Administratum Report LRDJF2
LRDJF: The humble stub revolver. Available in a variety of calibers and configurations, the one currently in my possession is a heavy framed model. Reminiscent of the Smith and Wesson X-Frame, it features a five round cylinder chambered in 500 Smith & Wesson Magnum. I'll admit, I was expecting more antiquated designs when I was first brought here, but compared to the Zarona and Agripina subtypes, it seems swing out cylinders were the more common in the Imperium.
Now why would a swing out design be preferable to a break open design, you may ask? Points. of. Failure. You want as little as possible, and having a hinge right at where the pressure from the cartridge going off is a good way to blow up a gun. having a solid frame allows for higher pressures and heavier ammunition, which considering the size difference between the average guardsman and say, an Ork? Heavier grain projectiles become a necessity.
Theoretical: You are a guardsman, you're being charged by an approximately Eight Hundred pound Ork armed with a choppa. What do you do? You shoot it obviously. Now, If you were armed with the lasgun, if you're lucky, you burned a hole in it's head and killed it instantly. Good news: you killed the Ork. Bad news: Sir Isaac Newton called, he says fuck you. Eight Hundred pounds of formerly sentient fungi barrel into you like a runaway train. Why is this? Lack of Kinetic Energy. A Object in Motion will stay in motion until acted upon by a force. Lasguns don't have force. Now, a 740 grain hard cast, flying at twelve hundred feet per second? that hits with about twenty three hundred foot pounds of energy. not only did you stop the charging Ork, You've hit it with enough force to punch through or crater whatever armor it might be wearing and turn that green flesh into a pulpy red mess.
Chapter 6
"Not talking about it." I mutter, poring over the disassembled bolt pistol on the table in front of me. Half empty bottle of amasec resting on the corner of the table. Vail snatched said bottle and settled into the chair across from me.
"You'll talk as much as I need you to, Foothill." Vail snarked at me, taking a long pull from the bottle as I scrubbed at her bolt with a brass brush. "We just had an experience that the Ecclesiarchy would declare us Saints over. We have to talk about it."
"Big E himself stopping by, giving orders to you, practically declaring me the court jester of the 41st millenium. If the Harlequins ever find out I'll have to deal with those assholes. And I don't want to deal with 'Cegorach's Rose.' that's one flower I don't want to smell. Nuh uh." I shake my head, beginning to reassemble the bolt pistol bit by bit. I wasn't much of a drinker, and alcohol plus firearms is always a bad idea, but even so I needed the liquid courage after that debacle.
"David, the Emperor gave you orders. It is your duty, as a human being, to see them through." Vail persists, gesturing at me with her bottle. "Do you have any idea how many people have killed and died to be in your position?"
"Yes. Doesn't mean I have to like it. 'Sides, we got a whole year to prep before Cain stumbles onto a Necron tomb world whilst battling Orks. Oh yeah, Simia Oricalcae is a tomb world. Probably a good thing to know." I mumble, cursing slightly under my breath as I futz with the final pin on Vail's bolt pistol, getting it into place with an Audible 'click'. "Look, I'm willing to do what I can to keep more folks alive but I know how this game goes. I do anything too big, one of the big bad Four takes notice and then we have real problems. You and yours should know the advantages of flying under the radar, Inquisitor."
"Is that how you want to play this? Throw the whole thing under the rug and let the stones fall where they may? Maybe change a thing or two along the way?" Vail has a hint of disdain in her voice which has me snapping my head up from my work and glaring at her.
"I'm saying that if we can keep this under wraps to the three of us, yes I see you, Rakel! We can slip beneath the notice of beings that could kill us by looking at us. I am an unmodified human man. A single human man that's not even trained as much as the average guardsman. Cain is a master Duelist who will eventually take out a Khornate space marine in melee combat. You have lord knows how many years of experience. Rakel's a psyker. Orelius, the asshole, Is a Rogue Trader with a whole ass ship. I am not prepared to fight a war in the 41st Millenium, Inquisitor!" I snarl out, slamming a fist onto the table with enough force to make the bolt pistol bounce on the table. "If I want to be able to actually change shit I have to make use of this relatively quiet year to get up to snuff. Which means training, learning how things have changed or stayed the same in thirty-eight thousand years…and hitting the goddamn gym." I let my forehead hit the table with a groan.
