Hey, you people. It's been a while since I've updated this story but here we are after 4 months. However, there's a complication. No, I'm not canceling the story or Tabby + Sweater QT's chapter. The universe I chose was Warhammer 40k which has a metric FUCK-TON of lore and the plot I have in mind was too complex for a two parter. Plus I don't have the energy to create these massive chapters right now because of school. So I develop a simple solution. I'm making Tabby + Sweater QT's chapter into its own story. That's right. It's own story. Granted, Tabby and Sweater QT needs more stories where they're the focus and this takes some stress off of me as I can outline the story better and I can leave alone it for extensive periods while I work on my other stories.
Furthermore, this method enables me to get started on the other girls. Cookie + Brown, Polly + Panda and Maggie. Also whatever woman I'm interested in at the moment. I won't do the poll winners in order, just the ones I can get done the fastest.
The current plots/outlines are poll winners are:
Cookie will have the girl next door/next-door neighbor vibe. In this universe, Mr. Groose moves and sells his home to be closer to his family. Cookie and her family buy the house and became the Loud's new neighbors. The plot continues from there. Brown QT will join later on becoming a Throuple
Polly Pain and Panda QT chapter. I honestly don't know which ones do first. Polly is probably the easier one. Okay so here's what I have in mind. The plot will be a continuation or inspired by Dance, Dance, Resolution but they're in high school. Lynn hooks Lincoln up with Polly because Lincoln is more a shy artistic nerd in this AU. They had a fun time and become a couple. Of course Rusty gets jealous and tries to one-up Lincoln and take Polly away. Panda QT is a tough one. I could keep their relationship from QTQ the same but that'll overlap with Polly's. So a personality/lore change will be required. Maybe a delinquent or tough girl from Taylor's chapter
Maggie will be similar to Taylor's chapter. Both are in high school and the same class. She's still pissed about the birthday party thing. Therefore, she uses this as a basis to get closer to him. I'll use Battle Bot attacking or at least the aftermath where Maggie is INSANELY worried about him and his health. She becomes his emotional support big-breast goth/emo gf as he opens up to her.
Everyone good? Great. Now for the reviews.
Bryan Pacheco: Oh yes, Wholesome NTR, the only acceptable NTR.
Pirohiko-Baltazar: Yeah, I know this chapter was kinda out of nowhere
JD1122: Personal reasons for the name change and now that I've gathered a bit of a fanbase, I needed a suitable name. Don't worry, I put them on a future list. Also I could do some of the continuation chapters whenever I want whenever, I feel like it.
Uber Ghidorah: We don't have the official ages of Rita and her friends. They're in their mid forties at the minimum so they're in their mid to late fifties in the chapter. Menopause is transitional process occurring from 45 to 55 but it varies. Mrs. Gurdle can still be in that transitional period
Mr. Haziq: It's only acceptable NTR, besides Wholesome of course.
"Ugh, finally we can get to Tabby's chapter," Lisa grumbled, rubbing her stinging head meat. Well, sorry for having a personal life, Lisa. "Mhm, right," The scientist mocked under her breath with an eye roll. "Yet you can write a new story and three random chapters with one of them not being Tabby," Lisa listed off his actions, raising a finger for each one when a phantom fist slammed into her stomach, destroying the arrogant air in her lungs.
"You don't piss off the author," ISSAC teased as his creator coughed roughly to regain equilibrium in her system. "Especially when you can have a chapter soon,"
"Fair point. I deserved that," Lisa grumbled, holding her aching abdomen. "So what's Tabby's chapter?" She asked, pushing up her glasses.
"The author initially tried for a more casual approach," ISSAC explained with a series of flashing lights and symbols on the screen. "Tabby and Lincoln were supposed to work together with Luna to get concert tickets. However, life happened, and now he's combing Tabby's and Sweater QT's chapter," He divulged while searching for the universe.
"What's the universe this time?" Lisa questioned. It should be good.
"Warhammer 40k," The machine answered. 40k? The grimdark sci-fi setting that took over twenty years to progress the timeline. "We got another two-parter. Lincoln is an Arbites, aka SWAT, with Tabby being a member of the Planetary Defense Force," He reported on the roles of the characters.
Lisa adjusted herself in her chair. "More action this time," ISSAC beeped to confirm her suspicion. "My best bet is that there's a rebellion or cult that threatens the stability of the planet," She used her latent familiarity with the setting to predict the potential series of events.
"Corrupt nobles, to be exact," ISSAC corrected. Lisa rolled her eyes at the plot. It's always corrupt nobles attempting to gain more at the expense of others. The scientist kicked her feet and eased herself into the chair.
Show time.
In the grimdark future of the 41st millennium, there's only war. Every day is a battle for survival to see the next solar cycle or savor your next meal. In the God Emperor's vast wisdom allowed for his faithful servants to rule their realms as they saw fit. Prosperous democracies, ruthless dictatorships, lavish monarchies, and heartless businesses where the citizens live and die in their workplace or simply have the biggest weapons. All manner of planetary leadership is permitted as long as they pay their tithe. Untold numbers of brave men and women of the Imperial Guard rely upon the millions and billions of planets, giving a portion of their resources to support the unyielding war effort against everything threatening their Imperium. A planet's tithe varies depending on the natural resources, population size, and manufacturing capabilities. Manpower is guaranteed with no exceptions, offering an elite tenth of their Planetary Defense Force to the Imperial Guard. The rest can be whatever's available. Food, minerals, and weapons are secondary. Now. What happens if a planet is hesitant or the Adeptus Administratum finds tithe lacking in any way? That's never allowed. It's one of the few things on par with Hersey or Secession. The Adeptus Arbites are utterly devoted to enforcing Imperial law throughout the Imperium without mercy. They must ensure that the Planetary Governor routinely pays their tithe, or they'll execute them on the spot. No one is above the law besides the God-Emperor himself and the Holy Inquisition. Both groups are united in their sacred duty of upholding the stability of the Imperium.
