Q&A Time:

Compass West: We'll see...

Vanbor the Fire Mage: You're right, there is more than that...

melgar: Virgil would become too powerful if I gave him plasmids, and do you think a Space Marine would submit to more gene-manipulation? They're a tool of the Emperor, refined over millenia (that last bit was untrue, but still...) and above all, they abhor the mutant; and what are splicers?

I do have plans for giving Virgil more combat power, but for now he's going to match the profile for a Bouncer Daddy.

Legionary: This is actually an in-between: the Storm Bolter's gone, and he's facing the equivalent of Imperial Guardsmen Conscripts with the odd Sanctioned Psyker mixed in. I think that its about right, don't you think?

HAL-9001: XD I'll have more shout-outs later on.

Yep. Chaos does that to you when you see your home, family and friends burnt to the ground and sadistically slaughtered.

Silverite, mephisteron and Ugolino: Ask, and ye shall (eventually) receive.

Thought for the Day: "Waste not thine munitions; Departmento Munitorium requisition forms have to be done in triplicate!" -Commissar Tomas Sturm, Graduate of the Havensdown Schola Progenium, Survivors of the 986.M41class.


Virgil fell silent as he walked down the hall, scaring away a group of rats that were gathering near a still smoldering body.

Inspecting it closely, he realized the disturbing similarities between his own armor and the bulky suit that plinked with the cooling metal. Eight shattered holes were all that he saw as anything resembling viewports, and he assumed that the creature inside did not have eight eyes; the dome-like helmet probably justified that the viewer would need more than one eye-hole. The hard leather suit was flexible, much unlike his armor... it was a far cry for being able to be called 'armor', yet it did have a rather strong quality to it.

Virgil held up his hand, thoughtfully looking at the suit's left.

They looked almost identical, to the casual observer.

The sudden flush of cold logic hit him.

Angels of Vigilance Honor Terminator Virgil knelt before the shattered suit. He touched the 'forehead' of the torched Big Daddy.

"Rest in peace, Mr. B. Your charges are safe with me."

He stood back up, and saluted.

Relaxing from the stance, he moved over to the doorway that lead to the Medical Pavilion, and found himself in an airlock, half-filled from shattered glass. Walking over to the door opposite, Virgil easily twisted the simple revolving lock and pulled the door open. It was a bit of a squeeze, but the Terminator managed to get his bulky suit through the small oval of doorway.

"Tenenbaum, I am in the Medical Pavilion."

The Splicer's home. Anna's prison.

This new space was... awkward. The giant staff with the two lines curling around them were etched with an unfamiliar markings. Again, like that pressure lock before, it was irritatingly familiar but also so foreign to him. Walking forward, the glowing rods flickered as water dripped down from above.

His footsteps shaking the ground as he passed by, Virgil looked left and right, wondering about the new environment that he had been presented with. Out of the corner of his eye, a flickering light alerted him to the presence of a small machine. This thing was obviously a medical facility: all humans recognized the red cross upon a white field as a sign of aid. Walking over to it, he found himself checking the dispenser over... possibly this was a servitor, bound to this wall? The simplistic style of manufacture was comforting, but nonetheless Virgil remained alert.

Something had come through here, he saw. A panel on the side revealed a complex series of connected pipes, and the flap that closed over it hung open.

Virgil looked around. Behind him, a similar machine was sparking as electricity arced over the metal surfaces.

Someone had been through here.

Virgil stalked along the empty hallways, his pounding footfalls shaking the floor as he rumbled along.

In the distant periphery of his senses, he could hear the scuttling footsteps of running

He was, for lack of a better word, worried.

For the safety of a little girl?

This Space Marine had engaged tens of thousands of foes in thousands of engagements over centuries of warfare, his fighting prowess guided by millenia of refinement and practice, trials and errors. He had seen millions, if not billions of lives snuffed out, some over days, others in the blink of an eye. Creatures thousands of years old had folded into his blows, crushed by the anti-matter field that surrounded his implacable fist.

What more was one life? One that had been corrupted beyond recognition, one that had barely learned to live? Was he worried? For that one, tiny, insignificant soul?

Certainly.