"David, you have information I can use now, why not tell me more?" Vail asks, I turn my head to look at her with one eye.
"You have to understand that I only have a passing knowledge of a few things, I didn't pour over every book looking for every detail. Yes I had an interest and I know a bit about the setting that we're in. But years, details, names. These are forty years of lore and development that's been retconned, evolved, resurrected and so forth. I can tell you that in 68 years, Cadia will fall. In 68 years, Lord Commander Guilliman will return. Yet none of that makes a difference as to the situation we're in now. So I ask you this: You can black box me. Have me sitting in a room with Rakel tearing my brain apart to draw out what I know. Or would you rather have an asset that you can actually use for more practical purposes.?" I explain, staring her down. She remained stone-faced. I knew she wouldn't hesitate to do just that, have me sent to some room with a pen and paper, writing out reports of what I knew, what little I knew, and I could still be there until the end of my days.
"If I were to black box you, David, I would have to deal with the consequences of violating orders given to me by the Emperor Himself!" Vail responds, throwing her hands up in frustration. "'He must remain in your retinue!' 'The young man has a purpose here.' I swear there's likely already an Aquilan Shield en route to us!" my head snapped back up straight, glaring at the inquisitor.
"Don't you put that evil on us! If we have to deal with a ten foot tall genetically modified warrior noble, I'm going to find a way to make you regret it!"
"I already am." Vail accentuated her last statement with a long pull from the bottle of Amasec.
-Two Months Later, 931 M41-
After a few weeks, a routine came about. I would spend a few hours a day performing maintenance on the retinue's weapons; we had left Orelius' Ship to Amberley's own Externus Exterminatus. The yacht was larger than the term would suggest, and it was here where I had my first involvement with the Adeptus Mechanicus. Yanbel, Tech Priest of Vail's Retinue, honestly I was expecting him to try and drill a hole in my head.
"Are you certain you do not wish to make the pilgrimage to Mars?" He had asked, I could see Mott lurking by the bulkhead we had entered through.
"I like my hands flesh, Yanbel, while I can admit there are advantages to augmetics, I would prefer to be able to feel things. The recoil, the impact of a fight, a woman. I can't do that with steel." I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
"There are many tech priestesses within the Mechanicum that would dispute that." Yanbel shot back, I shook my head with a chuckle.
"Not the point, Yanbel."
"You are a repository of knowledge that the Imperium and Mechanicum can actively use to improve our war efforts and munitions, it is my duty as a priest of mars to at the very least attempt to acquire you into our ranks." Yanbel continued as we walked through the ship, I could see Vail rolling her eyes as she passed by my workstation.
"Cease trying to poach my Quartermaster, Tech-Priest." She quipped as she passed, causing Yanbel to snap his mechadendrites in her direction agitatedly. I was currently finishing up the last of the routine maintenance before reporting for PT.
"I got to get going, man. Vaya con Dios." I said, looking over the exterior of a recently reassembled lasgun before returning it to the rack, grime had accumulated in the connectors that would transfer power from the power pack to the rifle itself, had to clean them with isopropyl alcohol.
"The Omnissiah knows all, David."
" GET OFF YOUR ARSE, FOOTHILL! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!" 'Flicker' Pelton shouted, as I was running laps around the gymnasium section of the yacht. "I ain't never seen such an embarrassing recruit in my life. What are you, some cushy noble?!" The verbal abuse isn't anything new. I had been dealing with it for over six weeks at this point, I was on a strict diet, a stricter training regime, and even stimulants to promote muscle growth. I had objected to those initially, but Vail pulled the Inquisitor card and made it an order.
