The Eyes of an Angel- A Necromunda Story, a warhammer fanfic

"The Eyes of the Angel"

By Daft Phully
"This jump pack would function much better if it wasn't crammed full of vellum," thought Barquemann as he yanked devotional tracts from the pack's works. Some of the devotionals had scorch marks on them from being too close to old repairs.

"Unprotected flammables next to a combustion chamber; it's a wonder that the lmperium functions at all." The tech sighed and mumbled, "And all of this devotional writing reads pretty much the same. Limited thinking here." He continued to dump the lot of it on the floor of his workshop, kicking it back his under his work table. "The technical manuals on this must be. ..'illuminating'." That thought brought a little smile to his bearded face, as he went back to work.

Barqueman, was a stuntie. His VanSaar masters had him holed up in the second story of this hostel, and the gang was making a good profit off of his technical skills. And as a stuntie, Barquemann, was not welcome among the xeno-centric hivers in this sector, so the gang kept him sequestered here, in this shop. The VanSaars did provide him with a good measure of protection, as well the tools of the trade. They also provided some pretty decent fungus brew. It was a bonus.

The origins of this jump pack had become a bit of a mystery. It was an unusual piece of Imperial tech, it could be repaired and the luck of his ancestors was with him on this one. Well at least there were no slugs being thrown about like the last time he had to deal with tech of an unusual origin. Barquemann almost did not survive the experience. His Escher apprentice was not as fortunate. Brikke was one of the best students he had ever had. Much more eager to learn than those dullard juves that the 'Saars provided.

Such is life, of an indentured servant.

Obviously, this jump pack was of the type that were in use by the Adepta Sororitas. This was deduced, after a quick inspection of the outer casing. The shape was correct. It was definitely STC, and the design itself was several thousand years old. Now what this jump pack was doing down in this part of the underhive, he did not know. To confound it, all of its identifying signets and serial numbers filed off of the exterior housing. He was aware that a group of 'demps- part of the Redemptionist crusade(The 'dumbst as they were called, but only behind their backs and out of earshot.) brought this piece of tech into VanSaar territory for a servicing. Where they found it, they did not say. And his "beard"- the ganger that fronted for Barquemann's skills- did not ask. Working for the 'dumbst was always a tricky situation, as half the time, they did not want to pay up at the end; calling it a 'donation' to the cause. And then, well, things would go down-hive real quick-like. The tech was not made aware of the finances of this deal, as this was not his place, and he was hoping that there would be less gun play this time around.

A gun barrel had just been shoved into his cheek. Barquemann's thoughts immediately went to his ancestors, and then, as quickly, back to the situation at hand. Whoever held the gun, moved as a spectre. A check of some of the reflective materials on his work bench, revealed a female form; austere. ...damn and blast, it was a bounty hunter. "I thought the gang had paid that up," was his panicked second thought. "Bad business, this." He would have to bring this up to the gang leader, that is, if he survived this encounter.

All he could say was "Can I help you?" And this came out rather weakly. He thought about his ancestors again.

"Where did you find that?" A whispered snarl had come from behind him.

"What?"

"The jump pack. It is a Seraphim jump pack" This was stated as more pressure was applied to his cheek.

"It was brought in for repairs." And he quickly added, "The Adeptus Mechanicus does not get this far down hive." Barquemann immediately regretted saying this. Whack! The force of the blow sent him careening into a corner of the shop; tools and dislodged repair bits fell down upon him for effect.

Now, he was able to get a good look at his questioner. He couldn't help it, as he was being hauled roughly up into the air right in front of her. The bounty huntress had immediately followed up; she had bolstered her pistol, and she was staring at him, eye-to-eye. One hand had him up in the air, and the other was placed around his throat, in case he flinched in a threatening manner.

The huntress was good looking for a pure- strain human. She was tall. Muscular (obviously). Hair was cropped short in a business-like doo. A patch of syn-skin covered a spot on her right cheek...no sign of a fresh scar...wait! He might have bodged it all together. "What would one of her kind being doing down here, in civie dress? Unless...?" Barquemann started to speak his mind. Since he knew that he was already on his way to join his ancestors, he felt reckless.

