer down here . . into the dark. Silon asked if Mordeci's father was involved in law enforcement and friends, Mordeci's family had been law enforcement for the better part of the history of the Imperium. They might not have been the best, but they were there doing their part. Mordeci said that his father never came back, and that the department refused to send any more men down after him. Devi was absolutely frightened at the idea of having anyone go down to the Warrens for any reason, she said that even 'the worst' would rather face a firing squad than take that leap into hell. And here we were, slowly dipping into hell to hunt a PDF colonel who spent his idle time hunting who knows what with his friends down here. Mordeci checked his autogun and Devi her new shotgun. I still only had my laspistol and felt wholly under-armed but the Tire Iron concealed in the robes made Silon feel all sorts of special-purposed.
We didn't arrive in the warrens till much later. To be honest we didn't precisely 'arrive' but more 'stalled in the elevator and hung there until Silon found that the 13mm Tire Iron was of perfect size to release a nut to send them falling the last dozen feet into waist high....well, whatever horrible semi-liquid filters to the bottom of a city of this size. Everyone checked to see if they were alright and we looked to the Elevator suspended above us, realizing we were NOT going to get out the same way we got in. Certainly the Colonel, if we found him, would likely have his own way up. Mordeci turned on his glow-lamp and so did the rest of us, playing them around and finding nothing but shadows and debris as far as the eye could see, augmented or non. It was this time I lamented not having some sort of specialized in-built sensory equipment and for matter of fact the DM had not even allowed us to spend much of our experience point total (read, none in my case) for 'reasons that will be apparent soon enough'. Now I've heard some understatements in my life but that one would prove to be a doozy, at least in the realm of tabletop gaming. So, here we were, wading through poo and worse, and listening for anything.
Before long we were set upon by mutants, but not of the overly angry "I smash you good" sort, but more the "Misunderstood, still loyal to the Imperium yet deserving of nothing less than total hate" sort. It was a casual thing, just one big, grotesquely shaped humanoid come waltzing over to us with a weak glow-lamp around his forehead like a second hand halo. He then said "YOO NEED MEET CAPTEN". It wasn't up for argument because every time we tried to interject or get a word in, he would say "YOO NEED MEET CAPTEN" and then begin trotting off, so, out of fear of having nothing else to do, we followed him. In time, we came to a camp.
The camp was more or less a rubble pile in the poo ocean (or Poo Sea, uncertain as to how poo-geologists label things down there), there were camp-fires set up along the perimeter, some really uncomfortable looking lean-tos and scattered garbage salvaged from the refuse dumped down here daily. We were brought before the "Captain" who was some giant, bloated beast carried by a pair of stout looking midgets. The "Captain" wore a PDF Captain helmet and was nothing less than a disgusting mass of rotting, barely-sentient flesh. He burbled out a story along the lines of having once been a PDF captain who was stationed down here for too long, and then found himself in charge of the Mutant population, until in time, he became one and wasn't welcome topside anymore. We were supposed to feel sorry for him, but as Mordeci and Devi listened to his story, Silon managed to pass a sneak test (partially assisted by the mutants all being too busy listening to their leader, and all being dumb slabs of meat) and walk around looking for anything useful to better arm himself. Silon dug through various piles of detritus and a few homesteads (it was difficult to tell the difference between them) before apparently I came across "The Captain's" lean-to. Inside was a shrine to the God Emperor made out of bits of metal, which was admired for its metallic content. There were bits of armor that no longer fit the man, but no were no longer serviceable either. What appeared most useful, however, was cradled in the hands of the skeletal remains of some underling: A flamethrower. Complete with back-pack unit of the sloshing, universal petrochemical: Prometheum. I informed the DM that Silon straps the flamethrower on. The DM informs me that Silon doesn't know how to use the flamethrower appropriately. I inform the DM that Silon isn't about to leave this beautiful weapon found through divine process in the hands of these heathens.
