[DH] Every Plant Yielding Seed

[Thragka]

Every Plant Yielding Seed

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it – If (Rudyard Kipling)

OOC thread (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?500533-DH-Every-Plant-Yielding-Seed-(OOC))

In cold and barren space, voidships huddled for warmth. Favourite and most nourishing were those oases, the Imperium’s inhabited planetary systems. Lacusta was one such system. The arrival of such extremophiles was slow. Though they would burst into realspace urgently, after that violent transition they would crawl, inch by inch, from the edge of the gravity well towards the life-giving planet. The cautious, placid and above all determined approach would take hours if not days to complete.

Once arrived, complex social structures and biological needs made it near impossible to determine how long they would stay, or in what direction they would depart. Each, though, needed rest. They would all slumber in the exosphere, as the local life-forms took over; small feeder-ships, tugs, and shuttles. These were always buzzing in action around the planet, ferrying people and matériel to and from their gargantuan visitors, between the orbital docks’ abundant reefs, and even down to the terrestrial surface. The tiny vessels were nimble enough to navigate those depths; a monstrous itinerant would only dash itself against them.

Only the most meticulous and obsessed observer would notice the sleek black shuttle, which, for days, remained in orbit. It had arrived with a chartist ship from the sector capital. When it separated from its carrier, though, it too remained in orbit – waiting. Over the next week, it rendezvoused only with the most exclusive of the arriving voidships. It docked for just minutes, and then silently resumed its vigil. Once, twice, thrice. On the fourth communion, it had collected its consignment, and without further ado it gracefully plummeted to the planet below.


~

“Acolytes.”

On-screen, Inquisitor Jeremiah Vasques directed a prim, humourless smile at the camera. For some of the audience, this was only the second time they had looked upon their new master.

“I apologise for being unable to conduct this briefing in person. The logistics of your concurrent arrival in Lacusta proved challenging enough.”

The thin man with the copper skin looked young, at face value, for an Inquisitor – although doubtless he had benefited from sophisticated juvenat treatments thanks to his rank. The emerald irises of his cybernetic eyes glistened on the vidscreen.

“You will be provided with briefing materials which, I hope, will be sufficient in my absence. I have recorded this message as a courtesy, as well as to introduce you to your assignment.”

Gravity began to re-assert itself as the shuttle descended the atmosphere; for those who had been living aboard it for days, it was a welcome relief from weightlessness.

“First of all, I welcome you to the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition. You are here because I believe you have potential – the greatest potential, of noble service to the Golden Throne. It is not unreasonable for you to take some pride in that.”

Vasques spoke slowly, with many deliberate pauses, and his flat tone seemed to belie his congratulatory message.

“I have sent you to Lacusta, to unravel a mystery. It is a minor enigma, perhaps meaningless; but my gut tells me there is something foul afoot.”

The seats began jittering beneath them, and the groaning of the engine grew louder.

“In the past two months, three apparently unrelated voidships leaving Lacusta have transmitted an identical, automated alphanumeric error code back to the planet. What they had in common seems tenuous: they were cargo ships belonging to various Calixan transport companies, and they all departed from the city of Teichhuicatl. This is little to suggest vice or duplicity, but it drew my attention.”

Now the shuttle was making an infernal racket. All of its parts protested re-entry; the Inquisitor took no notice.

“I specialise in interplanetary smuggling. I suspect that this is an example of that. It may turn out to be relatively benign” – the Inquisitor nodded his brow towards the camera, as if challenging the viewers comment – “or even, possibly, nothing at all – a manufacturer’s error message, a random check, or so on. But on the other hand, it may well be something. So it is a perfect assignment to test a new cell’s abilities.”

Vasques leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “Your goal, then, is to provide me with a comprehensive report of what these transmissions meant. Even if no crime has been committed, I would like you to educate me on the technical subtleties of interstellar trade. Perhaps it will prove useful in our joint future.” His lips twitched in the barest indication of humour. Then he lowered his hands and leaned forwards once more. “On the other hand, if you do discover something unseemly, I want you to follow it to its conclusion. I impress upon you that although this is a test, this is still a real Inquisition assignment. You are on a strange world, with no resources and little information. I expect you to rely on your own wits, guile and initiative to look after yourselves and achieve your outcome. There is no safety net.”