Kreuse took a deep, cleansing breath and studied each of his opponents in turn. The table of gamblers alternately studied their cards and then, each other. Kreuse had a bit of edge on his opponents. The infrared sensor in his bionic eye (he had paid much extra for it to match his remaining eye.) would register any change in the body heat of the people seated around the table. A change in body heat usually followed the reception of good cards. One of the other players had already thrown his cards away; two others were studying them with intent. "Must be a weak deal," he thought with the amusement of one who had witnessed this scene over many years. "Dead creds at the table."

In the infrared mode, the silhouette on his immediate left grew redder around the under-arms and a vein in its neck glowed in prominence. Kreuse exhaled silently and put on his disinterested face. He looked at his cards with the same disinterest. Settling in for a long cycle. "Old faithful Alluxus," he thought, "I could read him even without.

"It is always the same tell with you. And its always tells a bluff." The old man one-bet one hundred and thirty creds. Enough to lure the others into the betting. The next action fell to the Delaque to his left. Kreuse shifted modes to look back at his cards. Not too bad for his position at the gambling table. He regarded the Delaque in normal view-his dark glasses competed with gleam off of his bald pate. Switching back to infrared, he radiated in the display. The yellow-orange colour of his exposed neck deepened to crimson and his ears began to glow as if he had contracted the fever. "Well, my goggled friend, living large in the upper hive, are you?" thought Kreuse. The Delaque's expression was set in ferrocrete, but the infrared always tells the truth.

-
"Once more. Where did you get the jump pack, mutant?"

"You're an Adepta, are you not? Well, it belongs to a..." Barqueman flew across the room again, with the bounty hunter back on him in a nano, with a wicked- looking blade at his throat, this time. His neck felt warm, and wet.
"Mor...bid Angel," he squeaked. He closed his eyes, and waited for the thrust.

"Where is she?"

"The 'demps...Redemptionist crusade... have offered her hospitality. She hates Spyres more than they do. 'Been a lot of attacks 'round here as of late. Just last..."

The pressure of the blade on his throat backed off a bit. Barquemann kept his eyes closed and did not move. He knew that his ancestors were watching him, and he still felt a bit reckless.

"Well, get it over, then," he said with flat defiance. Well, as defiant as he could, being tossed, crumbling in a heap, in another corner of the workshop

"You are not to be joining your ancestors today, mutant."

"What?"

He opened an eye. She had crossed the room to the other side. Her hands were free of weapons. Maybe she was telling the truth.
-

The scan of the Escher directly opposite him yielded valuable data, as well. The Lady Dette was a familiar sight at the table in this part of the sector. The last time he had seen her was about two years past, and she was ripe with childe. A girl childe, of course. Now she was past her bloat and in her pre-childe fine form. The Lady was seated in her traditional game-play stance. One foot planted firmly on the stool, arms wrapped around the leg, and her cards on the deck. But the infrared detected a hint of rash blooming up from the middle of her paps. Something was in the cards, but it wasn't quite clear. Yet.

-
Barquemann remained in the corner, but rearranged himself to be more comfortable.

"Sister. . ." he said, but then choked the rest back when her expression flashed in a dangerous way. The bounty hunter hadn't moved from the corner but that look was enough to end that line of questioning.

"Lady Hunter, then? I thought that my. . .employers had cleared that matter up, a while back. . ." and he added a polite, "M'lady?"

"The crusade," she said in a matter-of-fact manner, "Where are they based now?" And she added, with some annoyance, "Get to your feet. .. but slowly."

He certainly was not up to an argument at this point. Barquemann did as he was instructed. He pulled himself up to his full height, which would him to eye level- with her breast binder. He watched her with great caution, as if he was moving past a millosaur hive. The huntress seemed unaware of his presence, consumed by the palm data recorder she had slipped out of a pocket. She looked out the window of the workshop, through a looking glass that appeared from another pocket, and was cross referencing the images with these on the recorder. He knew that if he made a sudden move, she'd be on him again, and he was tired of being thrown around, so he did a little scanning for himself. The first thing that he observed was that she was very modest for a female bounty hunter. No excess flesh to be seen. Almost could pass for a local. That would be helpful. She seemed rather unremarkable except for the bolt pistols-one in each holster- safely tied down to her upper legs. He also noted that any identifying icons had been filed off.

There seemed to be a lot of that going around...