(Note from Inquisitor Amberley Vail: Shut up and take the damn pills David.)
((Note from Legios Repentia David James Foothill: Winners don't do drugs!))
-5 Years added to sentence of Legios Repentia David James Foothill, Charge: Insubordination, see Incident Report D4U6S-
"I don't know what you did to get yourself on this ship, and I don't much care! The Inquisitor told me to get you into Astra Militarum shape, and by the Emperor I'm going to do so! FASTER!" Pelton continued, I growled as I sped up my pace. While I was slow to build muscle, a problem I'd always had throughout my life, I had toned up quickly. The muscles on my arms became more defined, and I had abs again, which was a pleasure to see. I was lucky to have the opposite problem of most people that hail from the 956, instead of being a gordito I was una flacito, a buddy of mine once told me I could eat like an Ogryn and not gain a pound. Heh I could remember my first time in the mess watching Vail's eyes widen as she watched me pack away the double rations quickly.
(Note from Inquisitor Amberley Vail: It was the first time I had seen a regular human as much food as a Ratling. The reaction was warranted.)
"Sir, yes, Sir!" I called, ducking under a swing from a baton. I had to be fast enough to avoid incoming fire, dive into cover while never stepping back. Retreat was not allowed in Pelton's boot camp.
"That's enough for now, Flicker." The voice of Vail called out from the entrance of the gym, causing Pelton to snap to attention, I would follow suit as well, ignoring Pelton's muttered 'slow'. "Foothill. It's time to see what else you can do other than throw a few punches." She spoke, and I felt a sparkle glint in my eye. One thing that had irked me for the initial period on the yacht, was that outside of maintenance, I had been forbidden from practicing any kind of shooting. (Note from Inquisitor Amberley Vail: Inquisitorial Regulations prohibit Legios Repentia from practicing marksmanship for a probationary period unless circumstances require otherwise. Personally, David needed to squirm a bit for all the trouble.)
A deck lower and another bulkhead allowed us entry into the practice range. 800 meters of adamantine reinforced hull, pocked with scorch marks, dents, and what looks to be the remnants of grenades going off. There were benches, firing lines, and distance markers throughout. One of the benches had been prepped with an array of weaponry, ranging from lasguns of various patterns, such as the long barreled Lucius Pattern, favored by the Death Korps of Krieg, and even the Accatran pattern bullpups. On the other side of the table was a selection of projectile weapons. My stub revolver was present, as well as a few autopistols, and even Vail's bolt pistol. I raised an eyebrow at the Inquisitor.
"You're gonna let me shoot your gun?" I asked.
"Maybe. We're going to be testing your 'operational envelope' I believe you called it. I've seen you work with your archeotech pistol, but I need you to be able to use whatever I put in your hands. So here we are. Pick up the lasgun on the far left of the bench, Quartermaster, and wait for my instruction to fire." Vail spoke, moving to the side of the bench and directing me to a firing lane. I followed the order, picking up the Lucius pattern lasgun I had observed earlier. I nabbed a munitorum standard power pack before entering the marked firing lane.
"Shooter Ready, Inquisitor."
"Charge and fire at the target at one hundred and fifty meters." She ordered. I moved quickly, slamming the power pack into place and pulling the charging handle, reminiscent of a bolt action rifle's bolt handle. I lined up the sights, keeping the front sight level with the rear, I cut the target in half with the front post and squeezed the trigger.
"You're slow, David. Faster. You're not hunting, you're trying to kill him before he kills you. Faster! Three hundred meters!" Vail Shouted, I snapped the sights to the designated target, letting three shots off, they weren't all in the same hole, as my trigger pull isn't perfect, but the non-existent recoil kept the lasers on the target. Or so I thought.
"You pulled your last shot high. You're compensating for drop that isn't there. It's a laser, David. It's light." Vail criticized, and I felt my pride sting, but I nodded with a sigh. Habits are hard to break. "Next weapon, Center of the table. Use the crimson coloured shells."