However, seeing a draconian Arbites precinct courthouse outside their lavish spires is enough. Mostly.
Vakdikar is a hybrid Hive and Mining world with a population of over 170 billion ruled by an Oligarchy of economic titans and ruthless business barons conducting petty wars against their rivals to ensure their company's dominance of their respective industries. However, it has an … unfortunate habit of timely massive civilian riots whenever it's time to pay the Imperial Tithe resulting in a delay. The Arbites must quell such revolts. They're the Judge, Jury, and brutal executioner. All the pious can afford a merciful gift of a trial.
Lincoln and his squad sat at their usual table in the precinct's sturdy grayish mess hall in Hive Ferrousian. A critical producer of iron and its alloys. They've been called a mini-Forge world for the routine, widespread manufacturing throughout the Hive. Ferrousian is responsible for constructing tanks and other armored vehicles for the wider Imperium. Members of the Mechanius ensure that these machines are fully operational and sanctioned. Tech priests are vital to the Hive despite their small presence.
"Alright, which ones would you guys rather fight?" Zach questioned, pushing around his lunch gruel. "Orks or Tyranids," The redhead asked amidst the quiet chatter. It's a logical question, as those foul Xenos are among the most common external threats.
"Orks, all the way," Lincoln winced, crewing on the blank nutritious substance. Several nodded in agreement. Both species are horrifying to encounter, with limitless numbers and rampant adaptability at their helm. Orks are constantly searching for an exhilarating fight throughout the galaxy. It's irrelevant who they fight as long as it's good. Greenskins will fight anyone and everyone. Imperium, Tau, Eldar, Necron, Chaos, Tyranids, and themselves. The second and third wars of Armageddon are evidence of that. His spine shuddered at the Octarius War now that Tyranids had won. Stronger than ever before.
"I rather fight neither if possible," Mollie suggested.
"At least with Tyranids, it'll be quick," Girl Jordan countered. Ork invasions can least for centuries even after they're gone because of the spores.
"But it's also worse," Lincoln explained. His chilling blue eyes scanned the area. "Nids are fully aware of how civilized cultures operate and infiltrate them," A shiver erupted in their spines. Disgusting Genestealers. A hyper-specialized Tyranid organism to assimilate into a planet's culture before an invasion. Either cause a rebellion to weaken the world or gain total supremacy leading the hopeless sheep into the slaughterhouse. "Also, there's so fucking many of them," He seethed at the immeasurable legions of the Great Devourer. Hordes and rivers of Gaunts and Rippers smothered the earth, shadowed by Synaptic creatures directing the horde with unmatched efficiency, overriding their base instincts to achieve victory. Who knows how many planets were consumed before the Tyranids arrived in the Milky Way galaxy? "They can create brand-new organisms to combat new threats after a single campaign," Lincoln continued. Clyde rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. Tyranids devoured their world like an indulgent hive noble, gorging themselves on their daily feast. Nothing remained. A shrieking alarm interrupted the still atmosphere, filling the room with a flashing crimson hue. Everyone paused their eating and chatting.
"Attention, Arbites. Attention, Arbites," They glance at the overhead intercom. "There's a massive riot in District 25 subsection 56 at the food distribution center 4," The automated voice announced. "All available Arbites deploy," Their eyes sharpened at the announcement. They devoured their meals, leaving their plates for the servitors to pick up before exiting their cafeteria. The halls rumbled with a cacophony of dozens of stony-faced Arbiters running towards the Barracks.
The screeching crimson of future enemies illuminates their faces. Lincoln and others arrived at their lockers to retrieve their war gear. Years of strict routine make this a simple procedure. The God-Emperor requires their brutal justice to ensure his everlasting legacy. He equipped his body in durable black carapace armor—dual pairs of heavy gloves and boots of similar material to crush criminals' throats. The final piece was an all-encompassing helmet with a secure rebreather. There's no telling what foul corrosive vapors accumulated over millennia from gluttonous production. It fastens with an audible click. Lincoln nodded to his squadmates. They passed others still putting on their gear and typing their boots. Each grabbed their weapons from one of the racks—some grabbed extra grenades. An assembly of grim-faced obsidian statues stood awaiting orders with their weapons ready. A hefty stern adult woman marched to the front.
"ALL RIGHT ARBITES!" Marshal Schoffner bellowed, her voice rumbling the walls. A rose-tinted cybernetic eye scanned the company of brave men and women in her service. "It's that time of year again," She grumbled at the situation. It's clockwork for them. There's always a convenient widespread riot whenever it's time to pay their Tithe. They should've stormed and executed that Emperor-forsaken Governor and his goons years ago. The enigmatic labyrinth known as the Adminstraum ignores it when offered extra munitions and resources to compensate for the tardiness. At least these riots provide quality training for her units. Several Chimeras, Rhinos, and Repressors parked in front with teams of rust red robbed Tech-priest provided their ceremonial rites to ease and awaken their machine spirits for battle. Those that don't know Machine spirits are essentially weakened A.I. Just don't tell them that unless you want forcibly lobotomized and converted into a portapotty. "However, this one is much larger than previous ones," She warned the crowd. It didn't deter them in the slightest, with several cocking their shotguns. That made her smile. "Prepare for combat. DELIVER THE EMPEROR'S DIVINE JUSTICE. MOVE OUT!" She ordered with a sharp arm gesture. The room quaked with their disciplined steps as they entered their armored transports.
