Dark Heresy Mal-Terra: Vigilance

[ellna]

Mal-Terra: Vigilancehttp://fc04.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2012/218/5/c/city_line_by_skybolt-d5a0d35.jpg

Stack 42 Apartment 846
Aprivial Day 17 03:29

Eleven days. Eleven long days, that is how long you've been planet side. Trailing every waking moment of Pater Irving. Who is Mr Irving, that you know in intricate, boring detail. He is a merchant in this place, quite a successful one judging from his retinue of employees. Each day around 05:00 he leaves his housing in Stack 13. By 05:30 he is at the Bazzaar loudly overseeing his operation. Somewhere between 12:00 and 13:00 he treats himself to a meal at Yara's Meat Shack. He never spends more than 30 minutes on lunch, before returning to the trading floor. At 21:00 he finishes and returns home. By 23:00 the last light in his window is dimmed and he isn't seen until 05:00 the following day. It's like clockwork and it is far from the exciting life one would expect to deserve the scrutiny of the mighty Inquisition.

It has been almost two months since you left the care of the inquisition. Balthasar had given you a curt briefing on your mission and then you had been sent on your way. The explained reason for this exercise had been an error turned up by the Ministratum on Mr Irving's prior contribution to the Imperial Tithe. Why this was not a matter for the Ministratum to correct or the local enforcers, you were not told. Perhaps it had something to do with the coming tithe collection, was the Inquisition alert for another clerical error? This whole job seemed strange.

First there was your employer and the vague instructions. You serve at the pleasure of the Inquisitor, Duchess Athatsat. A personage who you have not actually met, but her unseen hand moves you like pawns via the curious Balthasar. Your instructions were to surveil Mr Irving for a full thirty days, yet it was made clear to you that you had the authority to carry out any response you deemed necessary. Response, that had been the word used. Was something expected to happen? Was that why the insistence on a covert operation, did the Inquisition hope to catch him in some nefarious deed? Balthasar had deflected questions with a superior attitude and almost seemed to enjoy issuing the unclear assignment.

Then there was your transport. Escorted through unknown corridors you were loaded onto an unmarked Aquila Lander. The grim-faced, silent Inquisition soldiers were left behind. Soon you disembarked to a brilliant splendour. Lush surroundings, polished chrome and real wood. Servants bowed respectfully and showed you to rooms decked out with soft beds and thick carpets. Your journey to Mal-Terra was conducted in the hospitality of House Turguisen. The Lord Miguel himself greeted you on the second day with a respectful demeanour. True he had not deigned to eat with you nor remain in your company long, but he had acknowledged you. The vessel that you travelled on was the Rogue Trader Olympus, which the Turguisen house owned a considerable stake in. You were confined, of course, to Lord Miguel's private halls during your time on board. However the servants saw to all of your demands, answering any questions and providing any comfort. Not one of them seemed to question your presence on board, in fact their demeanour seemed a little fearful, meek even. Arriving on the planet Lord Miguel had used his noble personage to bypass the pesky customs and you had been able to enter Port Royale without any scrutiny. Operatives acting for house Turguisen delivered your more overt equipment to apartment 846 and you arrived to find it awaiting you.

Finally there was the planet itself. Rumours of New Eden circulate the Calixian sector still. A green planet, lush and verdant. A veritable settler's paradise. The reality, like so much in the Imperium, falls short. Painfully short. A barren rock, inhospitable and deadly. The very air is poison and it makes one wish for Valhalla's tropical temperatures. Yet despite this, the surface supports life, human life. Depending on your definition of human. You've yet to experience the gruelling surface conditions however as Port Royale is shielded from them by the bubble. Inside Imperial life continues much the same as in any hive. Of course the occasional blaring of klaxons reminds the citizens of what lies beyond, but this was viewed as a mere inconvenience necessitating the resident squeaks to don their respirators. In the time you had been here the klaxons had sounded twice already.

This day started the same as the other eleven. The bare walls of the apartment greet you with the same soul-sucking drabness. The mould clinging the window's edge seemed to have grown another inch. The planet was starved of water and yet inside Port Royale it managed to have mould. Inside the bubble it was hot and humid and cramped. The stacks were filled with the stench of accumulated bodies. Soon those bodies would be waking, the lights above would flicker to a sullen glow and Mr Irving would carry out his daily routine. Indeed nothing special marked this day apart from the other eleven, but it was...

The Scene:

You are in your safe-house, apartment 846. This day marks the twelfth day of uneventful surveillance.

Please feel free to ask for clarification or further explanation on any point in this introduction.

This is meant to serve as a prologue. Please describe your characters, any reactions to the inquisition, the mission, questions for Balthasar, Lord Miguel, His servants, Actions taken while on the planet, interactions with your other acolytes. As well as anything else you can think of that seems good.