Had the gamblers been casting the Emperor's Tarot, rather than wagering on Oberon High/ Low, they would have had some warning of the approaching carnage. Perhaps it might have even given them a plan of action. But they had not cast the tarot, and there was no warning; A flash appeared behind the Lady Dette, and moved towards the gaming table with deliberate speed. Kreuse snapped the eye back to normal mode, and the Dette with reflexes borne of many past gang fights fell backwards off of her perch, barreled rolled to her right, and rose into a defensive crouch. Her brace of naval pistols were up and 'at them. A flash of light, this time, whipped across the space where the Lady Dette had just perched, bedazzling the eyes of the remaining two players at the table. The light was immediately followed by the deadly hum of a power weapon. A power weapon that was now in striking range.
As the gambler dodged backwards, the sword contacted the left shoulder of the Delaque, who was last at the table to react. It was a clean kill. The Escher let loose a broadside with her navels and scored a single hit upon the attacker. Then the lady caught a round from behind, was spun by the impact, and fell face first in the dirt.

Kreuse and the Jakara met eyes for a nano; her return swing was coming in fast- aimed right at the gambler's head. But the slug in her back had thrown her time off; off by just a little. Little enough for the sword to glance off of the mesh jack woven into his greatcoat. Kreuse rolled with the blow. His shoulder caught a piece of it, and from the shock, he wasn't sure if his arm was attached to the shoulder, or not. That was his last thought before the back of his head bounced off the ferrocrete hive floor. The spyre stutter- stepped forwards; her momentum was just enough for her lead foot to slip off of the deck, and she fell-paps first on top of the prone gambler.

Kreuse opened his eyes to see a falling Jakara filling up his field of vision. She had a haughty expression in her eyes. This expression did not change at all after she impaled herself upon his keening knife, which had appeared out of nowhere, and was braced in his good hand-blade upon his chest. The knife was a memento from the gambler's past life; the life he once led before turning to his present line of business. He kept it sharp out of habit. Kreuse lost his wind as she hit him full in the body- twitching for a few dramatic nanoments before going limp- her face almost kissing his. It seemed that the Spyre, in death, was still looking down on him. She also was a lot heavier than she looked. Kreuse pushed her body off of him, only with great deal of effort and pain. It pleased him the think that that the odds were still with him. If he could keep his head down, he might even survive the cycle. But first, he felt for his arm. Luck was with still him. The arm was there. It had been a good day.

The huntress saw the flash of the Jakara's blade. and the Jakara, and blade, disappeared gracelessly, out of sight behind the table. Noiselessly, the huntress dropped into the alley behind the hidden workshop. The Jakara may have gotten to the bounty first, but from the look of it, the huntress would be able to get there at the last of it. An Escher had just put a round into that spyre's back, and then took one herself from an Orrus, who had just walked into the huntress' field of vision. He apparently was laying down covering fire, in support of his expedition. " More of them. Flark. If those thrice-cursed hunters did not kill everything that moved, I might be able spirit away enough of him to collect."

A las-bolt vapped some dirt by her feet, causing her to spring to cover. The locals were putting up a fight. And it definitely was going to get wet.

So far, the spyres were winning. This was not a shock, as they had the element of surprise and vastly superior weaponry. "Why did they choose a bunch of townies as their objective? Green Spyres? Body count? No matter," thought the huntress. "Let the heretics kill each other; the Emperor will choose his own." At her thought of the Emperor, she reflexively reached up to touch the syn-skin patch on her right cheek. Once, in a past long gone, she was counted among the Seraphim. Then, among the Repentia. Now, and finally, a bounty hunter. How the sin of pride had mocked her life. And the sin of forgetfulness. She still did not (or chose not) remember the transition from Repentia to bounty hunter. She knew that as Repentia, only in death does duty end. She and her fallen sisters had accepted their doom in the Emperor's grace. In what was to be their final battle, she had been stunned, and not slain, and she fell, with no glory. It was a fate that did not count towards her redemption. She did not remember much of what happened to her in that last melee with that heretic cult. Barely, there was a memory of reviving under lifeless and fetid carcasses. She could feel a relief of pressure, as each body was lifted off of her, and then hive light, and some shadows.