Lincoln and his squad sat in their idle Rhino for a few moments until the engines roared and rolled off. They spent several minutes in tense silence, examining their weapons for the incoming fight. His frozen eye scanned his team, whom he had served for over seven years. None of them were natives of the world. That belonged to PDF and local enforcers who were the actual police of Vakdikar. Enforcers served as the Planetary Governor's heavily armed will. Anything that threatens the Governor's rule is crushed under their boots. It's the only thing uniting them. However, when the Governor harms the safety of the Imperium with lax tithes and subpar recruits for the Imperial Guard, they're heretics if they intervene to support the rebel lord. Lincoln's arctic eyes analyzed his team. Jordan and Mollie were the female equivalents of him and Clyde. They were friends before joining the Progela, being the children of hive nobles from a Civilized world. He anticipated them to be Soritaitas since they were Novitates. Next were Cookie and Jenny. The fair-skinned brunette had a passion for baking before her recruitment. Lincoln chuckled under his rebreather, recalling the destruction when he refused her cookies. She had the brutal strength and determination required for an Arbites. Her Riot armor's padding was brightly colored in a modest lilac, contrasting the stark color scheme of black, grey, and red. Jenny was the 'gentler' member of their duo. She stared at an aged photo of her and her younger sister Darcy. Lincoln smiled, remembering his sisters before the Nids attacked. Stella, the heavy weapon specialist, cradled the Cadian pattern grenade layer. She dispersed hordes of ravenous citizens with stun grenades and turned gangs into moist crunchy chunks with frag grenades. Her tall frame minimized the bone-shattering recoil. Now the boys.
Zach originated from an industrial world where his family served under a Magos Biologious. Liam was a simple farm boy from an Argi-world producing herds of Grox and bovine-like species. He forgoed the standard Lawbringer pattern in favor of the Vox Legi pattern. It's larger andoften used by planetary enforcers, with the added benefit of being used as a club while highly adaptable. What's his and Clyde's story? Both were from the same Feudal world. Lincoln was the next in line to become the Duke of house Loud. Clyde hailed from a skilled line of chefs. He missed his parents, planet, and life before everything turned into a nutrient soup. By the Emperor, did they stop the fleet or weaken it for the next planet or system?
"Arriving at our destination in T-minus five minutes," Their driver announced. Everyone did their final weapon examination with stony resolve. Their guns were locked and loaded. Several types of grenades are secured at their hips along with their sidearms. Some uttered silent prayers of protection from the Emperor, enabling them to do their duty. "T-minus three minutes,"
"Alright, you guys remember your training and stay together," Their team leader instructed them. A curtain of her crimson hair slipped from her helmet. She pressed her palm against the side of her helmet, nodding and replying to the other person. "They're getting hungry and feisty. We already received reports about casualties," Agnes replayed the news. Her team wasn't deterred. She smiled. "ON YOUR FEET!" The former battle sister barked. They did, standing in two five-man teams facing the ramp.
"Thirty seconds!" The driver shouted. Nothing was said besides the meek hum of the Rhino's dual electric motors. "Ten seconds!" Other Rhinos, Repressors, and Chimeras rumbled beside them. Their eyes exploded at the sheer size of the riot. It's easily in the tens of thousands. The plebs used makeshift rams to shatter the building's massive steel doors as workers cowered inside. What in the Throne's name is going on? "Now!" The access hatch opens, revealing its disciplined cargo. Several squads stomped from behind their APCs, shotguns, and other weapons firmly in their grasp as they positioned themselves at the front. Their faces were blank as the carnage unfolded before their visors. Scores of hivers among various demographics, young, old, ganger, factory workers, and whatever, were engaged in a brutal mosh pit of hunger and desperation. They grabbed whatever their gnarled and filthy talons could hold. Rocks and discarded metal cracked skulls and other bones. The truly destitute used their fists and teeth, brutalizing their foes like rabid animals fueled by starvation. Those better equipped used their auto pistols, stub guns, bludgeons, and knives, gaining swifter access to their ration packs. The arbiters had a sliverof pity for the starving masses. They never experienced the pang of enduring hunger. However. Pity is for the dead. They got into position, cocking their shotguns in thunderous unison. Adepts barricaded inside exhaled at the sight of their jet-black armor-claded saviors.
Members of the crowd who had the clarity to acknowledge the brutal boot of Imperial Law. "Oh shit, it's the Arbites!" Someone yelled before running away, holding a metallic ration package. Others followed and screamed. They pushed and shoved themselves through the masses, attempting to avoid brutal justice. Few lingered in their escape, scavenging whatever valuables from bloody lukewarm corpses: weapons, imperial credits, shoddy prosthetics, and snatching packages for themselves. Dozens were indiscriminately crushed in their frantic rush. Normally the spine-chilling sound of their guns pacified prior riots and disorder. Not this time. Airborne cogitators surveyed the horde, estimating the numbers. Barely ten percent fled the scene, with several thousand remaining. Agnes marched forward. A wall of Riot arbitrators with shock mauls in their off-hands provides a shield wall for their comrades behind them. Armored vehicles aimed their weapons at the defiant crowd.
She clicked a small microphone, placing it near her mouth. "Attention, everyone," Her voice echoed from the hovering cogitators. It briefly halted the masses' fury, turning their focus to the stoic Arbitrators. "Please disperse and allow the adepts to distribute your rations properly, or you'll be fired upon," The stagnant air lingered in this dire situation. Grips tighten on their weapons—machinery whirring, aiming at the mob. More arbiters appeared, joining the ranks with a rigid dedication to their duty. "We are the Emperor's holy law," She emphasized like an instructor explaining a key topic on an upcoming exam. An array of blinding searchlights blazed behind her, stunning the front layers of the crowd.