Contents:Inside the apartment are the following:

Sleeping Quarters: A small room with a pair of bunk beds.
Toilet: No washing facilities.
The Main Room: Complete with a dilapidated kitchen, table and a couple of chairs.

The Inquisition or possible the Turgiusen's have provided the following items. They were awaiting you at your arrival.

7 Compact LaspistolsThey are compact enough to easily conceal and clearly bear some hallmarks of quality. Of course concealed weaponry is illegal in Port Royale, but that just means you don't want to get caught.
{table=Header]Weapon|Class and Type|Rate of Fire|Damage|AP|Range|Clip Size|Reload|Qualities|Weight
Compact Laspistol| Pistol - Las | S/2/- | 1d10+2 E | 0 | 20m | 10 | 1Full | Compact, Reliable | 1Kg[/table]
6 Rubberised BodyglovesGrey bodygloves that provide complete cover for your skin.
{table]Armour|AP|Location|Wt|Qualities
Bodyglove|1|All|2Kg|Primitive[/table]
7 Flak VestsStandard issue, bulky flak vest often seen worn by enforcers. These still bear their serial numbers. Consecutive Serial Numbers.
{table]Armour|AP|Location|Wt|Qualities
Flak Vest|3|Body|5Kg|Flak[/table]
6 5 RespiratorsBug eyed gas masks. +30 to toughness test against inhaled toxins, with re-rolls for failures. Automatic immunity against the deadly air of Mal-Terra. Weight 0.5kg.
6 Sets of Clothing Suited for Extreme ColdHeavy layered cloth +30 to toughness tests against cold environments, with re-rolls for failures. Automatic immunity against the deadly cold of Mal-Terra.
{table]Armour|AP|Location|Wt|Qualities
Cold Weather Clothing|2|Arms,Body,Legs|10Kg|Primitive, Protective[/table]
156 Days worth of Corpse starch Rations
148 Days of Water

It is apparent that this apartment has seen guests before. The Laspistols sit in a foam-padded crate, three empty slots are present. The Rations crate harboured some crumbs and ripped packaging.

You were additionally provided, prior to disembarkation, with False Identicards, marking you as the bearers of full citizenship; A High quality pair of Magnoculars and a gene-locked case. The case you have been told contains a symbol of authority that you are wield only under the direst circumstance and even then only if you can't prevail without it's aid. Apparently the locking mechanism is tied your genes and will only open to loyal acolytes of Duchess Athatsat.

[bluntpencil]

Engels noted the lack of washing facilities with a sigh when they first arrived. He might stink of booze half the time, but he always made sure to look presentable when possible. Of course, it made sense, what with the lack of water, so he should have been expecting it.

The worst part, though, was that he had to share cramped quarters with a Tech Priest and a Throne-damned psyker. He still had some rather unlovely memories of witches and their ilk. Having to live with one set him on edge. He needed a smoke. He needed a bloody drink.

Right, they needed to continue to watch this guy. As far as he was aware, covert ops weren't any of their strong suits. The psyker was a bloody psyker and not really capable of dealing with normals, as far as Engels was aware. The Techy was even worse, what with having the personality of a damn toaster. He himself wasn't much better, what with the psych-evaluation saying he was, ahem, 'socially maladjusted due to traumatic experiences, although possessed of a clinical detachment to violence thanks to those same experiences'. Crap.

Well, it was time for work. He had an itch at the back of his neck, possibly due to having to wash like the locals, but more likely due to the fact that such an uneventful posting pissed him off. The Inquisition had pulled him off Kae Drusil's Divisio Immoralis, where he was a part of a task force that actually got things down, kicking down doors and wasting heretics, getting justice for those in trouble across the Sector.

Now, the big 'I' had him on a really crappy observation post. That was near-enough what drove him to drink in the first place. He would sit around, with nothing to do but remember that fateful day on Luggnum.

Twisted faces in the walls. A silent scream on the air. Being stabbed from within. The air scented with perfume, no, blood!

He shook his head, trying to forget. It was too early for a drink, but by Terra he needed one. He needed a drink, or a chance to make a bloody difference.

[Kaynebot]

Magnus was surprised to say the least when he learned his team would an arbitrator and a psyker. Magnus wasn't really used to either of these types of people. He was around a couple psykers but he could never trust them, after all they have their minds connected to the warp and if its anything like his doorway then its not good. And well Arbitrators, they seemed to be drunk half the time he knew them. So his working arrangements maybe interesting in the future. He tries to log all of his interactions with them on his slate so as to keep record of their psychological behavior to maybe find out if they can be trusted.