The Inquisitor let that pronouncement settle before speaking again. “I have arranged for your arrival at Teichhuicatl during a mitma – a forced resettlement by the dominant polity of the planet. There will be many other mitmaq being processed through the spaceport. I have provided travel documents for this. Beneath your seats you will find dark robes and hats. These will mark you as upper-class commoners, and once you are processed I expect you will be unmolested. You should be able to find comfortable lodgings in the village that is being resettled.” He shrugged. “Of course, I cannot determine your actions, or behaviour, across the light-years between us. Perhaps you will not wish to masquerade as mitmaq. Use your own judgement – but complete the mission and act in concert.”

With the shuddering of the shuttle’s chassis and the thunder of its engines, it was growing difficult to either see or hear the recording. Perhaps having anticipated this, Vasques spoke slower, louder and clearer.

“When you deem the mission concluded – through either success or failure – return to the city spaceport. Visit the chapel and ask for Father Ibrahim. Again, I stress, this is not a means of communication with or requisition from me. It is a one-time only extraction. Do not leave anyone behind. Work together. You are all skilled, and your talents are complementary. You will not succeed if you cannot be a team.”

The video winked off, but Vasques’s final words reverberated over the din.

“Trust nobody but each other. Good luck.”


~

Outside the shuttle after it landed was almost worse than inside it beforehand. The heat was sweltering. The glare of the sun was unforgiving. Together with the engines of the arriving and departing vehicles, they possessed the platform with a legion of heat devils. The dust was everywhere, including hanging in the air, pounded upwards by all the wheels and the shoes and even the bare feet of the slaves, who wore little except loincloths. The shimmering tarmac must have caused agony with every step. The acolytes’ waist-length ponchos were entirely unsuited to the climate. At least the wide-brimmed hats provided ample shade for the face and neck.

Slave and freeman alike, all arrivals were trundling forwards in lines towards the gates, where local enforcers were checking documents. One line was comprised of people wearing the same ponchos, hats and glimmering beads of sweat as the acolytes, and seemed to be moving faster than the others. Indeed, when they got close enough to see, the chubby guard was barely glancing at the travellers’ papers before waving them onwards, through a gate in a chain-link fence and towards a fleet of autobuses.

When they were at the front of the line, it was clear that the guard was enjoying the heat about as much as everyone else. Several buttons of his uniform shirt were open, letting a thick tangle of black chest hair spill out. In one hand he held a grubby handkerchief with which he wiped his forehead every few seconds. The stub automatic holstered on his belt shone with drips of his perspiration. As the previous group marched solemnly towards the buses, he let out a massive sigh, which had interesting tectonic effects on his gut. Then he shook his head and waved the acolytes forward.

Again, he barely glanced at the travel documents before nodding assent – one, two, three, four. But when it came to Rachel, he paused. His brow furrowed. Squinting at her, he frowned, and looked her up and down, suspiciously. Then he turned his head and looked between the other Acolytes until his gaze came to rest on Pris.

His eyes slowly swung between her dyed hair, and Rachel’s dyed hair. Then he cleared his throat.

“Your serviceman needs the appropriate papers,” he said to Pris. “Join the slave-owners’ queue.” He managed to look vaguely apologetic about the prospect of sending someone to start the process afresh.

[LeSwordfish]

Amanda was at the front of the queue of acolytes, having taken the lead as was her wont. She was more used to the heat than some - and indeed was glad to have left the confines of the dropship - but usually wore more appropriate clothing to the weather, and fanned her face with her hand. At least the shade of the hat would keep her from burning.

It was a pleasure to be planetside again, and on a new world, too. She considered herself very lucky indeed to have seen so many planets in the sector, even though it was less than half a dozen, and her first task with the inquisition had taken her to a place like this. She nodded politely, if a little brusquely, at the guard, and waited with interest to see what the two other women would do.

[Eldest]

Kay joins Amanda, ignoring the heat and humidity with effort. A spare cloth was tied about her head under the hat, keeping the sweat out of her eyes. I was unaware we had a bonded slave in our group. She murmers to the other woman.