The next weapon was an Adeptus Arbites Lawbringer shotgun, a semi-automatic ten gauge shotgun that I found fairly easy to quad load.
"Hundred meters to ten, descending order, FIRE!" This was more familiar territory, even if I had preferred Twelve Gauge, Ten was more powerful, and the overengineered bulk of the lawbringer helped tame that infamous recoil. At one hundred meters the buckshot barely peppered the target, I could see a cloud of dust rise out the ground where pellets had spread, but as I shifted to closer and closer ranges I could see the spread tighten and tighten. Within twenty-five meters I had to be sure to brace harder, as each buckshot round was punching a hole roughly the size of my fist in the targets. At the last target I had to chamber load a round, ignoring the instinct to flinch as Vail fired her bolt pistol into the burm. I blew the head off of the target a split-second later, placed the shotgun on the bench, and looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
"If you can't perform with a little noise, I've no use for you on the battlefield." She explained curtly, I nodded, before gesturing at the shotgun.
"I like this one."
"I noticed."
Inquisitorial Interview LRDJF2
IAV: Inquisitor Amberley Vail, Speaking with ***** -Audio Censored on Orders of Inquisitor Amberley Vail-, Legios Repentia in the service of Inquisitor Amberley Vail, beginning interview.
LRDJF: Please just stick with David. Having my real name rolling around the 41st Millennium may not be the best move for any of us.
IAV: I was actually wondering why you've been choosing that name, is there a reason behind it?
LRDJF: The simple answer is that David and James are the names of my father's father and grandfather, respectively. Great Grandpa David served in the second world war, and grandpa James taught me how to shoot.
IAV: And the non-simple answer?
LRDJF: David is the name of a Shepherd's youngest son who felt the call of duty to fight against the Champion of an opposing country. Despite being little more than a child, and fighting Goliath, a man who was four feet taller than he was and outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. He went forward in Faith, and with naught but a sling and three smooth stones, he put Goliath in the ground. James was a martyr, one of the first.
IAV: And foothill?
LRDJF: That, for all intents and purposes, is directly translated.
Administratum Report LRDJF3
LRDJF: Inquisitor Vail's bolt pistol is the love child between the gyrojet pistols and a Draco style AK-Pattern pistol. It fires a .75 Caliber projectile initially leaving the muzzle at just over two thousand feet per second, with the rocket of the projectile accelerating after it leaves the muzzle to over three thousand feet per second down range. At which distance it reaches said speed is dependent on the ammunition used. Vail favors a high velocity adamantine projectile, I've noticed. Which, considering that her pistol has about an inch and a half of dwell time before the projectile reaches the giant ports in the barrel, is likely the only ammo that can run this fuckin thing!
-a heavy glass thunk resounds as Legios Repentia David James Foothill slams a bottle of Amasec onto the work table.-
LRDJF: -sigh- don't worry, I'll fix you up good. For those who aren't ballistically inclined dwell time is the length of barrel that is after the gas ports of said barrel. Ideally you want a bit more than an inch and a fuckin half.
-audible gulps before the amasec bottle is slammed into the table again-
LRDJF: the designers that converted this from a carbine to a pistol made the decision to oversize the gas ports instead of giving the barrel a bit more length. Which leaves me with a few options. I can get ahold of or manufacture a new slightly longer barrel, opting for an omnidirectional muzzle brake instead of the two large horizontal ports on the end of this one. This would increase dwell time and eliminate the need for overgassing the gun while only adding about three inches in length. Don't you worry. We're gonna have you singing with every shot, you just let uncle David fix you up right.
(Note From Inquisitor Amberley Vail: the Godwyn-Foothill pattern Bolt Pistol was initially met with some derision, with some traditionalist sects of the mechanicus declaring it tech heresy. Until I placed First in the Inquisitorial Wargames later that year, wielding said bolter. It is slowly gaining more and more momentum with its reputation for reliability in almost any environment. 'The fucking thing must work' indeed.)