As for actual mission, Magnus adjusted accordingly, watching and waiting. He was fine with waiting that just meant that he would have more time to soak in all the data that the place offered. One thing in particular that interested him was the dome around the whole place. If only he could view it closely, alas he was stuck messing around with the compact laser pistols and the respirators. He's pretty sure he broke a respirator already but he thinks he can fix it. That is the boredom even for a machine that Magnus had gone through watching the mark. Damn Inquisition. He knew they were always there, watching him, just like that fateful day.

Magnus tried to be cordial with his fellow cell members, even the psyker. He wasn't much for talk or conversation and honestly he didn't care what they thought of him, he wasn't trying to be there friends. Blatantly, he is probably here in case one of them breaks something and it needs fixed just like the others. He didn't try to get attached to humans, they are always fickle creatures with too many emotions. So Magnus has kept his distance and messed with the machinery as much as possible and the people very little. Boredom, well if he knows if they sit here much longer that he will be able to think of a way of connecting inducters with his trusty staff that he's had for quiet a while. Hmmm...maybe by infusing a charge pack into the handle it can be overloaded to send a pulse across the whole rod. These are Magnus' new problems at the moment.

[Miraqariftsky]

Her breath still heaving from the purge-and-rescue on Dusk, Agent Smith let herself slump what little way she could slump into her seat in the assault shuttle despite the tightness of the safety harness. She closed her eyes and hummed prayers of praise and thanks while clutching her oath-pistol with both hands, holding the cold steel rest against her lips, her nose, her eyes, her forehead. The brass Aquila swung from its little chain on the Takaran iron's butt-cap, tinkling against the dark-skinned, white-gloved woman's hands as their craft roared back into orbit.

She closed her eyes even harder, the laspistol's upright barrel blotting out the sanctioning brand on her forehead, her mouth set in a deep scowl. She didn't even need to tap her psyk to let herself bathe in the fear and anger and hate of the troopers around her.

Sgt Ross and Trooper Cole. Good men. Jam me. Still would be alive if I'd simply given the clear to strafe. And yet... What sir Balthasar'd said, just how clear was that, that I'd had the young Sinderfell spared and not snuffed? How smoking clear was that?

Jam it all.

As Tholl aims, so must we fire. Not ours to ask, only to do and die...

...And yet I'm not just another gun, am I, O Tholl?

~~~

A Marshal and a Cogboy? Perfect! The Emperor provides. were the first thoughts through Blaze's head when she learned who her new--- and not-so-fresh--- teammates would be. Upon meeting them, the rail-thin woman in a Sanctionite's standard robe bared her teeth and bowed deeply, her hands crossed over her chest with the sign of the Aquila.

"Rack 'em an' stack 'em, sirs. In the Emperor's name." she'd said, the harsh, mechanical words apparently coming not from her mouth, but from the gleaming augmetic set into her neck. Smirking, she'd then unfolded her hands from the formal Imperial sign, then extended her left hand out towards them, her right resting easily on her oath-pistol's holster. "A pleasure workin' with ye, gents. Agent Blaze Smith, at y'servi---"

GHAFF-HOFF-ACK-ICK-KOFFKOFFKOFF---bweeeeennnnttt---dddthhkzztt!

Before either of them could either shake the offered hand or strike the psyker a blow, she doubled over in a fit of hacking coughs, robes shaking as her body shuddered. Not even she could tell if it was from some lasting infirmity the Sanctioning had wrought upon her body, or merely the propensity for pollution-related ailments with most hiveborn.

~~~

Aboard the Olympus, if an audience might have been granted, Agent Smith would have stood and formally bowed, then said, "Hail Him on Terra. KOFF-kaff! The Emperor protects.

Your Grace, Miguel, may the fires of your blood blaze KOFFKOFF well. UFF-uh-uh!

Your Grace, if this unworthy vessel be loaded the... grace, to ask, and forgiven the boldness, UHH-UHH-UHH! might we be loaded the clear to access your... library?

If your Grace still indulges this unworthy vessel's questioning, then might we ask further still? Know you of any prominent--- KOFFKOFF! --- or--- UFFUFF! troublemakers of which such humble travellers such as ourselves should beware? And, the Emperor protects, might we know, the better to avoid their unsightly filth, can your Grace tell us where Mal-Terra's documented psykers are assigned, if this is within your Grace's assuredly august knowledge?

KOFFKOFF! If your Grace might again indulge this unworthy vessel's request, might your armoury's supplies be opened to this humble team's requisition? These humble servants of the Emperor would certainly appreciate it."

She then took two careful steps back from the Lord Miguel's dais, takes a long drink, heaves a sigh of relief, steps forward once again with a curtsy and says, "HRRNKOFFKOFF! If it please your Grace, your pardon as well, for this unworthy vessel's undesirable state of health."