"This is your final warning," Agnes warned, observing the mob participants rubbing their stinging retinas while slithering away for refuge in this metallic labyrinthic pyramid. Majority remained. Emboldened by their numbers with hunger or fear motivating them to stay. They proceeded to yell profanities, raising their makeshift weapons in defiance. She sighed before hardening her expression and chopping the air. Stella and others positioned themselves behind the shield wall. They arched their grenade launcher at 45-degree angles firing specialized grenades into the horde of denizens. Waves of choke grenades slammed into the crowd, releasing their suffocating vapor and dispersing the horde. The thick, choking mist irritated their eyes and noses while burning their respiratory system, leaving them coughing and vulnerable on the cold adamantium floor. Opportunity blazed in the standing denizens, watching their fellow hivers rived on the ground. Dozens more escaped with their ill-gotten gains, abandoning them to whatever fate awaited them. Hive worlds are a necessarily cruel system, enabling practicality and efficiency over comfort to house untold magnitudes of people while providing jobs and other resources to the broader galaxy. Millions die daily. They're expendable cogs in this decaying machine. At least filling their stomachs won't be a concern. Therefore, some companies will be vacant spots for them or promotions. More stayed, tossing rocks and other debris at the shield wall.
"Arbitrator Agnes, we're on standby, ready to deploy on your command," A voice announced from the vox feed. More teams relayed their status. All squads are ready.
"Arbitrators, advance!"Agnes bellowed, pointing to the ill-disciplined mass.
Justice marched.
Morale withered in the masses, fear speared like a rancid cloud opting to flee like vermin to their crypts. Many stayed with nothing to lose. They were already dying in this archaic, decrypt tomb of pollution and corruption. Forgotten, nameless, and irrelevant. This vicious cycle gives all their worldly possessions to the next person. What's the only option for a caged, cornered, hungry animal? Bite the throat of their oppressor. Repressors' water cannons doused them, giving the charging mob their first proper bath in generations. It wasn't enough to father them, but it gave the Arbites a vast opening. Riot Arbitrators were the spear tip. Shock mauls crackled with a thumb flick, burning the rioter's skin with electrified chops. They shrieked at the brutal strikes, losing whatever courage mustered within their ranks. The horde remained. Vehicles and Arbitrators launched their stun grenades. A storm of deafening explosions and blinding flashes illuminated the streets. Denizens grabbed their weapons, swinging and firing in every blurry direction. It makes the Arbites job easier during the clean-up.
"Round them up," The shied wall opened a gap for the advancing Troopers. Squads flooded through, firing with their shotguns. Blood and bone soaked in between the gaps in the metallic floor. They were kilometers above genuine soil. Lincoln's squad followed behind Agnes, using their training to cover each other's blind spots. Stella remained behind, unleashing suppressive fire to incapacitate the rabble further. Their eyes readjusted, aiming their guns at the Emperor's law. The Arbites rigid plates of carapace armor snored at the bullets, squishing against their bodies like overcooked marshmallows. Their merciless training and frequent trips to the vile under-hive cut the noose of overconfidence within their organization. Those trips to the under-hive claimed fledgling Arbitrators.
"Mollie, on your right!" Lincoln warned. Her eyes widened, grabbing her baton and parrying a strike from a female factory worker. The mechanicus needs more servitors anyway. She whipped the metal pipe from the worker's soot-covered hand before returning the favor when an elbow to the jaw. Mollie nodded, aiming her autogun and firing into the crowd. Three went down with headshots. Blood and brain matter escaped their craniums as they collapsed. More limped away, with their hands covering the wounds. Jordan handed back her shotgun while they continued their advance through the herd. Stepping over corpses became routine for them; their deceased faces were misshaped and marked by the stampede.
"Agnes, the distribution center has been secured," Agnes turned her head. Squads of Arbitrators positioned themselves at the entrance behind Aegis defense lines. Tarantulas rotated overhead to suppress the crowd further.
"ARBITRATORS ON ME!" Agnes commanded, raising her command baton in the air, signaling her position.
Warm memories of when she was a sister of the Argent Shroud filled her mind. She longed for those days again, wondering how her fellow sisters were fighting. May the Emperor guide them into his holy light.
"Get that bitch!" Someone in the rabble ordered before their head exploded in a gory fashion. Agnes' boltgun rumbled comfortably in her grasp as she fired. She wondered why they allowed her to keep her personal arm. It didn't matter to the Senior Arbitrator, enabling her to strike the righteous fury of the God-Emperor throughout her remaining days. However, Agnes had to be conservative with her shots now. Thankfully, they had never seen what a bolt round could do to the human body. Until now. She fired a single round into the center mass of the hulking savage of a man. His torso dimly flashed before separating itself from his waist by several meters, only for an intestinal rope to keep him intact. Myriad of emotions spread amongst the mob. First was the caustic grasp of horror, locking their bodies like a garden of statues. Death was a certainty within the hive, particularly from gangers. However, it's an utterly different story, witnessing the splattering carnage. It evolved into a panic. Several retreated, pushing others out of the way, hoping their bodies could be adequate human shields. They can return once the riot is quelled. Finally, greed blazed into scores of their oppountisic pupils, emboldened to target this woman. A bolt gun. An impossibly rare and enormously valuable item, only available to the true elites of the Imperium.
Glances were exchanged, mentally forging alliances with the thin-veiled promise of betrayal for increased monetary gain. They won't have to worry about money for months to even years. Hell, perhaps move to the upper levels away from this meat grinder. Bold strategy. Not on their watch. Cookie bashed her suppression shield in a small group, frying their nervous system with an electrical discharge. Jenny and Clyde lobbed grenades into the magnitude. Lincoln assisted with the coordination, directing the flow of the other Arbitrators. Zach covered Liam's flank as he reloaded. Stella's grenade launcher clicked, depleted of its ammo. She groaned, unholstering her sidearm and rushing into the fray with the rest of her team.
