So, to answer a question asked in a review: there's a difference?
I'm genuinely curious.
So anyway, I know this is like ridiculously late, but between moving to a different department at work, and just life general, I kinda got behind.
Anyway hope you all like this!
Magus Biologis Xander Gates had just seen some rather interesting data from his Inquisition associate, something he didn't think he would have ever happened. The data was on what the Inquisitor insisted was a rather unique blood sample. That so far, the Magus had been able to confirm. From what he could tell from the raw data that his augmetics had been able to process so far, whoever this blood had belonged to was either vaccinated or outright immune to diseases that had genetic structures he had never even seen, let alone heard of, and all this was before he got the genetic material itself. The genetics of the individual showed minimal wear or tampering, something unheard of on even the most habitable of Imperial worlds. Truly this person, whoever they were, was the greatest scientific anomaly of the past millennia, and he was being asked to study the person's blood.
"Truly Zephyrus Drakon," Xander said his voice sounding metallic, his tonsils having long since been replaced with far superior vox augmetics, "you do know how to make my life entertaining."
Back with Michael…
He groaned as he woke up again, this time his doctor or nurse was it, wasn't present. In her place was a slack jawed, glassy eyed, and probably the creepiest thing he had ever seen. The thing was some kind of cyborg, the points where metal met flesh looked like it had been painfully grafted on, and he couldn't help but notice that in place of arms, the thing had two gun barrels pointed at him.
"You got a name," he asked, only for the cyborg to continue stare at him with its blank expression, drool from its open mouth dripping from its jaw and onto the floor.
"What is this unit's designation," he asked in a more authoritative tone, only to receive the same blank stare.
"Screw it," he said, before thinking on what a good name would be, "I'll call you Watchdog."
If the cyborg had heard what he had said, it didn't acknowledge it. He huffed before slamming his head on the pillow and shutting his eyes. He then instinctively rubbed his eyes, before they shot open in surprise. The bindings that had held them in place had been removed, more than likely when he had been asleep.
"Huh," was the only thing he said before he tried to get out of bed, only to hear a metallic click. Turning he saw that Watchdog had shifted its body so that it's gun barrels were still pointed at him, and the click had probably been it turning off the safeties. Blinking at the cyborg he shifted so that he was back in bed, only to see the barrels follow him again and for the metallic click to happen again. Sighing he shifted his body weight so that his back was resting against, what he hoped, was the headboard of the bed. Running his tongue over the roof of his mouth he noticed it felt like sandpaper, looking around he noticed a glass of what he hoped was water. Turning to look at his watcher he reached a handout to grab the glass, expecting for the thing to track his hand, only to not hear anything as he grabbed the glass and pulled it back to him. He then downed the water greedily, savoring the cool taste of the life giving liquid as the sandpaper feeling left his mouth. Only to then be met with another sensation, the urge to go to the bathroom.
"Great," he uttered, "and Watchdog over there won't let me use the bathroom."
His guardian just stared at him, those glassy eyes to beginning to creep him out with their unblinking focus. Shuddering to himself, he began to look around for anything to entertain himself with, only to find something that was roughly the size of a tablet, with what looked like four large square buttons on the bottom, a knob, and something that looked like a slider. Randomly tapping at buttons, the screen on the thing suddenly turned on, revealing a black screen with green letters and numbers displayed on it.
"I wish I knew what this said," he said aloud, "well least I can play with buttons and stuff."
An hour later…
Sister Joan of the Orders Hospitallers was making her rounds through the medical wing of the Inquisition Stronghold, checking on the various patients and delivering the Emperor's Mercy, to those who were beyond saving. While it was a part of being a Hospitaller that she doubted she would ever grow accustomed to, it was inevitably necessary to prevent a drain on resources and to quell the suffering of the dying. She then checked her roster to see who her next patient was. She tapped the name, the name belonging to Michael, was it? Anyway, he had been designated as a high priority patient, by the Lord Inquisitor himself. Nodding, and not thinking to question the Lord Inquisitor's motives behind such a designation, she began the short walk to the patient's bed, only to hear angry grumbling and the frequent metallic click of the safety on an assault servitor's weapon.