And bits of voices. Someone must have carried her off of the battlefield-her own personal field of honour, where her own failed life was to be redeemed by death. They claimed that they were binding her wounds. Indeed. All four of her captors were dead before they knew it; the Repentia, washed in the blood of those captors, staggered off into the hive to wait for death.

Sometimes the gift of life is the cruelest gift of all. Sometimes the first impression is not the correct one. Zing! Sometimes its better just to keep your fool head down. She rolled, and came up with a bolt pistol in each hand. "I am not a Spyre!" she yelled, to no one in particular, as she scanned the street for shooters. Fifteen nanos into the firefight and she was already a target. She sighed. It was a new record.

Frap! "Up there, if you're interested?" A voice cried down from above her. Another roll put her facing the right way. The stuntie was trading shots with a Yeld, who was barely visible in his good sniping position. With a couple of practiced bolt pistol shots she sent the Yeld screaming into the hive floor. The action in the street almost paused at this. "You owe me, sister!" was fading into the distance as she sprinted out into the street, and into new cover.

From her new vantage, the bounty hunter assessed the tacs of the situation. Viewed from a clearer angle, the gunfight appeared to be a little worse for the hivers. A second Orrus and a second Jakara had joined the fray. There were dead and dying locals all over the hive floor- defending their hovels as best as they could. Over by the card deck, there was no moving. Looking back to the street, the second Jakara must have been put man-down as well. From orientation of the bodies around hers, when she fell, the locals must have bashed in her head, with whatever they could find. This took place she observed, before the locals were torn about by Orrus bolts. The Escher who took the bolt in the back was no where to be seen, so she must have had enough left in her to crawl to safety. One less obstacle. Good. Still, it was better to watch out for her. The bounty for the huntress- the gambler Kreuse- was also nowhere to be seen. This, she'd investigate at a later and quieter time.

A big shell crashed into rig of the one the Orrus, who wisely retreated to cover, trailing bits out of his damaged armour. It had to have been a specialty bolt shell, as the sound wasn't right for anything of a larger caliber. She ran a scan around street for the source; up to this point, all she had heard from the fire fight were the sounds of autoguns and lasweapons. There, appearing at the edge of her peripheral vision, was the answer to that question. A blur of grace in motion, it was moving rapidly in the direction of the fight. The other Orrus turned to face the new danger. "It is her," thought the huntress. And she smiled. "So the rumours are true." There were going to be two bounties this cycle.

And bits of voices. Someone must have carried her off of the battlefield- her own personal field of honour where her own failed life was to be redeemed by death. They claimed that they were binding her wounds. Indeed. All four of her captors were dead before they knew it; the Repentia- washed in the blood of those captors- staggered off into the hive to wait for death.

From her new vantage, the bounty hunter assessed the tacs of the situation. Viewed from a clearer angle, the gunfight appeared to be a little worse for the hivers. A second Orrus and a second Jakara had joined the fray. There were dead and dying locals all over the hive floor, trying to defend their hovels as best as they could. Over by the card table, there was no moving. Looking back to the street, the second Jakara must have been put man-down as well. From orientation of the bodies around hers, when she fell, the locals must have bashed in her head, with whatever they could find. This took place she observed, before the locals were torn about by Orrus bolts. The Escher who took the bolt in the back was no where to be seen so she must have had enough left in her to crawl to safety. One less obstacle. Good. Still, it was better to watch out for her. The bounty of the huntress-the gambler Kreuse-was also nowhere to be seen. This, she'd investigate at a later and quieter time.

A big shell crashed into rig of the one the Orrus who wisely retreated to cover, trailing bits out of his damaged armour. It had to have been a specialty bolt shell, as the sound wasn't right for anything of a larger caliber. She ran a scan around street for the source; up to this point, all she had heard from the fire fight were the sounds of autoguns and lasweapons. There, appearing at the edge of her peripheral vision , was the answer to that question. A blur of grace in motion, it was moving rapidly in the direction of the fight. The other Orrus turned to face the new danger. " It is her," thought the huntress. And she smiled. "So the rumours are true." There were going to be two bounties this cycle.