By the Emperor, how many are left?! Gunshots and explosions thundered throughout the district. Their ammo began to dry up, swapping their side arms or melee weapons to conserve as long as possible. Cookie bludgeoned rioters, shattering their bones with her power maul. It's utilitarian in design, resembling a steel baton, the weight slightly leaning to the top. She got a warning tingle in her spine. Someone was behind her. Her maul cracked against the assailant's skull, a teenager. The strike exposed his brain to the stank air, his breathing was shallow and desperate with a disposable gun in his palm. Cookie resumed her assault, demolishing bones and muscles with each motion. He broke the law therefore, his punishment is death. Agnes smiled at her students, proud of how they were developing. They're strong, resilient, devout, intelligent, and unified in their duty. Lincoln impressed her the most, using non-verbal gestures to direct other squads. Shame his planet was consumed; he would've made his planet a shining beacon within the Imperium. Her gaze harden,ed evading a wild strike from a tattooed female. Her form was spindly, with patches of skin covered in soot and acid burns. Spoiled dark yellow eyes held a feral cunning. Agnes struck three times. First to the shoulder, paralyzing the muscle by prodding with the crackling Aquila. The arm hung loosely, but she grunted through the pain. Another one to the chest. Agnes prolonged the contact, charring the thin filthy garment. The brawler's eyes hollowed as her body rumbled like one of the countless rundown generators powering the lower levels. Agnes' sarissa pierced her throat, wrenched the wet short blade, and kicked the body away. The assailant clutched her leaking throat, she coughed and gurgled while blood slipped from the corners of her lips. Her teeth were stained a deep red as she reached amidst the chaos. The words 'Repent' were engraved on Agnes' sarissa as the brawler collapsed on the ground, choking on her own blood.
"They're routing," The riot scrambled for safety into the steel labyrinth, carrying their allies or abandoning them to whatever man-made horror awaits them. Order has been restored within the hour. Members of the Officio Medicae treated the wounded near Trojans. Arbitrators herded the guilty to the accompanying Tech-Priests, sentenced to Servitude Imperpituis. Their pleas fell hollow against the Emperor's servants as they shoved into Mechanius transports to be whatever their rust-red-robed masters deem an appropriate fate.
"Loud, how many did we lose?" Agnes asked, bringing the frost-haired young men to her side. His black armor had crimson smears along the chest and helmet. Mangled bodies and discarded weapons littered the street while Adepts retrieved the ration packages.
"None, thankfully," Lincoln answered, easing the worry. "A few dozen injured, but that's it," He gestured to the medical personnel. "Well, over a thousand are dead, with more close to dying," The aroma of death filled the air with a dreadful thunder of machines, chilling the inhabitants to their brittle bones. They cleared a path for the Corpse Guilders. It's their duty, after all. The only abundant resource in the Imperium is the human body. Either for the perpetual war machine or providing a reliable food source via Corpse-Starch. A necessary evil because people need to eat. Real food is required for the nobles who never have to worry about when their next meal is approaching.
The gargantuan Marco-Hauler shierked to a halt. A warehouse-sized vehicle with built-in processing facilities spreads for kilometers in segments like a centipede. Several weapons rested on top for defense against raiders. Deattachements of Corpse Guilders with Servitors and other apparatuses surveyed the battleground, loading bodies and other limbs into the Marco-Hauler. Few of the rioters, with an inkling of strength in their futile bodies, attempted to push the guilders away. It's useless. The transport rumbled and thundered as hundreds of corpses were methodically added to be grounded into rations. Several Arbites and other personnel avoided eye contact adhering to the superstition of the Guilders. Lincoln surveyed the Corpse Guild members. They resemble ordinary people attempting to earn a sizable living. Their profession enables them to have a full belly, as some were more on the pudgy side. Nothing extravagant about their attire, consisting of an apron, thick gloves, and tools of their trade like cleavers. Others wore simplistic masks of cloth or steel. Was it to make them approachable or to heighten their spine-chilling aura? He didn't know. They moved indifferently throughout the street, hoisting bodies onto carriers for later processing. The deceased's clothing will be sanitized for its new owners, continuing the cycle. Guild members talked with a Tech-priest with an array of metal tentacles whirring about while some criminals howled and soiled their trousers in fear. Soon the street was clear of the previous battle.
"Attention, citizens, ration distribution will resume in 20 Terran minutes," An automated voice echoed. Denizens peeked from their windows with anxious eyes. "The corpse guild will provide extra rations as compensation for those who didn't receive them," The Servo-skull relayed as they floated overhead. "This message was approved by the Iron council," The skulls looped the message.
"Extra rations?!" Someone muttered, furious at the repeating message. Are they out of their minds?! Waves of the destitute poured, becoming serene upon viewing the enraged armored vehicles with bellies filled with ammunition. A convoy of Enforcers, the Oligarchy's personal army, arrived, relieving the Arbites of their duty. They marched, establishing a perimeter around the building.
"Alright, everyone, please stand on the designated lines," The senior member instructed, wielding an Enforcer bolt gun. They did as they were told, not wanting to suffer from the Governor's iron fist.
"Arbites, disengage," Agnes ordered her units. They arose and marched towards their transports. Lincoln's eyes locked with one of the Guilders. She held a data slate analyzing their cargo. They'll increase their quota by 2.45% with this event. Time slowed as their gazes prolonged. She's gorgeous. Her hair was a sleek jet-black shower, kissing the center of her back if it wasn't tied in a ponytail. It contrasted the ashen skin but suited the dull frown on her face. This has to be grueling work, grinding cities' worth of people into a fine powder to feed the population. Both experienced a bizarre sensation of … kinship. Did he save her in the past? She stood out from her peers, wearing an outfit similar to Adminstrum adept. A uniquely pristine deep black dress shirt with a pencil skirt and a stylized skull on the collar. The Corpse Guilder's visible eye twinkled behind her bangs as she offered him a smile before turning away to focus on their trade. Lincoln resumed his journey to his Rhino along with his squads.
If you're wondering, it's Lucy. I'll have Haiku as something else.