[Destro_Yersul]

Balbus was not happy. He had been dragged out of the nice, safe, cool archives, and sent to this... hellhole, for lack of a better word. It was too hot here, and the robes weren't quite the right size for his over-large stomach. He'd been stuck on voidships for entirely too long, and now he was in a group with four moderately-to-very intimidating women on this aforementioned wretched planet, one of whom was causing difficulties with their customs lineup. It was so terribly unfair.

He shuffled off to the side, near the missionary. She looked like she could handle herself, and the scary one with the swords was there too, so that was good odds as far as he was concerned. From behind the other two acolytes, he mumbled something about needing to learn local things like this in advance next time.

[Simsimillia]

Pris hated this planet and wished herself off of it the moment she left the lander. The last days and weeks aboard the voidships had been bad enough. The void was cold and during the warp travels she had felt funny, as she would put it. But now she would've taken back the cool hallways of the voidships over the humid heat she had to suffer through on the surface on this planet.

The black robes even made it worse and while they were stretching over the fat man's stomach, Pris was almost vanishing in them by comparision. And of course they didn't work properly, because while the guard waved through all others he made an exception for her and the coggirl with the gun fetish.

Pris eyebrows raised, not expecting to be singled out like that it seemed like it had just gotten a bit hotter, if that was even possible. To top it off, Pris wasn't even sure what or who the guy was talking about, but she rather quickly caught herself. Maybe she should've read those files they've gotten...well not that she could read.

"Yo, uhm my...serciveman. Sorry, my mistake, Mr. Guardsman", she flashed the chubby, sweating man a smile and unknowingly to even herself Pris' mind reached out into the warp in a subconcious attempt to subtly twist and bend reality, trying to let her appear more charming. "Can't we just...you know, resolve this here...somehow. That slave owner's line is really super long and I just wanna get done with this. I mean it's just some kinda formality, yeah?"

Too bad the black poncho's weren't all that revealing. She was sure she could've scored some bonus points with Mr. Sweatwatch if she had shown him some skin. She wasn't the prettiest, but she knew his type, even if this was a different world.


Attempt at Focus Power Tests for "Knack", Target: 7
[roll0] +3
[roll1] +3 (only if first roll is a 9)

Charm Test: Target: 20/30 (depending if Knack came through)
[roll2]

[Mekboy]

Rachel ground her teeth. The accursed poncho was stifling, even compared to her usual heavy mechanicus robes. The novelty of being under an open sky had worn off pretty quickly too, with the sun beating down as it was. Omnissiah, this was worse than the forges! And being dragged out of line like this... Glaring daggers at the back of the Pris girl's head, she bit her tongue and stayed quiet. Let the girl handle this for now. No need to make a scene, especially over this fat sack of rat s***. She glanced at the stubgun at his hip and gave a quiet snort of amusement. Stub automatic. Medusa pattern? 9 round clip. Cheap piece of crud in mediocre condition. Feeling superior she went back to burning a hole in the back of Pris's head.

[Thragka]

The guard was silent for a moment after Pris spoke. His eyes were more alert than they had been before.

"No," he said eventually. He yanked Pris's papers out of her hand and scanned them again. "Also you did not declare that you were bringing a slave." He shrugged, a vast motion in which mountain ranges rose and fell. "As you say, a mistake, I'm sure." But still he pointed across the runway, to a different queue. The slaves there were not so abject: clothed, and not shackled together in long trains, but walking upright beside their owners. Still, it moved slower than their first queue had.

The guard thrust the papers back at Pris. "Next!"

[Mekboy]

Okay then. Maybe it was time to make a scene. Rachel suddenly raised her left hand, the palm facing outward, and activated her electoos. A brightly glowing symbol of the Machine Cult flickered into life under her palm.

"That's enough of this." she snapped. "I am technographer Carver of the Adeptus Mechanicus. I am slave to no-one but the Omnissiah. Now let me pass and I will consider not reporting this indignity to my superiors."

And if her sudden movement had happened to shift her clothing in such a way as to reveal the heavy combat autopistol on her hip, well, that was neither here nor there.

[LeSwordfish]

"Perhaps we could see the papers that allowed this unfortunate misunderstanding to happen." Amanda said primly. She had found that a sudden switch into "schoolmistress" mode was every bit as intimidating as a big gun to the right person.