Again the huntress went grim. "So this," she thought with disgust, "is the famous Morbid Angel. She, whose existence blasphemes the Sororitas." The rumours were indeed true; this vigilante had some how acquired the wargear of the Adepta Sororitas, and plainly was using her appearance to impress the locals. The reputation of the Morbid Angel was notorious among the houses of upper spires. At least among the ones that send their heirs down-hive to hunt and return with trophies of their successes. The Angel is a hunter of the hunters. The bounty hunter had heard many tales of Spyre Hunters descending into the lower reaches of the hive, only then to have been mauled by this vigilante. This fact had made the capture so lucrative. The huntress had beaten her competition to this part of the underhive, and now was in an excellent position to score.

And this huntress had her own reasons to be here. This bounty was not coming back alive.

Her quarry's was dressed in what appeared to bits of the rigs of Spyre Hunters, and, to confirm the suspicions, and, to, horror of the huntress, a corset and breast plate of the Adepta Sororitas. The jump pack, she concluded, must also be part of that gear. How did she get it? Did she scavenge it off of the battlefield or ambush a Seraphim to obtain it? Her attention now drifted to the weapons that Angel was wielding with a practiced ease, to dismay of the standing Orrus. This outlaw brandished a bolt pistol of similar make and model to her own. "She must be using adamantine tipped rounds; where would she find these, down here?" The partner Orrus was losing his rig armour in great chunks to bolt pistol fire. But it was the power sword of the Angel, that really had her attention. The sword flickered on and off in time with the arrival of each blow. The outlaw must have modified it as a power saving device. It also had the effect of dazzling her opponent; the huntress would have to watch out for that. The Angel now gracefully slid in between the braised halves of the second Orrus, and sprinted towards the first; his eyes widening in comprehension.

Now. Go. She followed the outlaw as fast and as cautious as she could. This would be the only attempt to do the thing right. As the huntress closed the distance between herself and her prey- the outlaw- at full charge- had holstered her pistol, and had taken a two-handed attack stance with her sword. The spyre readied himself for the attack. The melee was furious, but short. The remaining Orrus got in one good blow, which staggered the outlaw back a half step. Her response was swift; with a swing with all of her power behind it, she clove into the impudent limb, nearly amputating it. The Orrus fell backwards against a hovel wall and clumsily slid down it to a sitting position. He looked up to see and then feel, a power sword blade- deceptively dark at this point- touching the third eye of his forehead. There was a space in his head where his arm ought to be. The huntress could see the breathing of the Orrus through the many spaces in his rig. The breathing was shallow, and irregular. Her posture belied calm and defiance; this one displayed a discipline not found in most quarries. The bounty huntress was off in a full gallop towards the Angel. A small leap while freeing her main pistol, and she had its barrel up against the neck of her quarry. This had happened so quickly, that the outlaw was caught in mid-tum, with no chance for a counter- move. "Good." The huntress could smell the anger or was it the thrill of the hunt? in her prey and noticed how quickly that scent now dissipated into the stale air of the hive. The outlaw was forcing her emotions back down, and the warrior inside of her was regaining control. The sword at the forehead of the Orrus did not waiver.

"Consider yourself captured, bounty," stated the huntress in the flat tone of her profession. In that voice, there was no emotion; there was no tell of the unnatural circumstances of this situation. She had captured witches that worried her less than this. There was something in this capture that was not quite right. Her skin crawled with the
unease of it. Something familiar- a something that had been repressed though years of discipline- had slipped its bounds. Something toxic. The huntress now willed her own breathing and emotions back under control. No matter. Once she finished her work here, the unease would turn into a memory, and it too would be long gone after the creds were spent. Perhaps her prisoner had noticed a moment of weakness? No, she could still sense the outlaw concentrating on her own breathing centering herself and bringing herself back into focus. "Better seal this deal... quick." she thought. And the huntress spoke, with all of the authority of her guild,"The sword, put the sword down slowly. Keep your hands visible at all times."

Motion from the ground, caught her eye. The wounded Orrus had either tried to lever himself up on his good arm, or raised the bolt launchers contained within that arm. A single shot from her oft-hand pistol solved this problem. The last spyre of the team collapsed in the dust- minus a good part of his skull.

But the drawing of her secondary weapon had put the huntress slightly off balance. Off balance enough, to allow her prisoner an opening. The pistol at the prisoner's neck, swept aside by a single stroke of the inert sword, was replaced by the prisoner's own pistol in counter move, which was quick. The huntress , shaken for a half-step backwards, swung her second pistol up- muzzle still warm from its last shot- against the temple of the outlaw. If the outlaw was burned by the muzzle, it did not show in her fixed expression. They faced each other eye-to-eye.