Later on in their journey, it would have become quite evident to her colleagues that 'Agent Blaze Smith' had a regimen about her. A full barrage of abdominal crunching, pushups and running circuits and suicides around their permitted quarters... despite her obvious physical frailties.
.
Once her breathing had calmed down and after taking advantage of their host's drinking and bathing water, she'd have set to singing hymns while methodically and lovingly cleaning her weapons. If there were any onboard firing range, she would certainly have taken advantage of that as well, to keep her marksmanship up to scratch.

If there were an onboard chapel within their permitted quarters, then she would definitely have attended worship services there, on the dot, every time. If there weren't, well, she'd surely have had enough time to pull out her copy of sacred scripture and carry out daily devotions--- together with the others, if they were willing.

And after? After meals or after services, she might have passed around an =I= stamped flask of Gorsk White, or pulled out her traveller's regicide set...

...or tossed some shells, casings or cells for divination--- or simply looking and listening to the patterns.

She'd have closed her nights with a worshipful gun-cleaning and a brief entry in a tatty journal.

Somewhere and sometime in between, while still en route, she surely would have made a point to at least compare service histories, asking Engels and Magnus of their general capabilities, their high proficiencies and definite deficiencies--- and succintly shared her having been a "street oracle" pre-Sanctioning and pre-Inquisition service and had a previous mission before this one... unfortunately, a mission of assault-purge/rescue, which doesn't seem to be of much use to their current one.

~~~

Upon arriving at Apartment 846, just to make sure, Blaze had drawn her iron and let Tholl glare down every door and, briefly, down both sides of their windows. She then offered prayers of protection and purgation while her two colleagues were acclimating to the domicile.

The dark-skinned woman had then run white-gloved hands through red-dyed hair and kettle-whistled at the sight of so much tech---

---especially the array of las-snubs. Getting intimate with examining the pistols, though pleased, she is surprised to note that they bear neither stamp nor marks of Takara Fane, its forges famed for much of Gunmetal's high-quality las-tech.

Out-sector designs, just as the good prince Hecuter once was?

~~~

Presently, the robed Blaze emerges from the kitchen, hair still mussed, her left hand bearing a tray of recaff cups, her right hand already holding her own cup. Setting it down before the two men, she yawns and says, "Whose turn's it to tail, whose turn's it to play some overwatch?"

[ellna]

The Olympus, The Halls of House Turguisen
One Month Prior

The Lord Miguel had received Agent Smith in his study. The servants conveyed her through gilded halls of the ship until she arrived at a massive door. It swung inwards to reveal a room filled with finery, antique blades crossed on the wall sat side by side with a tapestry bearing the noble heraldry of the Turguisen Household. A dominating the room a magnificent table of dark wood behind which sat Lord Miguel. His neck bent slightly giving Blaze the merest of nods before waiting to hear her request. There was not a seat for her.

"Hail Him on Terra. KOFF-kaff! The Emperor protects."

"May the Emperor always Reign." The lord stiffens slightly, at Agent Smith's next words. Some unseen protocol has obviously been breached. He waits until Agent Smith has finished her query before replying.

"Your Grace, Miguel, may the fires of your blood blaze KOFFKOFF well. UFF-uh-uh!

Your Grace, if this unworthy vessel be loaded the... grace, to ask, and forgiven the boldness, UHH-UHH-UHH! might we be loaded the clear to access your... library?

"I'm afraid, not. Your Lady has not given to you any special remit aboard this vessel. As such I am free to decline your request. I sincerely doubt any of the volumes would aid your pursuit. If that is all, I am extremely busy." His tone remains cordial, but it is clear that he means for you to leave. As though to illustrate this point the door opens once more behind Agent Smith.

[Kaynebot]

As Blaze comes into the room the Magnus can't help but look at the voice box. It intrigues him for some reason, maybe its because she's a psyker and still uses machinery. Whatever the reason he snaps out of his thought process and answers her question. "I can take overwatch. Those magnoculars are particularly interesting." Magnus refrains from taking a cup, he is too busy thinking of the interesting information he has learned by taking apart both the laspistol and the respirator. He would take apart the magnoculars but he knows his fellow acolytes might get angry if he were do to that.

[bluntpencil]

With his long coat on, Engels is just another loser in the crowd. Whenever he has the opportunity, assuming the air is good enough not to wear a respirator, he sees about polluting that air with a smoke. He's due his little excesses like that, he'd earned it, he reckons.

"A query, comrades...

If our target continues to appear innocent as he has done for the past few weeks, should we really leave him to his own devices? Innocence proves nothing, after all, and we're not watching him for no reason...

...well, at least I don't think so. Those in brass might be simply testing us. Testing our patience."

Nathaniel Engels is obviously bored and wants to get at the mission. As much as he wants action, though, he's hesitant to simply bust up an innocent man.

[Miraqariftsky]

Previously...

Knowing a dismissal when she heard one and unwilling to get on the bad side of their host, Blaze had but bowed again, taken her cue and left.