[Thragka]

Her electoo leaving him entirely unperturbed, it was Rachel's gun that got the guard's attention. Shoving the handkerchief into his pocket, his right hand slid around his belly towards his own holster.

"You said she was your serviceman," he said, pointing to Pris. It was a little accusative, a little unsure. "Papers. All of you. Now."

[Destro_Yersul]

Surely he didn't mean Balbus' papers. He'd already seen those. But then, who did he mean? Balbus backed up a little, making himself as small as he could behind the others. It helped that he was already short. He also took out his papers and examined them, looking for anything that might help here.

[Eldest]

Kay shoves her papers at the scribe. "Check them." Her hand lifts away from the wicked looking knife at her belt, dropping to her side. "We do not want a fight with the guard. There is always more of them than of us."

[Simsimillia]

Well so much for that, Pris thought, her charms seemingly being lost on the guard. Unfortunately, their cog-lady didn't wanna play along which would've been easier and started making a scene while also showing off her gun.

The tensions rose and Pris didn't like it, usually if she came across such a situation she'd made a run for it. But she wasn't alone on the streets anymore and they were supposed to work together.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa", Pris said and raised her arms in a soothing manner, "We don't wanna start something over a misunderstanding now would we? She ain't ma serviceman, I barely even know her. In fact ma serviceman is dead you see, that's why I thought I should be in this line, you see? Stupid gak-head cut himself and got an infection. I mean how stupid can you be to cut yourself while preparing a simple meal. Wasn't even a knife, just the edge of a can. Have you ever cut yourself on a can? Nah, probs not, cause you gotta be real stupid to do that, right? Slaves these days, jus' ain't worth the trouble...one before that one was about as stupid, tripped, fell and broke his frakkin' neck! He fell! And died! I think I might be better off without one in the future. Too much trouble for too little gain, don't ya think...?"

Pris rambled and rambled on, trying to overtext the guard, hoping that he got tired and come to the conclusion that they weren't really worth the trouble and easier just be let through.


Ok, I'm again attempting "Knack" if you wanna put some limit on how often I can use it feel free to do so.
Power roll, Threshold 7
[roll0]+3
[roll1]+3 (reroll if 9)

The knack is supposed to be for the combined Decieve/Blather Action:

Decieve (for lying about her slave): Target 39/49
[roll2]

Blather (for non-stop rambling): Target 39/49
[roll3]

[Thragka]

The guard held up a hand to interrupt Pris's ramblings. “Wait, wait.” He pulled the voxpad from his belt and thumbed the transmit button.

“Ocēlōtl to queue two, please.” A garbled response came back. The guard fell silent, and waited.

Balbus examined their travel papers while they stood there. Bureaucratic formalism featured heavily, but the meaningful content was straightforward and, to his eye, entirely innocent.


Quintuple Extensionary Office of the
Tahuantinsuyu Chamber for Mit'a and Mitma

http://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Every%20Plant%20Yielding%20Seed/cf560610-df55-47c5-af99-2f53f7ce653d.pnghttp://i154.photobucket.com/albums/s243/Thragka/Every%20Plant%20Yielding%20Seed/c3e4a2dd-2597-4fbb-9eab-038591e44919.png

MITMAT PERSONAL PASS

Name: [“Balbus Petronius Tertius” on one, “Kay Oisen” on the other]
Occupation: Self-Employed or of Independent Means
Class: pochteca / mindaláe

Household: n/a
Slaves: n/a

Mitma: 107421-A Ollantaytambo → Teichhuicatl
Mitmaqkuna: Azcapotzalco

Tempers cooling a little, the guard allowed them to inspect Pris's and Rachel's passes. All were of the same format.

After a minute or two, another officer arrived. This man was fitter, handsomer, and better accoutred than the chubby guard. The uniform was broadly the same, but on top of the (buttoned-up) shirt, he wore a form-fitting jacket covered in jaguar fur – in fact, probably made from a single jaguar hide. Resting on his head was a circlet stuck with upright plumes, each yellow and black feather nearly two foot long. A horizontal band of skin, about an inch thick, at his eye level, had been tattooed in royal blue all around his head. He was better armed, too – instead of the pistol, he had a las carbine across his back, and hanging from his waist was a long club, the length of which had been set with dark blades.