Upon pulling back the curtain to his bed and saw him looking at a data slate in frustration and mumbling to it. He raised his arm back, getting ready to throw the data slate out of sheer frustration, when he finally looked up and noticed her. Upon noticing her he aggressively slammed the data slate down on the bedside table and pointed at the servitor.
"Can you call off the watchdog please," he requested, crossing his arms over his chest, before hissing in pain at how tender the flesh on his chest still was, "I need to use the bathroom."
She tilted her head in confusion, before turning to the servitor.
"You may depart," Joan ordered, receiving a short beep of compliance from the servitor before it rolled away on its treads. Grunting, her patient tried to stand up only to almost have his legs fold underneath him when he tried to apply weight to them. Grumbling he placed a hand on the bed and used it to hold himself up.
"I hate this feeling," he grumbled. She nodded, before walking over to him and wrap his free arm around her shoulder.
"Where did you wish to go," she asked soothingly, hoping to assuage any bitterness he might have. Such things were common in soldiers that had been given either new augmetics or prolonged bed rest.
"I need to use the," he stopped, puzzling over the words, "what do you people call a bathroom in this day and age?"
She looked at him in mild confusion before it clicked in her head what he was requesting. Nodding she began helping him walk to the lavatory.
"While we make our way there," she stated, "care to tell me what it was on that data slate that had you so incensed."
"I don't know," he answered, "couldn't read it."
One Week Later…
If there was one thing he was grateful for, it was the ability to get up and move again, without assistance. Although he doubted, he'd ever get used to Watchdog, which he learned was something called a servitor, knowing what he was though didn't make him any less creepy. He also made a mental note to thank Sister Joan the next time they crossed paths, she had been trying to teach him how to speak Gothic, the language of wherever he was, and he was now able to read and speak in basic sentences, and the only reason he had gotten that far was because he had nothing else to do when she wasn't there, and it was something to occupy his time with. It was in his wandering that he stumbled across an armory of sorts, what it was doing without a guard posted he didn't know. Looking around curiously he noted a few things of interest, such as a faded green breastplate, pauldron, helmet, and a uniform, all of which he tried on out of curiosity, noting that while the armor and uniform were snug in some places it fit well enough. It was at this moment that other people came rushing in, each of them wearing the exact same uniform he was in, all while a gruff looking middle-aged man came in barking orders.
"Get your kit on maggots," he barked out, "come on, put some hustle in it, Xenos aren't gonna wait for you to get dressed before they kill ya!"
The others quickly began to throw on the body armor, helmet, and pauldrons in each of their respective lockers. It was then the gruff man walked up to him and looked him up and down with a calculating eye. He then grabbed the collar of the breast plate and pulled, causing Michael to lurch forward, just before he slapped the side of his helmet, nodding as Michael's head rocked with the impact.
"What's your name Guardsman," the gruff bellowed, causing the others in the room to look in their direction. When he felt the look of confusion cross his features was the exact moment, he saw the gruff man's jaw clench.
"I asked you a question Guardsman," the gruff bellowed, causing him to jump a little in fright.
"Michael Rollins Sir," he replied, sweating bullets and feeling his teeth start to chatter.
"And what are you still doing here with your kit on," the gruff man bellowed, "get to the Quartermaster and get your weapon Guardsman Rollins."
"Yes Sir," he said, running out of the room at a breakneck speed to try and figure out where he had to go to get it. Turning, the gruff man noticed the other still standing staring. A quick glare caused them to redouble their efforts.
Later…
After having gotten turned around he had finally gotten to where he needed to be and had some kind of rifle shoved into his arms, he was standing in a loose imitation of the stance the rest of the people were standing in as the gruff man paced along the line.