Presently...

One hand still holds the recaff cup, the other plucks at her sackcloth robe. Blaze frowns, absently caressing her oath-pistol as she takes a sip.

"Hopefully not interesting enough to avoid..." she says to Magnus. "...problems."

Another sip. Another caress of the oath-pistol. A sharp black brow arches in question as she asks Engels, "What do you suggest, that we put a sack over his head and take him here? All due respect, sarge, aye, this waiting's a strain, but let's give it a some more hours, some more days? Something tells me, though, something'll happen today. Furthest I got for today. Beyond that, things're clouded."

[bluntpencil]

"You're right," admits the Arbitrator gruffly. As much as he wants action, he doesn't want to simply kidnap someone because he had an itchy trigger finger.

"I just feel we're wasting our damn time. Heretics won't shoot their damn selves. Well, unless they're, like, some sort of willing sacrifice to their filthy pagan gods. Yuck."

He shudders after he says this. Personal experience, perhaps? It's hard to tell. He obviously finds cultists more than a little distasteful.

[Kaynebot]

Magnus sits listening still glancing at Blaze's voice unit. He tilts his head at her words, "What exactly do you mean by that?"

Then glancing over to Engels "The correct course of procedures would be to keep monitoring the target until a variable changes that warrants a change in our actions that would be appropriate for the set of circumstances and the changed variable."

[Miraqariftsky]

"I mean, my good cog," Blaze begins, pointing with her lips towards Engels, then seizing up with a fit of violent coughing. When she recovers, she continues, gesturing idly with her long-pattern laspistol, the brass Aquila at its handle swinging. "No matter how virtuous the servant iof the Emperor, we've KOFFKOFF, inevitably got some manner of vice. His is smokes and booze. Yours is, Ave Machina, tinkering. Mine's tossing colours and pushing regicide."

She then nods at Magnus and says to Engels while the thankfully deactivated oathpistol idly scratches the branded =I= across her forehead. "What he said. We snap 'im up once there's some notable deviation from the strongly established norm."

Blaze takes a longer slurp from her recaff and continues, "Several such heretical cults that I dare not name now do sometimes have rites of ritual suicide. And... adherents of a certain one of the Ruinous Powers, if they couldn't find anybody else to let their unholy fury upon, gladly slay themselves."

"All the damned lot deserve---", another long sip comes, another hacking cough, another feral grin and caressing her pistol. "---is a shot down their T. That is, after they'd been scoped and ploin-squeezed of all info on their soul-jammed ilk. Is there any other judgment for those who have turned away from the light of Our Father on Terra?"

There comes a long silence from the cell's psyker, disturbed only by the occasional cough and wheezing breath.

[bluntpencil]

"What do we do after the thirty days expires? Do we call the mission a success? Subject observed for mandated period, proven innocent, case closed?

That's fine by me, but I'd rather we were doing something more proactive. Sitting around and waiting for the Enemy attack has us, naturally, on the back foot. We're not even investigating anything. Can't we check his tax returns, or his... ah, pfff...

This sorta crap stresses me out. Give me a heretic, eye-to-eye, and it's so much simpler."

Engels knows the others are right, of course, and he makes a point of pointing out the fact that he's simply agitated. It's the calm before the storm, or the calm with no end, that really bothers him.

[ellna]

Stack 42 Apartment 846
Aprivial Day 17 03:43

Mr Irving's schedule was due to start at 05:00. It took close to an hour to traverse the distance on foot. It was time to leave and begin another day in Port Royale. The Stacks were built as close together as the convoluted road system allowed, great bridges spanned the gaps between them at many levels creating a web of interconnected footways. Attempting to cross the roads was oft considered suicidal and with the approaching Tithe the traffic was likely to be even worse. Of course at this hour the roads were practically bare, and a swift hop over the barriers would likely shave a good twenty minutes from the journey to Stack 13.

The city had not yet woken and the few souls visible from the window of apartment were the poor members of the Docker's guild that had been lumbered with the arduous task of preparing Port Royale for the coming festival of Tithing. They hung like spiders from the causeways stringing pennants from the rails. A few bored looking enforcers stood dotted around guarding the crates of devotional hanging. One of them is sat with his head slumped and his respirator closed over his face, his chest rising and falling with even breaths.

Pressing the rune of opening the door gave its usual grating slide before grinding to a halt only halfway open, a sharp tap saw it slide the rest of the way into it's recess. The hot warmth of the city greeted you smelling of yesterday's sweat. In the corner of your sight a piece of flitted to the ground. The knock to the door must of loosened it, likely imperial propaganda. It was of course illegal to remove such articles. However even a curious glance at the item dispels that thought. It's a rough rectangle, an envelope and not a poster extorting higher levels of obedience to the Emperor. Turning it over words were visible on it's face. "The Occupants"

So begins the plot. The first to post is assumed to be the one opening the door.