The guards took back the travel passes and conferred. Their conversation was difficult to entirely make out; they were mumbling, and quickly began to make heavy use of the local dialect. First the original guard shrugged, and then his superior did. The tattooed man pointed at Kay. The fat man shook his head and nodded towards Pris.

“Hmmm.”

The new arrival stepped over to Rachel, and politely indicated where her Mechanicus robe was hanging beneath the poncho. “It's red, not green,” he said to the other. “It seems she's not a serviceman.” Turning to the acolytes, he gave a practised smile. “Thank you for your patience. You are free to go.”

Before the acolytes could move, however, both guards' voxpads crackled into life – as did those of the other enforcers across the runway.

“Security alert in Zone 3. Ocēlōmeh to Zone 3.”

The tattooed man took off in a sprint, down the queue, in the opposite direction from the gates and the autobus yard. He had his lasgun in hand within seconds. The fat guard swore. “Everyone stay put!” he shouted down the line, waving his hands. Behind him, other enforcers were already pulling the chain-link gates shut.

Another crackle over the vox. “All security personnel to Zone 3.”

Their guard rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. “Stay here,” he repeated, with a glare to the acolytes. One hand still pressed against his holster, he started to trot across the platform in a determined yet torpid waddle.

[Eldest]

Kay gives the newer guard a professional once over and a grudging nod at the club and helm. He looked to know how to use it, and she respected that. She stays silent while the alert goes out, only speaking once both guards had left earshot. "We are here to investigate the spaceships. Here is a problem with spaceship. Let us go." She follows the guard in a quiet lope.

[Mekboy]

Rachel smiled smugly to herself behind the brass grill of her respiration unit. Okay, maybe that had been petty, but still. She gave a little bow towards the tattooed guard.

"Thanks."

As the voxes burst into life, Rachel's hand went straight to her gun. Maybe it was a little paranoid, but it was better to be paranoid than dead.

"I think we've drawn enough attention to ourselves for now. Probably best to arm up just in case though."

Hmm... the steadholder or the hecutor? Steadholder was better for range, but she's already made a show of the hecutor. Ah, why the hell not? With a flourish the reassuring weight of the autopistol was in her hands.

[Destro_Yersul]

"He said to stay here," Balbus protested, allowing himself to be dragged along only once it looked like he might be left behind otherwise. "We don't even know what the problem is. Why are we rushing into this?"

[LeSwordfish]

Amanda clucked irritably. "Put the gun away before someone thinks we're part of this. Heading towards whatever that was is fine, but with weapons out? They'll have us up on a pyramid." She followed Kay towards the source of the noise.

[Simsimillia]

"Okay, so I guess we're not using this unexpected but welcome distraction to get that frak outta here?", Pris said and followed the other's towards the source of trouble.

This was unusal for her, running towards appearent danger instead of away from it.

[Thragka]

"Excuse m- what about us?" a woman in the queue beside the Acolytes asked. When she first spoke, she sounded indignant, but that gave way to a nervousness when it became clear that none of the enforcers were paying any attention to the crowd of mitmaq. The only ones who remained behind were the few that had been closing the chain-link gates. Now partitioned by their own action, with half locked in the bus yard and half still on the runway, they were vastly outnumbered by a crowd that was quickly growing panicked. First it was just murmurs. Then the orderly queues dissolved as the civilians all began to cluster along the fence and near the gates. Only the slaves linked in the long chains stayed put, knowing any attempt to move was futile. The guards drew their pistols, and exchanged nervous glances.

In the direction of frantic motion, the other guards, with the acolytes behind them, were crossing a long stretch of tarmac to what looked like cargo warehouses on the other side. The sun beat mercilessly down on them all. For a few moments, the mirages made it seem as if the acolytes were getting no closer to the blocky, prefabricated structures. Pounding their feet against that rigid ground, with the glare making them squint and the dust and humidity catching in their throats and the heat already tearing long strands of sweat out of their necks and down their backs, it seemed like some version of Hell.

More crackles on the voxes all around them. Words were hard to determine, but simple yells and the clatter of gunfire were unmistakeable. Then a clear message, in the same female voice as before, a little rushed but still collected. "Mark is armed and dangerous, heading for exit seven. Use lethal force." The pack of officers began to tighten, heading for a particular pair of doors. Some of the jaguar warriors holstered their guns and instead drew those long batons. In the glare of the sun, the dark blades set along the unusual weapons were illuminated in rich purples and violets, and their cruel edges glistened.