Chapter 7
Days turn to weeks as training continues, I'm poked and prodded by medicae, injected with drugs and vaccines I can only pray won't lead to more than just a few days discomfort. Although, there's precious little comfort in the 41st millennium. I was either working, training, or passed out from exhaustion. This cycle would repeat, with only little deviation for about another month, until Amberley approached the retinue with an announcement.
"The Annual Inquisitorial Wargames for the Ordo Xenos have been announced. We are to engage the Inquisitor Drogan and his retinue. Inquisitor Drogan is a psyker, and a Radical, a suspected Xanthist." She spoke, and whispers broke out amongst the retinue. I wracked my brain, the name sounded familiar.
"We will be traveling to Graia, rendezvousing with Orelius and the Lucre Foedis to bolster our ranks. Foothill, Yanbel. I want the Godwyn-Foothill pattern Bolt Pistol ready and reliable before we reach Graia. Flicker, I want Foothill to be able to put his foot through Drogan's tonsils, and for you to be able to do the same! Make it happen! " Vail called out, dismissing us, our dataslates pinging with updated orders and schedules. Welp…there goes my sleep.
My first set of orders was to report to training with Flicker, and immediately after I enter the ring, I'm set upon like I jaywalked on Nostromo. I'm ducking, deflecting as best I can, but I can feel the baton sinking into my ribs and battering my guard insistently.
"Come on, David! You're Faster than this! Show me I haven't been wasting my time! FIGHT!" Flicker shouted as I ducked a horizontal swing. My fist hit his jaw with a satisfying 'Crack', but I had to get back on the defensive right after that.
" Vete…la pinche…verga!" The curses leave my mouth as I dodge Flicker's furious swings by pure luck. Flicker overextends just a smidge, and I'm able to get into his guard, slamming my elbow into his jaw hard enough to send a tooth flying. Flicker hits the ground, out cold. Honestly I still don't believe warp fuckery wasn't involved with that.
(Note from Inquisitor Amberley Vail: David unfortunately has the same issue as Ciaphas. Refusing to attribute an actually impressive display of skill to their own efforts. The forced humility irks me to this day.)
((Note from Commissar Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium: The kid knows not to get a big head. Can't fault him for that, Amberley.))
(((Note From Legios Repentia David James Foothill: Ain't you supposed to be Dead Ciaphas?)))
((((Note from Caiaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium: Shut your karking mouth, David.))))
I called the Medicae over to take care of Flicker and took the sudden opening in my schedule as a chance to guzzle down some water and wrack my brain. That name, Inquisitor Drogan. Something Familiar, psyker, Xanthist, wants to use warp weapons against the Xenos. C'mon Foothill think. After a few minutes of this, I decided to go for the nuclear option. Memory Refresher via Rakel. With a heavy sigh I make my way through the yacht, finding Rakel's quarters fairly quickly. We hadn't entered warp travel yet, the crew was still making preparations, so we likely had a day or two before we had to deal with Tzeenchian Fuckery™.
(Note From Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium: I still don't understand how he got the Administratum to approve that notarization.)
((Note from Legios Repentia David James Foothill: I made the Big Man™ laugh.))
(((Note from Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium: Fair Enough.)))
The door to Rakel's quarters opened up before I could knock, like always. Rakel was in a green dress once again, this one not showing as much cleavage but still clinging to her and accentuating her curves. Dark hair framing eyes shining with mischief and madness. Big E, why are all the women on this ship beautiful but fucking terrifying .
(Note from Revelation, Emperor of Mankind, The Big E, The Best Dad: Grow a backbone and you might actually appreciate it.)
((Note from Legios Repentia David James Foothill: You got a lotta nerve having that last bit in your title old man.))
(((Note from Revelation, Emperor of Mankind, The Big E, The Best Dad: Do something about it, Nerd.)))
-Legios Repentia David James Foothill title updated to: Imperial Nerd David James Foothill by Order of Revelation, Emperor of Mankind, The Big E, The Best Dad, The Big Man™-
Rakel giggled at my hesitation before waving me into her quarters.