The enforcers watched as the Arbites returned to their Courthouses. "Did everything go accordingly?" A pompous voice appeared from within one of the Enforcer's helmets.
"Yes, sir," The enforcer acknowledged, muting their helmet. "The citizens are loving the extra rations right now," The voice smiled as a filled gullet can inspire loyalty among the plebs. Some were smiling, clutching the packages to their bodies. A dreadful weight was lifted from their shoulders.
"Good, keep it up." The call ended before the enforcer ushered citizens along. Lucy blankly stared at the Enforcers, swapping her focus to one of the corpses. It had the same tattoo as dozens of others. Why? She took notes for later processing. The line progressed as their Starch machines groaned, pulverizing bodies in the populace's meals. Tables and lines were established with satchels of starch lined up. Enforcers and Sevoritors were stationed throughout the street to deter another riot unless the citizens desired to be on the menu. Hours passed, and the overhead lights adjusted to the planet's solar cycle. Lucy checked her watch, displaying Vaikar's and Terra's time. It's close to midnight on Holy Terra and around one in the afternoon on this world.
I have no idea how to work time on this planet. I created this planet using a generator and bull shiting my way through this. Ah, fuck it. This planet has a 40-hour solar cycle, with every ten hours being a 'period'. They're currently at the start of the second period. That makes more sense than converting measurement units in a fantasy world.
All the rations were apportioned to the citizens. "Good work, everyone; let's pack it up," Lucy commanded. Corpse-Guilders nodded, storing their equipment as they climbed into Marco-hauler. An aura of relief permeated the citizens, watching the warehouse train trudge along to another district. They thanked the Emperor, allowing them to live another day.
The Marco-hauler wheeled throughout the Hive city, delivering their cargo at the designated stop. Lucy strolled in the rumbling car, recording and issuing orders to the Corpse Guilders at their machines. They nodded with a somber yet enduring respect for their supervisor. She's competent and respectful and was one of them. Some recalled when Lucy was a little girl, working and slaving on these same groaning machines. A smile was erected on their features. Now she's a big shot who rightfully deserved her position. Vats of dead biomatter were slowly poured into tubs of green algae. Soylent Veridian had less flavor than rockcerte. It didn't matter to the populace as long as it calmed their hunger and kept them alive. Plus, this method lessens waste, creating more output.
"Arriving at Corpse Grinder Plant 8C in fifteen minutes," The intercom announced. It gave hundreds of workers ample time to retrieve their belongings. Others continued to work with their grinding automata and stirring the tanks of biomatter. Chunks of animals and plants sank into the whirlpool. The winding machines muffled the groans of humans, barely clinging to life.
"Please," One of the bodies pleaded as a pile of them was wagoned to a grinder machine. Their request was ignored before being dumped into the pool. A steady stream of bubbles popped on the surface. It stopped in a few minuscule seconds. An essential rule within all Guilds is to keep up production. No. Matter. What. Each guild provides a critical service for their city, their world, and the vast regions of the Imperium by proxy. If they fail, then the Imperium falls with them.
"Everyone, please scan your cards," Lucy instructed, gesturing to a wall of limp Servitors. "And stand over here when you're done," The Corpse-guilders organized themselves into lines, holding small bags on their shoulders or hands. The servitor's eyes widened with implanted machinery sparked to life, scanning the cards with a quick red flash.
"Approved," The repurposed human said with a dull automated voice. Those words echoed as the lines dwindled. Lucy nodded, checking the data slate.. 824 workers. That should be everybody. The train stopped.
"We've arrived," The door opened, revealing a mammoth Corpse grinder plant. It's stark and foreboding, with screaming machines being the only sound for miles. Like countless facilities, people lived and died with the cruel walls.
Lucy smiled. It's good to be home again after a considerable time. "Follow me,' She declared, walking towards the plant. A legion followed behind her while another regiment marched towards the transport. "Boris," Lucy grinned at one of her long-time friends. The tall placid man smiled back as his section registered.
"Welcome back, Lucy," Boris beamed with a raspy voice. "I'll take that off your hands," He took one of the slates from her. His eyes widened with excitement at the next agenda. "Hive Jadeous. It went through a massive gang war in the underhive and some lower levels. Boris will be there for many periods," He remarked.
"You'll be fine. May the Emperor be with you," Lucy made the Imperial Aquila as did he before stepping on the hauler. It whisted away. She entered the building, observing as friends and family greeted each other after a lengthy absence. It's a practical process, enabling workers to venture outside their factories to prevent madness. Death hung in the air, yet subtle comforting warmth existed among the workers. Even love can bloom within this grim-dark universe. Some say it would lower production levels, but her actions and others like her proved that it gives them more of a purpose besides working, reproducing, and dying.
"All returning Guilders, please make your way to the hab-blocks and enjoy your two-day break," Penoploe announced. The majority ventured towards their living arrangements while others lingered with their companions. Lucy stretched and loosened her arms as she entered her private room. Luxury among the majority of hivers. That's one benefit of being a mid-level adept. She sighed, recalling the days of sharing a room with several dozen people.
Her room wasn't anything insane. Everything was within walking distance. Bed, shower, kitchen, closet, and a small lounge area. A few personal items decorated her abode, such as her old Corpse-guilder equipment resting on her dresser.
"Incoming message," Her cogitator beeped. The Inquisitorial Rosette appeared on the screen.
"So soon?" Lucy arched her brow, taking a seat while reading the encrypted message. She delivered a report as an image of Lincoln popped up. "Don't worry, he's safe after the riot. But we better act. These micro-wars and riots are rapidly increasing," Lucy confessed. The ruling class demanded an excessive demand in production across the world. Weapons, munitions, manpower, and construction. It wasn't required of their tithe. Nor was there any warning of an incoming invasion.