They crossed a white line painted along the tarmac. It helped give some sense of progress; now they could see that the warehouses were drawing closer. The pack grew longer, the jaguar warriors taking the lead with the Acolytes close behind them. The enforcers formed a peloton; not all of them were in the best shape, and they seemed less willing to charge headlong into unknown danger.

When they were some fifty metres from the doors, the ocēlōmeh suddenly doubled their speed, leaving the acolytes in their wake. The doors were open but there was little light inside - it was impossible to see in from afar from the tarmac. Metres from the entrance, the ocēlōtl at the head of the pack suddenly tried to plant his feet firmly on the ground and raise his baton in both arms, but too slow -

A man emerged from inside at speed, ducking low and barrelling into the jaguar warrior. The ocēlōtl went down on his back as his attacker rolled to his feet, propelled himself sideways and straightened up. This revealed a toned body, sun weathered skin covered in swirling tattoos, clad only in knee-length shorts and a garment that mostly consisted of leather strips wound around his torso. As the man twisted sideways to avoid another baton blow from the next jaguar warrior, they saw his head in profile: squeezed out of shape. His scalp was distinctly deformed, pointed up and backwards like the top of an egg.

Someone let a burst of las loose, but the target danced out of the way. Sprinting in a wide arc, he began to cut around the jaguar warriors. He didn't appear to be armed. As he ran, he looked at the acolytes - and the empty space behind them - and turned in their direction.

"Shoot him!" A dark woman appeared through the doors, in an armoured bodyglove. They'd heard her voice over the vox. She had a pistol in her hand, and another rigged to her shoulder in a mechanical clasp; now, though, the ocēlōmeh were between her and her quarry, who was rapidly closing on the Acolytes. "Shoot to kill, shoot, shoot!"

You are about thirty metres from the crowd of NPCs who are now just outside the warehouse.

[Simsimillia]

This was wrong and felt wrong on so many accounts. There was the sound of gun fire, other boots running over the tarmac ahead of them. Her gut feeling told her there was something bad going to happen and while running she fumbled around beneath her robes to get ahold of her autopistol. Safety off, she remembered and flicked the switch, keep your finger besides the trigger until you wanna shoot, she continued her train of thought about the things she learned in her firearms drill that was still fresh in her memory.

Then it happened, the man, or perhaps thing appeared out of nowhere dancing around and cutting down the jaguar warriors without much effort and then it turned to them. The drill payed off, without thinking Pris had her gun at the ready and trained on her target. Now squeeze the trigger, she thought and did so, like she learned.

The automatic weapon bellowed loud and send a stream of bullets down range, most of them kicking up dirt or poking holes in hot air, but she also got a hit in.

"Frack!!!"

[Destro_Yersul]

Balbus dug under his robes for his autopistol, freeing the weapon from the holster and trying to aim at the fugitive. As he looked down the sights, his mind worked. Had he seen or heard about something like those tattoos somewhere? What about the skull shape, could that be cult related, or was it something else?

[LeSwordfish]

Instead of her pistol - which she had never really trusted, Amanda drew her blade.

"Spread out, don't let them past us."

It was too late to suggest taking the fugitive alive.

[Mekboy]

Rachel smoothly brought the gun up in both hands and began firing. It was second nature really. Almost comforting to have the weight in her hand. Made it a little easier to forget she was shooting to kill for once. Under her breath she muttered the Litany of True striking.

Frak!

All three shots had gone wide.

[Thragka]

Following Amanda's advice, Kay moved forwards lightly, staying on the balls of her feet and shifting her weight with each step - ready to charge the man, if it became necessary. Amanda sidestepped cautiously, keeping her body lined up with fugitive, presenting as much width as possible if they needed to block him. Rachel squeezed off a few bullets but perhaps she'd spent too long deliberating her choice of weapon and not enough time aiming.