Silon sloshes over to the camp-fire, flamethrower in hand, walking awkwardly as he's not used to the weight of it and constantly fidgeting with the straps. The Captain gestures at us, and in a Marlon-Brando tone asks why we have stolen from him. I ask Mordeci if he knows where the Colonel is, and Mordeci says that "yes, yes we do, the Captain informed us that he has a camp on a barge just a few klicks to the north, he even provided us with a map." Silon then turned to the "Captain" asking "To whom does this Flamethrower belong?" The captain burbled out something about it being communal property, and that it was used sparingly, as needed to drive off predators in the event that . .
Silon said "Mutants cannot own Flamethrowers" and hosed the beast. I had intended to just scare him so we could walk away with our new toy, but through a few flubbed tests and being unfamiliar with the operation of said mechanism by training, I bathed half the camp in a hiss of flame. Mutants ran around on fire, others popped and sizzled as they died. The captain erupted like a microwaved bratwurst and then belched great gouts of foul smelling smoke. One half of the camp was trying to put the other half out and we just, well, for lack of a better word, left.
When far enough away, Mordeci asked Silon why he had done what he had done. Silon replied "It was an accident, but it should be forgivable, Mutation is a sign of Heresy, so is questioning its rightful purge." Silon was gesturing with the flamethrower now, having forgotten completely about the Tire-iron as a tool of the righteous.
After a time, there was less poo-water and more rubble, a gradual slope uphill through a tangled morass of bent rebar, crushed concrete and other such debris from a thousand years of urban decay. It was devi who spotted the landmine that would have killed us all, she stopping the party and bending down to examine the device before realizing she knew very, very little about explosives. I was asked if I could do anything 'with it', and certainly I could so I answered in the affirmative. Did I have the demolition skill? No. But, I wasn't asked that either.
Standing over it, Silon attempted to 'speak unto the device's spirit'
The DM informed me that the device was quiet, as though waiting to surprise me. I informed the party that we should find another way altogether as this way was unpure. They didn't question the man with the flamethrower, it wasn't prudent.
After enough time we found a collapsed tube of some industrial machine long destroyed and crawled through it toward our destination. Before too terribly long we were within sight of our target: Three large tents, two dozen house-guard and a roaring campfire with some nobles sitting around it, drinking and bragging.
In the darkness of our hiding place, we tried to figure out a suitable plan of action, namely, blowing this man away in such a way that we were not harmed in the process or implicated. Angering a noble family was likely a way for a DM to have horrible assassins trail us for the rest of the game, just our luck to find that this man was in some way related to a Malfian house, Rogue trader, or bastard son of the Planetary Governor. Dms are evil like that. Sitting in the darkness we watched the pattern of the guards, we watched the nobles drink and brag, barely catching snippets of their conversation: They were pleased in today's Mutant hunt.
Silon suggested "Walking over and making casual conversation"
Devi asked what was Silon's stupid idea this time?
"We share hobbies" Silon informed the rest of the party.
It got a chuckle but not much more. We were having difficulty in finding a way to get in without dying when there was a Boom in the distance. More of an explosive clap. A landmine had gone off.
After having burned half of their loved-ones to death and then walked away with their greatest weapon, the Mutants got awfully sore at us and decided to charge off in pursuit, knowing full well where we were headed. They had hit the mine we had circumvented and the guards quickly formed up into defensive positions. The nobles doused the fire with potable water and took up ornate hunting rifles. Soon, a horde of thundering, bellowing mutants tore up the path swinging their fists and clubs and firing smoke-powder weapons. The guards returned fire with orderly bursts but couldn't kill them all before the Mutants hit the main defensive lines. We used this whole scramble to break from our hiding spot and go around to the side of the camp, except I somehow got lost in the explosions, flashes and strobes of a firefight in the dark. So, being in a dark and unfriendly place, I brought light to the world. I informed the DM that I was going to point the flamethrower nozzle at the nearest moving thing and squeeze the trigger.
Things did not go as planned.
The DM rolls some dice and informs me that due to my own ineptitude, unfamiliarity with the weapon, and that it's been poorly maintained for so very long, I have critically failed and am likely in trouble.
I burn a fate point.
The DM asks if I meant 'use' and I said "No, I want to burn one. I have had terribly awesome accidents so far, and I intend to keep having them. I am burning a fate point."