These ladies are in what the locals would call a "Scavie Standoff". It's always a bad thing. Neither woman moved in any perceptible manner. They couldn't. Face to face. The angel's nostrils flared with danger. Her eyes were troubled. No, troubled was not it. Derranged? Not that either, as the eyes were quiet, and still strong. Frustration? That was the read. Much as a predator; or a warrior denied the right of the final thrust. The angel's face-caked with hive dust and neglect- was frozen in place. Both of faces were. "I am as denied as you, bounty," thought the huntress, and this thought was maddening. The huntress would have preferred this job to have been wet, rather than to be in this unprofessional situation. There was no clean way of releasing herself. "And...,"puzzled the huntress, "What in the name of the Emperor are you thinking, now?"

Pulling her mind's eye away from the eyes of the angel, the huntress concentrated on her other senses. The huntress could hear her prey's breathing becoming slower and more rhythmic with each passing nano. She could feel the presence of strength, ready to spring at the first sign of weakness. The angel smelled of poor hygiene, but not of fear. And in return huntress could feel a probing in the back of her skull. Not a psychic probing, but more of a taking of measure of an opponent. "Equals?" Even the thought of this word was disgusting. "This blasphemous...," a toxic thought was seeping to the surface. Bubbling up her spine, soon to burst the surface. The huntress quickly returned to the study of the face of her prey. Underneath each successive layer of filth, and hair, matted down through years of neglect, was the answer. It was there on the face of the angel, if the huntress could only bring herself to look for it. A mark. Of the Order. The fleur tattoo of the Adepta Sororitas. Worse, the tattoo bore the mark of Seraphim; it was the same mark that the huntress had borne.

That mark. She had disfigured herself in a failed attempt to remove it and the wound had never completely healed. "It weeps, as the Emperor weeps tears for all of us," she thought. On reflex, her hand would reach up and touch the syn-skin reminder of her past, but this time she willed the hand to stay in place. It was not possible with a bolt pistol in each hand, and especially in this situation. There was certainly no comfort to be found, now.

"The 'Judge 'and I say you should put that gun away."

A hiver had gotten it into his head that a well-placed shot would free the angel from her tormentor. He was taking careful aim, most likely weighing the choice of target areas. A head shot would drop her in a mm, but the back would be the easier shot to make. One of the hiver females tapped the sniper on his shoulder and directed his eyes in the direction of Barquemann. The hiver registered a menacing looking combat shotgun in the hands of the Stuntie, and by the look of it, it was most likely the pump action version used exclusively by the Arbites. Complete with the under-slung grenade launcher accessory. The sniper stared at its business end, which was pointed directly at him. It was growing larger and larger as each nano passed; he stupidly wondered how this mutant had obtained it. The whole shotgun looked much bigger in the hands of the stuntie. And the look on the stuntie's face matched the look of his weapon.

"Now put that gun away, slow, like, so I can watch. Let those two find a lady-like solution to their problems, if it would be all right." Barquemann was furious with himself. The VanSaar repair operation hinged upon the tech operating in a secret location. Barquemann, on exposing himself like this, had put the fin on the operation. This was going to cost his master a bundle of creds...never mind the sumpgut. Well, he would deal with that problem later. The sniper offended his race's sense of honour; just a little while ago, the sister was throwing him around like so much vermin, and now he was covering her back. She must have knocked some brain cells loose.

Right now, however, he was hoping for a peaceful Fat lot that'll be.conclusion to this drama. Disarming the homing signal for the new owner of this weapon was easy enough. Reprogramming the robot brain of the Executioner shell, well, that was another thing entirely. It might work the first time. "Stop socialization, ladies," he pleaded to them in his mind, "This gun is getting heavy."

For the ex-sororitas, their universe had been reduced to only the two of them. They did not notice Kruese the gambler, who was studying the pair from the safety of the wrecked parlour. It did not take much brainsweat to identify a bounty hunter, and who would have been her first mark. Ah, the downside of reputation. It was fascinating in a deadly way.