"Don't worry, I literally expected this," The message explained. "My agents have received their orders and will act in a few days," Lucy nodded. She can't shake the dread clawing at her back. Something is going to happen.
A row of garage doors opened for the approaching vehicles. Staff members guided them to their respective spots with red flashing traffic control lights. Arbitrators exited their vehicles, bloodied and bruised from the riot. Yet they stood firm, triumphant in their duty.
"Excellent work. Hit the showers and rest up," Schoffner ordered, gesturing to the locker rooms. They nodded. Some released exhausted sighs as they dragged themselves to the locker rooms and barracks.
"I can't wait to get the blood off me," Mollie grumbled, rotating her shoulder as they returned their weapons. Numerous Arbitrators nodded in agreement as they removed their armor.
"That riot was massive," Stella remarked, rubbing her twitching lower back from the grenade launcher's constant recoil. Why was it so huge? They wiped any blood stains from their armor as a part of their routine. "At least we have a break," She smiled. Some joked while reaching the locker room. Lincoln's team entered a pristine communal bathroom, walking past another squad. Each member stripped, revealing their nude, athletic, and scarred bodies to each other. Not a hint of shame. What? This isn't new for them. The Progenium indoctrinated them to resist temptations of the flesh and other wanton desires. Their privileged background allowed for a more comprehensive introduction to the human body. They found each other attractive, but the Emperor required them to be resolute in their tasks. Although a few liberties were granted to them, allowing for love to blossom within their organizations. Agnes had a few relationships during her career. Sororitas and Arbites are chaste, not abstinent. Some … release was allowed as long as it didn't hinder their duty. They entered the communal shower with washcloths and cleansing powders. Cookie pressed a button while they waited for the activation. A mist of comforting steam covered the room easing the stress from their sore body. They dabbed the powers onto their clothes before scrubbing their moist bodies. Both parties enjoyed the show. All bodies were beautiful in the eyes of the Emperor. The men were of steely muscle honed by years of merciless training, as were the women, being of silken steel. Elegant yet deadly.
"Vibration engage," A cogitator announced. The room emitted a low ultrasonic rumbling with layers of dirt and grime evaporating from their skin. Fresh water is a rare commodity throughout the hive. Another luxury to the Spires. What's the solution? People need to sanitize themselves. The solution was sonic showers, using ultrasonic vibrations resulting in a quicker and more efficient shower. It wasn't exactly an STC but a perfected and widespread technology throughout the Imperium. "Drying cycle," The vibrations altered into another frequency with deeper bass, sliding the water droplets into the vents underneath them. "Complete," The vibrations stopped, and they exited the room and grabbed a fresh set of clothes before heading to the Mess hall. One of the girls gave Lincoln a look. He smiled, following her to have some … fun after an exhausting day.
Several days later, a contingent of Arbites and their vehicles were on standby. "The Governor tasked us to cull the lower hive levels," Schoffner announced to her troopers. It's a routine process for the Adeptus Arbites. Hive Worlds are dangerous. The populations were too large to monitor them safely. Their citizens were typically unbalanced, if not utterly crazed. Especially denizens of the putrid Underhive. A decaying rundown cesspool of mutation and savagery. The poorest of the poor, or those with nowhere else to call home, gravitate towards the abyss. However, it's ideal kindling for cults or other nefarious groups. Nothing to lose but so much to gain. The Arbites must cull the world's population to more … manageable levels. A servo-skull hovered towards her with a Data-slate. "We're receiving reinforcements from the PDF," She arched her brow at the information. They weren't supposed to cooperate for an assignment until later in the year. The Marshal shrugged, probably another clerical error or something. "Meet them near the lower levels. MOVE OUT!" Schoffner ordered with an echoing stomp.
"Yes, ma'am," They shouted back before entering their transports. Squadrons of armored vehicles rolled out to complete another assignment.
"Ma'am, a report from the Inquisition," A young Adept whispered, handing a document to his superior. Her heart sank at the Inquisitorial symbol. A fucking Inquisitor?!
"Great," She groaned, opening the letter, knowing it couldn't be good. The Ordo Hereticus? Her eyes scanned the document, slowly widening at the contents. A determined smile cracked on her face. "Contact the other Precincts," Schoffner ordered a trooper. "You get the Sororitas on the vox," She pointed to another nearby Adept. "The Iron Council committed the highest crime against the Imperium. Treason," The air. "We need everyone on board,"
"Yes, ma'am," They saluted hastily to accomplish their task. Schoffner glared skyward at the hive spires. She knows the nobles were cackling in their grandiose towers built by corruption and sin. Enjoy it before the righteous buries you in it.
Several hours passed as the convoy ventured deeper into the city's bowels. The outside air became rancid, suffocating from the generations of pollution leaking from this cruel system. Thankfully, with the Rhino's environmentally sealed chassis, they don't have to smell or taste the air. Disheveled buildings were widespread as the occupants hid like terrified vermin observing the Arbites drive past. Functional lights became rare and dimmer with each descending level, like an animal close to death but still has the will to survive. However, animals are the most dangerous when wounded and cornered. That's the most accurate way to describe those who call the Underhive home. Gangers, mutants, heretics, and countless other horrors can be found there. If the underhive is so horrific, then why don't they destroy it? Simple. The underhive creates a distinct class boundary and a possible punishment for the lower class. Hordes of Archeotech and ancient technology from humanity's glory days can be discovered, boosting the world's prestige. Finally, a steady source of battle-hardened Space Marines and Imperial Guard recruits.