The warriors were huddled by the door after their quarry's surprise exit. The few that had a clear line of sight raised their carbines, and screams of las tore through the air. It almost seemed as if their target danced out of the way of the first bolt. His nimble footwork came to a sudden end as the next shot took him in the gut, winding him; two more followed in quick succession, the tattooed man's chest spasming as their energy rampaged through his torso and prompted the telltale fizz of sizzling skin and the smell of burnt hair. He was knocked off his feet as sure as if he'd taken a physical slug. But he was only down and not out; already he was rolling onto his stomach, powerful shoulders pushing his torso up from the ground and hips drawing in to tuck his legs under him -

Pris raised her autopistol and fired, fired, fired. Most of her shots went wide, but one took the tattooed man in the sternum right as he bounced to his feet - and that was the end of it. She saw his eyes dull and fade the moment her bullet hit him. He was dead before he hit the ground, just a lump of meat dragging blood across the tarmac as it slid backwards.

Balbus breathed. Panic over - at least for the moment - he was able to clear his mind. He examined the man from afar, following the lines and swirls of the tattoos, at least where they were not obscured now by blood and blackened las-burnt skin. Though extensive, the designs were not very elaborate, and had none of the intricate features that hinted at occult or blasphemous meaning. They did put him in mind of specimens that were sometimes recovered from witch-cults on feral worlds, and perversions of the Imperial Creed that tended to fester in such untamed places. However, the analysis was clear: whatever local primitive rituals existed on such uncivilised planets, they did not in themselves constitute heresy - more that in the absence of comprehensive Adeptus and Ministorum presence, it was easy for unsupervised folk-beliefs to be perverted away from the canon of the Emperor, and towards the dangers of heresy. And this was, to his eye, a rather uncivilised planet so far. Most likely, if savages lived beyond the organised settlements, those inkings had some role in their culture. The shape of the man's head similarly looked as though it might be self-inflicted, a primitive sort of body modification in a technological backwater. Such perversion of the human form was certainly unorthodox, but again, not in itself a blasphemy ... although there was always a chance that in fact they were looking upon a mutation.

The first jaguar warrior to the door, the one who had been knocked down, was helped to his feet by a comrade. The dark woman in the bodyglove was still pointing her pistol at the corpse. "Don't touch him. Get me a cordon." She glanced over to the Acolytes. "Clear the area, and I want this building locked down. Nobody goes in or out without going through me." She stepped back into the shade of the warehouse as the ocēlōmeh began carrying out her orders.

I'd like an Awareness test from everyone, please. We're back in Narrative Time, but if you want to do any quick or time-sensitive actions, we'll return to the same Initiative order.

[Mekboy]

Flicking the safety back on, Rachel quickly opened the respirator covering her face to grin at Pris. Okay, maybe she hadn't hit the man herself, but making the attempt to kill someone had been surprisingly easy.

"Nice shooting." she congratulated the girl, clapping her on the back with a pallid hand. "We'll make a marksman of you yet."

Oops wrong thread. How embarrassing.

Awareness roll - [roll0] vs 14.

[Destro_Yersul]

Balbus was too busy wondering about the tattoos to notice anything. Absently he put his pistol away again, happy that he hadn't needed to fire. The others all seemed quite competent in that department, as per his initial assessment, so perhaps there was hope he'd never need to fight anything himself. Now, where had he been? Ah, yes. The tattoos... and perhaps the skull modification. He really would need to find if they wrote anything down on this world, perhaps read a treatise on local culture if one could be found. Obviously it would be entirely too suspicious to go asking the guards, when he was supposed to pretend to be from here, but he could very likely get away with asking where the centers of learning were located.

Lurking near the back of the group, he waited for everyone to head back towards the line, and the gate, and the getting out of this bloody hot sun.

[Simsimillia]

Pris barely felt the hand on her shoulder. This was the first time she had actually killed someone. Sure she had fought and hurt before. Some street punks and perverts back where she came from still carried those marks. But she'd never actually taken a life.

"Holy frak!", she whispered under her breath and stared at the lifeless body for a few more seconds before she was able to pull herself together again, securing and holstering her weapon.

[LeSwordfish]

Amanda kept moving forward, hoping to reach the corpse before the authorities did. She was currently hoping they'd done the right thing in shooting the fugitive.

[Thragka]

Viewing the cadaver from a few steps closer did not provide many more clues. Certainly the man hadn't been carrying any bulky weapons, but Amanda noticed that there were small pockets sewn into the banded garment around his chest - enough to carry an assortment of subtle tools, had his intentions been less than honest.