[Miraqariftsky]

Previously...

"Tax returns? KHK-KHK-KHK!" comes a blurt of mechanical laughter. "I admit I have not the strongest suit when it comes to matters academic, but I seem to recall a certain crimelord, from, was it the Sinophian system? A certain Ung Gabone. Nobody could catch him on any of his myriad crimes, but he was finally brought down when an investigative team cracked down on his tax evasio---KOFFKOFF."

Blaze leans back in her seat, tipping her cup towards Magnus. "Good idea, his. KOFFKOFF. Reckon you're up for some KOFFKOFF paper-grubbing?"

The psyker's cup slams on the table and she grins while shaking her head, saying, "Bloody straight, agreed... then again, if all our enemies were so kind enough to range up, neat as ye please... well, they wouldn't be enemies for long, eh? KHK-KHK-KHK!"

Presently...

Presently decked out in her cover, the garb the pale blue work frock of a squeak maintenance drudge, Blaze stands to the side, on edge as most hivers are, when coming to doors and corridors.

Her cover's mop-and-bucket shudder dangerously as she almost draws iron on what seems to be just a pamphlet...

...or is it?


Psyniscience, eh?

[Kaynebot]

Magnus standing more or less behind Blaze dressed in the standard mechanicus procedures with his flak cloak on for just in case. Nobody should suspect one of the handful of mechanicus agents running around this bubble, the odds of speculation seem low enough for Magnus not to try anything else. He sees the paper flit to the ground. Once he notices its a envelope he pulls out his auspex scanner that he tries to keep handy for whatever the occasion. He plays with it trying to coax the right procedure and get the machine spirit to comply with scanning for toxins that may have been slipped into the envelope had their cover been blown. Alas after 8 minutes and 4 seconds of wasted time nothing conclusive came up. "Can't tell if there are toxins or not." He whispers as a precaution of anybody being near.

[ellna]

Stack 42 Apartment 846
Aprivial Day 17 03:53

Blaze stands at the opened door for a short duration while Magnus passes the auspex over the curious letter. At Magnus' whispered caution she opens herself to the warp. Hairs stand up among the gathered acolytes as a brief sensation of something unnatural passes amongst them. Suddenly the psyker twitches strongly, backing suddenly away from the letter still lying on the ground. The vox on her throat crackles before sounding.

"It bears no psychic taint."

The plain envelope seemed innocuous enough, both psychic and mechanical methods detecting no foul play. Such methods were of course fickle and couldn't be relied on. There was only one course of action to take.

Opening up the rough envelope revealed two pieces of paper contained within. One proved to be a rough map of a quadrant of the barrens, containing on the reverse a crude drawing. The second piece was a letter.

"We know who you are. We know who you work for. If you want no one else to know you'll do us a favour. The Malcs beyond got something we need get it for us. They camp at the fronds what we want is marked with the seal of Saint Fract. Leave it on the Cathedral steps and your secret is our secret. Don't frak this up, we see everything."

A crude drawing of an eye with a "I" enclosed within it's pupil served as final twist.

Drawing:
http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2013/244/9/e/130901_174009_by_ellnaishgar-d6klgpg.jpg

[Kaynebot]

Magnus stood reading the letter, emotionless. Great now I have potentially two groups of people watching me, the inquisition and these people. That was his only reaction to it, "Well there is no time restraint so I suppose they want it now, I can tail our usual target if you want to do the task presented. Magnus offered in a hushed voice.

[Miraqariftsky]

"Jam that lot." Blaze curses as Magnus reads the letter.

She leans back against the wall, arms hugging her scrawny, over-robed frame, suppressing a shudder. No matter how many times she'd done it, tapping the Warp still made her shiver.

She looks to Engels and says, "You were KOFFKOFF, talking about KOFF... initiative?"

[bluntpencil]

"Alright folks, I've a plan," says the alcoholic quickly, his voice becoming a notable shade clearer now that he has a goal.

"We use a spare microbead, or something very similar, and attach it surreptitiously to the package. It'll transmit on a set frequency, and we can triangulate its location when they pick it up. Magnus' auspex might come in handy here, if programmed in advance.

I've seen this done before. It's doable if we act quickly. They'll likely discover the microbead, but the carrier won't even bother looking, as they'll have a third party pick it up."

He then grins, and laughs ever so quietly.

"We were here with nothing to do, and some idiots decided to pick a fight with the Holy bloody Ordos. They're fools, and they'll pay for it."

Some fool recidivists had picked the wrong cop to mess with. This one wanted things to do, and had a chip on his shoulder. Someone was going to end up with a stomach full of buckshot, most likely.