"We've arrived," Agnes announced to her team. The driver nodded, pushing several buttons to open the back ramp. They marched out, welcomed by the cacophony of machinery with Sector Mechanicus Beta 4F-K2. Agnes gestured for them to follow her, joining the rest of their deployment. Several companies of Chimeras were ahead of them. Years of training silenced their controlled footsteps as they scooped the area, keeping watch for any hostility. Communities of industrial workers viewed the contingent of Arbites and their vehicles roaming to their destination. Their gaze was a mix of emotions; fury for the deaths of their colleagues, fear because of the Arbites' brutal application of the Lex Imperialis, and gratitude for keeping them safe from the worst of what this grimdark universe can manifest. Plus, they make the Iron Council actually do their jobs. Several wiped their brows before returning to their own line of work. These tanks won't build themselves.
An Imperial Strongpoint assembles the Arbites near Sector Infernus Omega or Badzone #5. The mighty fortification combines a series of unique constructions to produce a potent, static defensive position of ferrocrete and ceramite. Imposing bastions connected a labyrinth of Aegis defense lines, turret emplacements, and tarantulas to bolster their perimeter. These fortifications are common worldwide to guard vital and strategic locations such as the nearby factory. Both groups stood ready to receive their assignment order. They couldn't be more different. Agnes led a company of the ruthless discipline of the Emperor's law. The Vakdikar Stonecrushers were an undisciplined crockpot of gangers, convicts, and volunteers recruited throughout the hive and habitable moons via conscription or a method of punishment. She scanned PDF members. They wore the standard Flak armor with a rudimentary rebreather mask on their faces or necks. No doubt that some were modified Chem-inhaler for combat drugs. Few of them had customizations to their armor. Each member held a close combat weapon. The 'professional' members wielded their bayonets on their lasgun or autoguns with a combat knife as a backup. Others opted for cruder weapons like hammers, shovels, and iron poles. Veterans and officers had mechanical augments and chainswords. The Stonecrushers captain approached her. She is a tall woman with light skin, shoulder-long black hair, and red lipstick. A floral headband ordained her forehead with a power maul and laspistol on her hip. The older women shook hands.
"Nice to meet you, Senior Arbitrator Agnes. I'm Captain Salter," The company commander introduced herself in a laidback manner.
"Pleasure's all mine," Agne replied respectfully. Blessed throne, this woman reeks of Lho-leaf. Salter probably just finished one before their arrival. Not illegal. It's likely pre-battle nerves. They're entering the underhive within a few moments. Death is a sneeze away. Both women faced their units. "Guardsmen, Arbites, we're heading into the dreaded underhive," She announced; the Arbites maintained their grim resolve while the PDF remained indifferent. Some were whispering about bets or competitions about rewards for a feat or number of kills. Others sweated their fear with blank faces. Those had to be the new recruits. Another group had a single white stripe on their helmets. Conscripts. They had a mixture of reactions. Sobbing, vomiting, staining their pants with urine and feces, or fully accepting their pre-signed death. Salter and Agnes can't blame them. Too old or young for normal conscription with the most minimal training imaginable before being organized into a large platoon of fifty.
Only with the basic flak armor and lasgun with a bayonet. Agnes narrowed her eyes at their main weapon. It's lighter and more compact compared to the PDF. Wait…those are Lascarbines! Easier to carry and aim, making it ideal for hastily assembled units, but it has a shorter range and fewer shots. Crap. Their inexperience prevents them from using special and heavy weapons. If they're lucky enough, they'll be permitted to use a Lascanoon. No grenades, either. Yep, most of them will be dead before the solar cycle ends. Then another conscript platoon will be assigned. At least the survivors will be either PDF or Guardsmen. A promotion.
"You'll be assigned into squads of ten with two five-man fireteams," Salter explained. Okay, that's nothing crazy. It's identical to what they already do. "One Arbites and one Stonecrusher," The groups' eyes widened, glaring at the other side with a tense silence. The Stonecrushers held their tongues despite their boiling outrage. Some of them lost friends because of cullings like these. They received their assignments.
"Head to your vehicles and meet the second half of your squad," Agnes commanded before they paced to their transports. A skeleton crew remained to man the defenses. Few of the conscripts praised the Emperor for allowing them to stay behind. Lincoln's squad consists of his friends Clyde, Liam, Stella, and Girl Jordan waiting by their Rhino. Who are their partners? Oh, here they come right now. The squad leader was a spunky young woman of their age with jet-black hair with purple highlights. Her eyes scanned their forms. "Oi, you're our team huh? Names Tabitha but everyone calls me Tabby," She introduced herself to the Arbites. "This is Chunk, Mazzy, Giggles and Haiku," Tabby revealed her squad members' names. These culls can last for over a month, so it's great to know who you're working with.
"I'm Lincoln. These are my friends Clyde, Liam, Stella, and Girl Jordan," The argent-hair young man began his introductions.
"Girl Jordan?" Chunk asked.
"We have two Jordans in our Precinct," Girl Jordan explained. "It makes things easier,"
Lincoln removed his helmet, stunning the PDF members with his pristine features. Holy fuck he's handsome! They expected him to be some grizzled veteran, not a Spirer's favorite boy toy. "Welcome aboard," He smiled offering his hand. Tabby couldn't help but smile back shaking his hand, and giving it a little rub with her thumb. Lincoln arched his brow at this action. Is she…?
"Come on guys, we're some VIP treatment," Tabby declared to her team, giving Lincoln a flirty wink as they marched on the back ramp. He glanced at his team who shrugged at the action. They were confused too. Whatever, they had a job to do and transports were already departing. The driver nodded, closing the ramp before heading out to the dreaded underhive.
"Wait that's it?!" Lisa shouted, outraged at the lack of content. "Yeah, we got some action but come on man," She groaned.
"Hey, at least we got something for this," ISSAC rationalized after a lengthy delay.
"Four months for a fucking cliffhanger," Lisa pouted with a sigh. "The rest of the chapters better make up for this," She crossed her arms, waiting for the next one.
You heard the woman. Buckle your seats until the next chapter and this chapter becomes it own story. Fuck, I have to find a name for the story. Great.
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