Her eyes were drawn to his hands. Unsurprisingly, the palms were calloused. But the nails were not the naturally broken or blunt she might have expected. They had been filed into short jagged claws, and a dark substance was congealing under them ...

"Mitmat." A jaguar warrior was approaching. He cleared his throat; it was, in fact, the one who had sorted out their customs confusion earlier. "Ma'am. Thank you for your ... assistance. But I must ask you to leave," he said, firmly. "I'm sure you don't wish to be caught up in our paperwork."

He indicated the other side of the runway. The chain-link fences were being pulled open, and the desperate crowd was spilling and bursting through into the bus yard.

Not quite sure from your post, Destro, does Balbus want to ask the guards how to find the "centers of learning"?

[Eldest]

Kay peers suspiciously at the body, before looking at Pris. Good... her mouth grimaces for a moment shot. She sheathes her sword, frowning. Now they couldn't ask any questions of the running man.

[Thragka]

While Amanda investigated - or tried to investigate - the freshly cooling corpse, Kay's eyes were drawn back into the shadow of the warehouse. The woman in command quickly melted into the gloom - but for a moment, there was a thin silhouette standing beside her. At eye level, two faint green lights shone. The shadow moved, and a tiny electrical spark flared white momentarily, about four feet off the ground.

The warehouse doors shut.

[LeSwordfish]

Amanda backed away from the corpse, sheathing her blade. Did the body have... blood under its nails? Earth?

"Who was he?" She asked carefully.

[Thragka]

The ocēlōtl hesitated. He looked around, judging how close his fellow jaguar knights were - perhaps wondering if they could overhear. He started when his voxpad sounded.

"Ocēlōtl Huemac, I said clear the area."

The officer jumped to attention. He whistled to the enforcer who was lumbering over with poles and barricade tape. Then the ocēlōtl raised his arms to block Amanda from the scene, and shepherd her back. "Please, ma'am, find your bus."

The Acolytes wandered back across the hot asphalt. It was less physically punishing, to walk slowly, yet it still seemed mentally onerous. For better or worse, the adrenaline that had prompted them to cross it at speed in one direction was now spent, leaving behind only a lactic ache in their muscles and a lack of answers.

The disorganised crowd was still being painstakingly secreted through the gates by the time they reached the lingering rear. The line of slaves was exactly where it had been before. Some of those unfortunates watched them return from the excitement with dull patience and bleak dispassion.

On their way through the gate, Balbus put his question to the fat enforcer who'd seen them earlier. After all the confusion, the man was nonplussed; only going so far as to raise his eyebrows in question of the historian's motives, he shrugged, and mumbled something about the "Gothic Library" as the flow of the crowd carried Balbus away.

In the next yard, the autobuses had seen better days. Their bodies were made from badly dented corrugated iron. What paint had not yet peeled off in the heat was decoloured by the sun. Windscreens were chipped or cracked entirely. In silence, the mitmaq in the yard were partitioning into groups and boarding by destination: signs in front of the vehicles showed locations such as Azcapotzalco, Coyohuacan, Moyotlal, Tepeyacac. Neither the spaceport guards nor the bus conductors seemed to be checking passengers' tickets or passes; everyone, it seemed, wanted to be on their way with the minimum of fuss.

[Destro_Yersul]

The location of the Gothic Library had, unhelpfully, not been mentioned. He couldn't even pick a location to start from, which annoyed him given that he'd need to get onto one of the buses. Probably sweltering bloody things inside, too. Most desperately in need of some basic Imperial comforts. Well, nothing to do for it, he was stuck on this awful planet until they had something to give the Inquisitor. "Which one should we take?" he asked Amanda. She seemed to be most used to taking charge of things. Or at least, both used to taking charge of things and less terrifying than Kay.

[Mekboy]

"Teichhuicatl, isn't it? Or is that where we are now?" Rachel interrupted to wonder aloud. There certainly must be a low Machine Cult presence on this planet. Her overseer would have had someone's guts if he saw the state of those buses.

[Simsimillia]

"No idea, can't read. Where do we even wanna go now?"

It was quite clear that Pris was still a bit shaken from the events that had just happened at the spaceport.