He was playing that bad hand to the end, just to see how the last card play out. "And you too had gone all in while I wait you out- with a middling pair. Fools." He was too far away to scan them. He was sure that they glowed like hellfire. He smiled, gave a wet cough, and winced. "That daemon must have gotten a rib or two, as well." He would have kicked the body -the body still oozing slightly next to him- if he had the strength to spare. There wasn't anything of immediate value of on the Jakara. He had looked. Maybe the owners of this inebriatum would be able to sell some of her rig to pay for damages. Kreuse made a mental note to thank the 'Dette Praise the Emperor! for saving his life. Yes, the gambler would live to see another flop, but he was going to be out of action for a while. "Action?" He looked back out into the street. Still waiting for that last card to turn.

"A spiritu dominatus, Domine, libra nos." The huntress blanched.

"From the lightning and the tempest." She recognized that voice as hers. "How did that gag get out? "

"Our Emperor deliver us." Her pupils dilated in recognition. From her own lips.

"From plague, deceit," Why now? She could feel her professional exterior start to crumble.

"Temptation and war, Our Emperor," The years of hunting the lawless, with little emotion, and less remorse.

"Deliver us, from the scourge of the... "All cleverly bypassed by an earlier indoctrination.

"The...the. ..Kraken," She choked on these words, working harder to contain the verses within her.

"Our Emperor deliver us."

Upon the hearing of those words, the eyes of the Angel flashed in recognition. Though barely audible, those words had caught the Angel by surprise. At least that's what the huntress posited, as her own finger started to tighten on her trigger. She imagined the same in the angel. She did not want to break gaze to check. There was a feeling that sweat gathering at her nape had taken that long, lonely road down her back. The smell of fear encircled the air around them.

Cracked words came in a whisper from a dry mouth. Worse, thought the huntress, the connection between her brain-stem to her trigger finger was fading. The pistol was becoming so many dead kilos in her hand.

"From the blasphemy of the Fallen," The face of the Angel twitched upon the hearing of this verse; the huntress waited for the sound of ignition, but there was none. There was no sound save the words of the Invocation of the Fede Imperialis- the Battle Prayer of the Adepta Sororitas. And it was now louder from her lips.

"Our Emperor, deliver us from the begetting." That second voice- dry and unfamiliar- had joined hers, in prayer.

"Of daemons, Our Emperor," A sound raw and unpracticed. "Deliver us."

The voice of the Angel had now joined to her own.

"From the curse of the mutant," The huntress thoughts turned to the stuntie tech and the jump pack. She now regained awareness of her surroundings. "Not a scavie standoff! " ,
she flashed, in growing panic. "Our Emperor deliver us. A morte," To death. Oh frak.

"Perpetua, Domine, libra nos," Their voices, stronger; their expressions melting. In its place, surfaced a familiar resolve.

"That thou would bring them only death," The resolve of the Seraphim.

"That thou shouldst pardon none," This seemed oddly amusing at the moment. A small smile crept to her face, and she expected to be struck by her Sister Educator Superior. The childe was not showing the proper respect for the thoughts and words of The Emperor. Again.

"We beseech thee," Louder and firmer.

"Destroy them."

Silence. Save for the unison breathing of two ex-Seraphim. Two faces, once different- now the same. Eyes still locked, but no longer in anger. Two bolt pistols in two hands slowly being lowered back to their holsters .One last look of acknowledgment- two Seraphim turning their backs to each other and walking away. Safe in the knowing of the moment.

The bounty huntress did not look back. It was no longer necessary. She strode, proud, aloof, strong in her faith, as if she still wore the power armour of The Emperor. The crowd...well, the crowd was not really sure what had just happened out there. It did appear to them that this woman dressed in too many clothes- the Angel- with shabby wargear, walked with back erect and wore a visage of righteousness. She was to be let pass, unimpeded. Or else.

Barquemann, also lost in this moment, thought he saw the slightest of a glance and a hint of a smile cast in his direction. It was gone in a nano, but he knew that now, it was done. He also realized that he should get his beard off of the street, while the locals were distracted. And also to expect the worse from his VanSaar masters. Maybe nobody would remember him being there. Fat lot, that would be.

"Seraphim..." he shook his head in mild disgust as he climbed the narrow stairs that led back up to the workshop. "Too damn flighty for their own good."