"Today, Guardsmen," he bellowed, "you'll be on a live fire range to test your competency with your weapon. I will also point out, that should even a single one of you be found lacking, the whole squad will engage in extra fire training until I AM satisfied."
Everyone kept staring straight ahead, but instinctively held their rifles a little tighter.
"Now take positions on the firing line," the gruff man ordered, pointing to the space behind him with a thick black line drawn on the floor. Copying what all the others were doing he walked up to a blank spot on the line and then put the butt of his rifle into his shoulder. Immediately afterwards a crude shape of something in angular armor with a bullet shaped helm and some kind of plume coming from the top of the helmet popped up.
"Open fire," the gruff ordered, with a chorus of clicks following the command just before bursts of red light came out of the end of each of the barrels as the fire exercise began.
In the Observation Deck above the firing range…
Lieutenant Ezekyle Thrantus of the Cadian 308th Infantry Company was standing behind a bank of servitors, each one linked to the sensors in the target dummies below, each tallying the number of hits on each targeting dummy and the locations. Standing next to him was Chief Medic Mikhail Kantor, just in case a rather unfortunate accident occurred. It was at this point the door opened and in walked Sister Justine.
"Sister," the Lieutenant called out, snapping a crisp salute, "to what do I owe the pleasure."
"I am here to observe," she stated coldly, walking past him to stand just behind the servitors. Dropping the salute, he then walked over to the servitors, observing the data recorded from each. Justine meanwhile, walked along the banks of servitors till she came to one on the end.
"Error," the servitor bleated out. Justine looked at it in curiously.
"What's the nature of the malfunction," she demanded sternly.
"Target being attacked," it stated, "no Guardsman designated for this target."
"Lieutenant," she called out, causing him to walk over, "which target is this servitor observing?"
"That one," he answered, point to one on the far end of the range, which had a guardsman standing there, firing down range. Nodding she walked out the door to the observation room and made her way down to the firing range.
Five minutes later…
"Cease Fire," the gruff man ordered, immediately the las fire stopped, and everyone looked confused, "about face!"
Immediately all the guardsmen present spun around, some not as crisply as he would have liked, and moved to attention. Then Sister Justine walked in, followed shortly after by Lieutenant Thrantus who was trying to catch his breath. Without any seeming care, she strode across to the deck to the section of the firing line that had been indicated by the Lieutenant. Once she got there she eyed the guardsman, there was something she felt was familiar to her though she couldn't quite place.
"What's your name Guardsman," she asked, fixing her eyes on his, which seemed to unnerve him.
"Michael Rollins ma'am," he answered, confusion lacing his voice, "am I in trouble?"
"Remains to be seen," she stated, it was at this point the Lieutenant walked up, a sneer of disgust on his face.
"Sister," he called, looking at Michael with disgust, "this one's not on the roster."
"I figured as much Lieutenant," she replied, not taking her eyes off him.
"I mean his name did not show up on the company roster," he stated, "and I checked three times."
She hummed in thought, noticing that he seemed to sweat a little and look between the two of them.
"Do you have a reason for being here," she demanded, her voice like tempered steel. He gulped and nodded, she then glared at him, demanding his answer.
"I was walking around," he answered.
"And you somehow found a Guardsman's uniform, arms, and armor," she asked forcefully.
"Found a room with them in it," he answered, looking scared, "then was told to get weapon."
"By who," she demanded, only for him to point back down the firing line.
"Sergeant Muldoon," the Lieutenant cried out, marching down the line to start screaming at the sergeant, "what is the meaning of this?!"
While that was being dealt with, much to the confusion of their subordinates, she took a step closer, the feeling of him being familiar still nagging at the back of her mind. She looked at his eyes, which she noted as being blue though that wasn't an uncommon color in the Imperium.