The door slid back as he approached it, and revealed a rather horrid little room. Even the most cold-blooded of Inquisition Interrogators would balk at the state of this... workspace. It was simply messy, notes and blood strewn across the floor as if it someone had thrown a tornado grenade into the room and not bothered to pick up what was left.

Then again, there wasn't much left to begin with, so that set his argument back a little.

Virgil looked around the devastated room.

"Is this the place?" He asked Tenenbaum, over the radio.

"I cannot be sure. Your... friend died before he could give us more specific instructions, yes?"

The Terminator decided that she was being sarcastic about the friend remark. His friends were infinitely more respectable than that scum he had just squeezed the life off. A nearby couch was stripped of its padding, and Virgil squeezed it in his Power Fist's many servos to wipe the blood away.

It was one of those things, you know? He wouldn't waste what remained of his Power Fist's charge on activating the power field – that would have cleared the blood off right away – and simply cleaning it was too onerous a task to undertake when encased in his armor.

Getting out of his Tactical Dreadnought Armor was simply out of the question.

Virgil looked around, at the plaster-and-wood construction of the underwater buildings.

"If we cannot find her, then it is a simple matter: I shall simply pull this place apart, block by block, until I find her. It should not take too long." Virgil relished the thought of being able to systematically tear the place apart.

"Very simple plan, yes?" Tenenbaum chuckled, her voice hiccuping as the radio crackled. "I have alternate action: capture a Splicer, alive, and ask."

"I understand... Tenenbaum, how do you think I should go about disabling a Splicer?"

Never before had the Terminator been tasked with such a... delicate task.

Orwen Roberston crouched over the broken machinegun turret, hammering away at it with his wrench. Goddamn that intruder! He was breaking everything! EVERYTHING!

Cursing and spiting, he checked the valves had been reconnected the CORRECT WAY! Who needed them to get water from A to B, huh! Atlas would have a fit if he knew what was going on! What the hell was Ryan doing, bringing in an outsider? Wasn't he the one that had brought them down here in the first place anyway!

The spinning gyrocopter behind him emitted a series of beeps and whistles.

"Shut the fuck up, ya fuckin' screwhead."

Pulling back the control board, he checked the last set of panels, then pushed them closed. Grabbing the toggle to the gasoline engine, he tugged on it. The turret sputtered, coughed and died. Orwen growled, and kicked the turret.

Behind him, there was a metallic crunch and a series of thumps. He turned around to find the guard-copter gone from the air. It was in a corner now, smashed to pieces. Probably smacked into something, ruined its gyros, and crashed. Orwen sighed.

"Ah, fuck... can't get a fuckin' thing right, can you, you fuckin' fuckw-"

Orwen Robertson, born on the 18th of May, 1930. Became a tradesman in 1949, brought to Rapture during its conception as an elevator engineer, and later an automated turret manufacturer. During the Rapture Civil war of '59, he was put out in the front lines of war under the banner of Fontaine Futuristics as a combat engineer.

Virgil silently looked at the back of his bloodied hand.

"Virgil, are you there? You hit him as instructed, yes? A sharp blow to the back of the head?"

More silence.

"Virgil? Virgil! Answering, please!" Tenenbaum insisted over the radio.

Wiping the blood off on the waistcoat of the headless Splicer, Virgil coughed into the radio.

"Well... frak."

"What happened?" Tenenbaum's tone was worried as she insisted for details.

The Terminator's eyes went from the back of his hand, to the decapitated body on the ground in front of him, then to the head lying ten feet away.

"His head's gone."

Crackling static was all he could hear.

"... Tenenbaum? Doctor?"

"I guess they really make you lethal... You will be needing... ach, what do those Americana call it? 'Plan B'?"


"Ahn... ahn aburve ahll... ah hwill doo – hee hee, I shaid doo doo! - wasshit again? Ah whill doo... heehee doo noh h-harrrm..." Dr. Joel Patterson teetered on his feet.

Pam's Pub certainly had a well stocked cellar. Had. Past tense. He knew it was good wine that he had been drinking. He was a conneisur... connesseseiu... connaes... expert! Giggling to himself, he looked along his shoulder to the equally enlightened Jonas.