[Kaynebot]

Magnus listens to the arbitrator talk. "I have to stop you at tracking the signal. It pretty difficult and there's chance my auspex could be broken. Why don't you guys do it the old fashioned way. Just tail the courier. Magnus stands thinking of plan, he likes Engels plan but the machine spirits may not agree and he has had the auspex for a long time. "I suppose we could try your idea but its not easy. Hmm...indecision, Magnus hated it.

[bluntpencil]

"They've watched us tailing folk for weeks. They'll see us coming."

Engels knows they haven't been subtle enough on the shadowing people, so reckons another approach is needed.

"Failing that, we could just put a bomb in it. To hell with subtlety in the face of the enemy, aye?"

[Miraqariftsky]

"An old joke" Blaze cracks, deadpan, "Why are Guardsmen issued both rifle and pistol, big blade and smaller blade, a shovel and a spoon? If one don't work, the other will."

She leans against the wall, her dark head cradled in white gloved hands. Blaze scowls and says, "We all've got some manner of gun-knowing, and anybody can pull a grenade's pin, but who here's aimedly got some training in explosives?"

[bluntpencil]

"Not much, no," grimaces the copper. He wasn't a bomb technician.

"Any other ideas? I'm not having those recidivist dogs think they can blackmail Terra's own eyes and ears. Give them an inch, and they'll take a damned light year."

[Kaynebot]

Magnus takes a minute mulling over Blaze's question. "As far as I can tell, I have no recollection of explicit training in high yield explosives. Maybe our best bet is to comply and see what happens?"

[bluntpencil]

"Comply? Have you ever dealt with heretics before? You don't comply. Complying will give them what they want. They'll end up smearing blood all over this damn bubble here."

Engels isn't happy. The bloody heretics have them over a barrel. To be fair, he'd be happy to just ignore them, then kill whoever tries to screw with them.

[Kaynebot]

Magnus takes a minute to compose himself. "Then shall we retrieve the package and start planning and analyzing from that point forward. As to not make suspicious those who are watching."

[Miraqariftsky]

Blaze's eyes are distant, her brows creased with some wordless worry. Ferrocrete and armourglass instead of mudbrick and thatch. Heresy-spoor all the same. Wings and wings and wings and wings that flap and thrum within the e...

"Damned straight we should snuff 'em." She shakes her head and tugs on her hood. She says, "But. Can we leave Irving unwatched? KOFFKOFF! How shall we do the division?"

[ellna]

The Sprawl
Aprivial Day 17 05:03

The apartment door grinds open once more and the acolytes step out into the humid heat of Port Royale. The flickering light far above plays eerie shadows across the vast spires. The rebounding echoes of the Docker's Guild at work fill the otherwise silent streets. The maze of bridges spanning the spires meander slowly towards the ever present protective bulwark. Far beneath your feet the road stretches out following a winding path. The street lamps splutter into life as the machine spirit's awaken from their rest. Swiftly after the lights high above also flare brightly as the hive awakes and the wretches of the Imperium begin to fill the streets. The heavily covered rags surround the acolytes. Swept up in the press of humanity it's not long before the acolytes arrive before the massive gate to the frozen surface of Mal-Terra.

The mass of fur covered bodies are pushed back from the gate by the batons of enforcers. Clad head to toe in reinforced dark bodygloves and dark swathes of cold resistant gear. Huddled in a line naked bodies were shepherded towards the opening door. Thick chains hung between them, shackled to their necks, by heavy collars. Bruises, dried blood and violent welts hang apon their skin. Their faces look to their feet and all around you people cross their chests with the aquila and mutter.
"...Poor sods..." ... "...Criminals..." ... "...Heretics..."
Driven by the enforcers the condemned men are forced through the yawning portal, which closes behind them with a cacophony of noisy gears and blasts of air. Sealing with a final sound akin to tomb slamming shut. The lights above the door flicker, changing from green to red... then finally back to green. The entrance opens once more to reveal a now empty chamber stretching before them. The weight of people pressing forward means that even if they tried now there was no escape from the iron coffin. Once inside the sound of the wind outside could be heard from the far door. Howling and whistling against the thick steel. More and more bodies pressed into the cavernous hold. Then the door sealed and the chamber was thrown into darkness. The sound was even louder within the chamber almost deafening. Amid the gloom the roaring of pumps can be heard as air rushes out of the chamber. A dull red light comes to life flickering across the crowd of bug-eyed respirators.

"External atmosphere normalised. Airlock functioning within standard opperating limits. Praise the Omnissiah and bring glory to his name."