"Take off your helmet," she ordered, hurriedly he set his las rifle on the ground and unclasped his helmet, before taking it off, and holding it between his hands. He had short black hair and was clean shaven, although his skin looked slightly dried out and his cheeks looked sunken, again not an uncommon thing to find.
"Have we met before Guardsman," she asked, continuing to evaluate him.
"No ma'am," he answered nervously, clearly wanting to take a step back, "not that I know."
She glared in slight frustration, the feeling still not leaving her mind, when the door to the firing range slid open.
"There you are," cried a voice, which caused her to snap her head in the direction of the voice to see a Sister Hospitaller and an assault servitor come over to them.
"Sister," Justine stated, "am I to take that sentence to indicate that you know this man?"
"Yes Sister," she replied, "he is one of my patients."
"Patient," she asked, the edge in her voice only slightly lessening.
"Yes Sister," she answered, before turning and looking at Michael and talking in some language that somehow sounded both loud and fast like las cannon fire. She looked at him and noticed that he had dropped his helmet, which hit the floor with a clatter, and he held his hands up, before quickly responding.
"What is he saying," she requested, her eyes flitting back and forth between the two.
"Aside from apologizing," Sister Joan said, shooting a glare at him before shifting her gaze back, "he said that he stumbled across an unguarded room, saw the uniform and equipment, and decided to try them on out of curiosity. Then the sergeant over there started yelling at him to get a weapon and come here."
She nodded, slightly understanding how they had found themselves in this situation at least. Then Joan grabbed Michael's shoulder shoved him past them.
"Now if you shall permit me Sister," she said, giving Michael again, "I must get the patient out of this uniform and back into bed, where he will be staying for long while."
"Hold Sister," Justine called sternly, reaching down, and picking up the las rifle and examining it. Nodding she walked over to them and handed the rifle to Michael, while Sister Joan looked in confusion.
"I wish to observe something," she answered the unspoken question, "there are ten shots left in that rifle, I want you to shoot them at the target till it is empty."
She then pointed back at the target he had been firing at, Sister Joan made to talk to him, then he nodded and walked back to the position on the firing line and put the rifle up to his shoulder, rested his cheek against the butt stock, and peered down the sight. Immediately Lieutenant Thrantus and Sergeant Muldoon walked over to observe the proceedings. Shortly after they arrived his first shot rang out, striking the dummy in the center of its chest. She turned and observed him, noting that he was exhaling a breath and slowly letting his finger off the trigger, just before he took in another breath and squeezed the trigger, another shot then rung out. Turning she saw smoke rising from slightly to the right of his first shot. Eight shots later, each shot going either right or left of the original shot, the las rifle clicked signifying the power pack was empty. Nodding to herself, she turned towards him and took the las rifle from his hands, just before Sister Joan shoved him out of the firing range.
"Sergeant," Sister Justine called, "what did you think of his performance?"
"He knows which end of the las rifle to point at the enemy at least," Sergeant Muldoon answered, "he needs to speed up his rate of fire though."
Nodding she handed the rifle to the Sergeant and walked out of the firing range, the Lieutenant following close behind. Blinking, Sergeant Muldoon to the remaining Guardsmen and fixed them with a glare.
"Since someone who isn't even the unit managed to get his kit on faster than the lot of you," he stated, his glare hardening, "all of you will be undergoing extra fire and emergency drills."
With his judgement given, he dismissed them, and he made to leave before he looked down at the las rifle and turned to inspect the target. When he got there he looked it over and noticed that it had twelve new scorch marks in it.
"Well," he stated to himself, "he can at least hit the thing."
So what you all think?
Wrote almost all of it yesterday, but I waited to actually submit it, good thing I did too.
You see, in the original draft I had accidentally had him able to read Gothic…when he couldn't understand it two chapters before.
This is why editing is important people!
Anyway, let me know what you felt needed improvement, explaining, or just general thoughts.
Till next, time Ave Imperator.