"Ain't dat roight, J-Jonas?"

Hiccuping, he looked down at the dirty apron. Formerly Steinman's protege, the freelance doctor would operate on anyone given a chance and a half. Chuckling to himself, he remembered that Missus Hatley had been suggesting much more unorthodox methods of payment for any new beauty plasmids he may have had found. Should he keep leading her on a little bit longer?

Cackling to the ceiling, Patterson almost didn't notice the Big Daddy until he ran into it. It was crouched over by a big hole in the wall. A Little Sister hidey-hole.

"Aww, aren't you lonely, ya big lug?"

He playfully made punching motions, knowing that it wouldn't hurt him if it... wait... why did this one look a little funny? Kinda... harder. Bigger, too.

Why was his left arm crackling?

"Aw hell no... they didn't give you plasmids, did they?"

Drawing his pistol, he pointed it at the head of the Big Daddy... well, it was a Big Daddy, wasn't it?

"Don'tcha worry, bahddy-boi. H-hits ghot Ae-pee r-rounds... ghoz thru hell-mets laik... laik... y'know... hot... hot clever? Cleahver! Thru... thru... uh... really easily!"

The right hand shot up, and seized his arm. Bones crackled, muscles snapped. Patterson's wrist crumbled to fine powder and his fingers jerked and went spastic as he tried to activate his Electro Bolt plasmid.

That wasn't a Big Daddy.

Patterson screamed.

His pistol – a custom made revolver made by the finest gunsmiths in Rapture – made a loud pop as it discharged.

It hit the faceplate of the bear-like Big Daddy. The bullet ricocheted off the flat plate and into Patterson's shoulder.

"Holy sh-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Virgil ducked his head forward, ready to rise up and stop the man before h-

He fired again.

The AP round bounced off the flat 'nose' of Virgil's helmet, and ricocheted. It entered the man's throat and made a clean exit through the back of his neck. Deformed beyond recognition, it severed just about every nerve and muscle on its exit.

Patterson died painfully.

Virgil sighed, and thumbed the control for his vox.

"Setting a trap didn't work, Tenenbaum. He tried to shoot me. Ricochet killed him."

"... gott in himmel..."

"Do you have a Plan C?"

"Find soft hitting object. Maybe pillow?"

Virgil was silent.

"Maybe not."


"P-please! No more hitting!"

The Splicer flailed as Virgil looked at him through blazing red eyepieces, throwing the plush pillow away as he advanced. He had sealed himself in the suit as soon as his atmosphere scrubbers detected a spike in the amount of fecal matter in the air.

Disgusted, the Splicer was flung to the ground. He tried to scramble away.

Virgil eased his boot down on the man's ankle.

"Stop. Moving." He warned.

The Splicer swore, spat and cursed, then redoubled his efforts to escape. His hands found a discarded and empty pistol, and hurled it at the massive armored giant. The weapon flew up, and bounced off its chest. There was an almighty shifting of weight, and the Splicer screamed as three tons of Terminator kicked his ankle, breaking it.

A foot was brought down on his knee, ready to shatter it at a breath's notice.

"Talk, and you shall be released."

The man became very still, except for his mouth, which began to flap uncontrollably.

"Alright! ALRIGHT!"

"There was a Little One brought through here. Where. Is. She?"

Tenenbaum could almost imagine the man's thoughts; Oh God, those Big Daddies think! Ohshitohshitohshit, I'll never stick a memo on one again!

"... t-the dental suite! Old man Suchong's place! H-haverson's boys have a base close by! I-I swear, I'm not lying!"

"Tenenbaum?" Virgil released the radio's 'send' button, and awaited the answer from the mysterious woman.

"He probably isn't. Let me find some maps, and I'll direct you to the place."

"Then may you find mercy before the Emperor, mutant."

Virgil stepped forward, and moved on.

Well, today's chapter is a little bit more on the humorous side (albeit the gorier side too), so I've hoped you've enjoyed it. Currently, my main focus is the ToyHammer story, so chapter releases for Brother Bubbles will be sporadic at best.

If you've enjoyed this, please review!