The far door spins and opens to a rush of frozen air. The chill hits you immediately and takes root in your flesh, despite the thick clothing. Beyond you is The Sprawl. A tangle of ramshackle structures cling to the exterior of the bubble like limpets. In the distance a red glow permeates the scene. A great ball climbs from the horizon bathes the surface in it's light. Beneath this glare the rag merchants scurry about, setting up stalls and ensuring their stake for the day is claimed. A shanty town extends outwards from the bubble which is pock-marked with craters and airlocks. Soon the day's trading shall begin anew. Here beyond the protection of Port Royale water is the currency and the Imperium stands ready to buy whatever dregs the Malcs can muster. Trade, the life-blood of the Imperium, without the heavy tithes it would crumble apon itself and here is the lowest rung in the empire. The desolate wasteland of Mal-Terra.

http://fc09.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2010/091/3/2/Wasteland_by_kevindragon.jpgYou now stand outside the protective wall of Mal-Terra. The environment of the planet is bitter cold and deadly to breath or risk contact. Any wound inflicting five or more damage is considered to rupture the bodyglove causing one additional wound per round until it is sealed.

I'm assuming that all acolytes are wearing, gas masks, body gloves and cold weather gear. If you've left anything behind at the safe house or anything you've taken from the gear supplied please mention it.

In order to get to the fronds you require to either slip past the enforcers guarding the perimeter of the sprawl or acquire legal transportation. Certain merchants have licences to travel beyond the sprawl in order to conduct business with the Malcs further afield. Such caravans are of course under the protection of the local enforcers who serve both as muscle and arbiters of the law, ensuring the traders do not deal in Imperial technology.

Feel free to bury me in questions as always. :smallsmile:

[bluntpencil]

Before heading off, Engels sought out information about being employed as a guardsman on a convoy. He explained that he was a decent shot, and could do with getting a hold of one of those fancy lasguns all the guards had. With one of them, he was sure to get a job, right?!

Well, that's what he said, and it left him needing a drink and a smoke. He would need to blast someone soon, and he'd prefer to do it with lead, not a bloody glowlamp.

[ellna]

The Sprawl
Aprivial Day 17 05:20

Engels' inquiries are rewarded when he spots a man emerge from the airlock carrying a lasgun slung at his shoulder. The man clearly isn't an enforcer judging from the way that he is stopped by them. Hanging at his side is an oversized flak helmet, the sort that would fit over a respirator. A brief story from Engels was answered with a helpful set of directions to a trader. The merchant in question was found amid a particularly rugged looking arrangement of metal welded inexpertly to the side of Port Royale. Within a pair of men clad in soft white fur stand either side of the entrance lascarbines ready to deal with any trouble. Behind the counter a similarly garbed man stands with thick plates covering his respirator. The wares spread in front of him include imperial surplus lasguns, carbines and pistols. As well as rubber adhesive, antibacterial sealant, large flak helmets and heat regulated flak vests. He conducts his business with a toneless machine voice and is amendment on his prices, it seems that he knows the market well and drives a hard bargin, but fair at least to Engels reckoning.

[bluntpencil]

"Alright there, sir. I'm willing to trade some old harsh weather gear, skin protection and respirators for a lasgun. I reckon with one of those things, I could get a job as a caravan guard. You reckon so?"

He haggles, but revealing that he is after a new job (in order to protect his cover), probably makes the merchant realise he had the upper hand in the trade.

[ellna]

The Sprawl
Aprivial Day 17 05:22

"Fine, please produce your wares. Place them on the table. Acceptable. The balance is fair."

The merchant wastes little time all, but ignoring Engels attempts to talk about anything other than the deal at hand. The artificial voice makes it hard to discern anything of the man's thoughts, however as soon as Engels picks up the lasgun he makes a gesture with his hand and one of the men stood behind him grasps Engels firmly by the shoulder and steers him out.

I'll assume the sale of a respirator, 2 Cold Gears and 2 Bodygloves and 4 thrones from Engels own purse.

Also... Whistles:[roll0]

[bluntpencil]

"Hands off, scumbags." growls the mercenary-to-be. He wasn't here to make friends, he was here to get a lasgun and get to work.


[roll0] Intimidate

[ellna]

The Sprawl
Aprivial Day 17 05:23

At Engels' bark the hand withdraws from his shoulder. Despite the distortion caused by the respirator he manages to convey the threat well enough. The bulky man hesitates for a moment before regaining his composure and placing the hand meaningfully on his own weapon. Neither of the guards lays a hand on Engels again, allowing him to leave at his own pace.

[Miraqariftsky]

In an alley near the oh so respectable hole where Engels had procured his burn-caster, Blaze loiters, waiting. Clad in the bulky respirator and environmental endurance suit is a figure like most others.

Her gloved hand opens and clenches around a bullet casing as she waits, bug-eyed gaze keeping on watch, both for the return of Engels and anybody in the street who might be suspicious. The brass slips but she catches it before it could fall to the ground, wincing beneath her breath-mask as she struggles to not even give silent voice to certain doubts gnawing at her.