So, I let out a long, uncontrolled burst of flame from the nozzle, and my attempts to wrest control of it only make things worse, sweeping it around and around like a child trying to control a fire-house. Eventually the tanks run dry and I've managed to set a bunch of 'things' which are now rolling around in the rubble, covered in flames, screaming. That's more like it. It is then I ask if Devi and Mordeci are okay. Barely, apparently, did they avoid the river of flame sweeping through camp. Good, good. I would have hated to have killed them, as I was at the point of remembering their characters names every time I used them.
Now, I know you are thinking that I accidentally set our man on fire and now he's off burning in peace face down in poo-water while the rest of us run away. No, and no. Well, yes to a degree. The Colonel decided it was time to leave and Mordeci found me in time to say to my face "He's getting away you Pyromaniac bastard", and while the guards were fighting off the last of the mutants, we chased the Colonel through the rubble. Unlike most PDF colonels, this man had a hunter's instinct and was no pushover. He set a series of traps as he ran, simple things to give him time, a tripwire that injured Devi and slowed her, and right as we thought we had him, he had us. At the base of an elevator, he stood there with a very imposing instrument of mutant-destruction, a double-rifle of some sort, and was backing into the elevator. He said "Not another step, Not another step" fingers on the double triggers. I broke the situation down logically "He can't shoot all of us, he only has two shots loaded."
It was at this point that Silon was shot twice in the chest for an incredible amount of damage and blown back into the party, who prevented him from hitting the ground.
When a man gets his number punched, at least from my perspective, he thinks a little differently. Time does slow down, for a second or two, because the brain is in shock at what happened. Silon, with two very large holes in his chest is trying his hardest to coax biological parts that their failure would be only proving that the flesh is weak. He has a moment introspective thought, to his childhood, where he didn't want to be a menial at all, he wanted to be a cowboy. He didn't know what a cowboy was but that didn't stop him from wanting to try. He digs deep and finds that his life is fading. He blacks out.
And comes to a few minutes later, as even though none of the party has medicae training they managed to stabilize him, barely, from the brink of death. Silon, however, can think of only one thing.
"Give unto me . . . the Tire adjustment Lug wrench . . 13mm . . . my friends . . " The Dm has informed me that Silon saw the Omnissah in his moment of need, and that all the answers laid in the Tire Iron.
While the DM and I had made our arrangement during one of his Smoking breaks as to whether or not my character would die, or what he would see in a near-death experience other than logic and binary code, we had not settled what precisely was to happen once he came-to. The Dm simply said "Trust in the Tire Iron" and smiled. So, it was strange to the folks who had stayed inside that I would request a tire iron, figuring that I might hold it to my chest like a dying man might a bible, or a dead man a lily.
Instead, I cleared a perception check and found that the Tire iron was just the right size to fit the bolts on the housing that protected the wiring to this elevator shaft. I crawled with determination over mud, rubble, and my own blood to the elevator shaft. I used what strength I had to open the housing and interfaced with the machine by placing my palms into the wires and closing my eyes.
The man who had shot me was almost to the lower-hive, almost back to his office, almost back to normal elevation.
Almost.
I caused the elevator to free-fall a thousand feet, then stop. I caused it to vary its speed, easily possible as I was informed that the elevator rode on little cogs set on the side rather than cables, as they were impractical for how long it had to traverse. I shook the man to pulp before bringing the elevator back down to our floor. The party wanted to know what made my character chuckle softly, but as the doors opened they knew. The gun was bent around the man's remains, the elevator cabin littered with teeth, bone, blood, coins, pocket material. I was hoisted into the elevator and we rode back toward the top.
Silon teetered on the edge of consciousness, and smiled, weakly, thanking his compatriots for saving his life.
It was then that the session ended.
Thank you, but most importantly, remember to thank your Good DMs so that they don't end up becoming bitter, running garbage and eventually becoming "That DM" that runs nothing but frightens away newer generations of prospective players. That's where elitists come from, folks.
Thank you for your thank yous, but what I'm saying is that I couldn't have done this without a very good DM, some very good company, and a good game-store.