"And so David comes to Bathsheba…seeking succor and knowledge." She whispers, and the shiver that runs down my spine at her voice returns.
"I'm just gonna…gloss over that and ask for some assistance in clearing out this freaking mental block I've got concerning this Drogan Character. I know something about him, but every time I try to focus on what I know, it drifts away. Something ain't right, and I've got a feeling if I don't figure out what's going on with the Zorg-looking fuck it's going to bite us in the ass." I speak, snapping my fingers "Like right there! Zorg-Looking Fuck! I haven't seen any holographs of this guy but that came out automatically."
"You keep letting me into your head so easily, David, and I may be tempted to stay~" Rakel laughs, head twitching as she sashays her way to poke and prod at my temples. "We need to get you started on training your mental barriers, prayers and faith may work now, but if I just poke that squishy brain matter just right, I can have you drooling at my feet." she's smiling as she says this, face inches away from mine.
"My powers have only gotten stronger since the Emperor graced us with his presence. I can shake off the haze easier and easier, I can sense the denizens easier, throw out false trails to keep them away from us. I ripped the geas on your memory the moment you crossed the threshold." With this she pulls away, twirling with a giggle and cocking her hip to one side.
(Note from Revelation, Emperor of Mankind, The Big E, The Best Dad, The Big Man™: Rakel is Best Girl™)
((Note From Imperial Nerd David James Foothill: This explains so much.))
(((Note from Revelation, Emperor of Mankind, The Big E, The Best Dad, The Big Man™: I reiterate: Do something about it, Nerd.)))
I let out a heavy sigh as I leaned against the bulkhead door of Rakel's quarters, deciding to talk through my reminiscing.
"Okay, so, Graia, I know that name, forge world. It's supposed to get hit with a dual Ork-slash-Chaos Marine invasion that gets foiled by the Ultra-Smurfs, well in all honesty one Ultra-Smurf, Captain Titus. Okay, yeah, starts with Titus fighting through Orks, Cadian Shock Troops are there. What happened next, c'mon, Titus shoots a bunch of Orks, picks up a thunder hammer…meets up with this Zorg-Looking Inquisitor type, shady pendejo by the name of Drogan. I mean, it's fairly obvious the guy is bad news. I mean, pulling rank on a Space Marine Captain? That's cause enough for suspicion in my book. I mean, the guy tears…open…a portal to the warp in the middle of Graia…'cause he's possessed and already dead by the time the invasion occurs… FUCK!" As realization dawns I dash out the door, trying to find the Inquisitor. I bowl over a few crewmen in my mad dash, shouting apologies as I sprint through the corridors towards Vail's Quarters. I burst through the semi-open bulkhead like a bat out of hell.
" AMBERLEY WE GOT A PROBLEM!" I shout, ignoring the lasbolt singing a line through the hair on the side of my head. It seems Vail was looking over dataslates herself, sitting at an elaborate desk.
"...So it would seem." Vail speaks with a sigh, placing the laspistol on the desk calmly. "Now would you explain why you're barging around my ship like a drunk Ork?"
"The Inquisition is putting us against either a Zorg-Looking Fuck of a Daemonhost." I stated simply. "Or, at the very least, a man who's going to get himself killed and worn as a meat suit if he isn't one yet."
"That…is indeed a problem. This information is reliable?" Vail asks, I nod gravely.
"Tears open a portal to the warp on Graia in the midst of an Ork invasion that needs the Ultramarine's 2nd Company to intervene." I explain, pulling a chair and taking a seat across from Vail. "So how we going to play this? Hate to put it this way, but we got an opportunity here."
"Yes, if we eliminate Brogan, we can stop an Invasion of the ruinous powers before it can even gain momentum." Vail mutters, tapping on a dataslate as I lean back a bit in shock.
"Immediately going for the lethal option? What if he's not possessed yet? The invasion of Graia by WAAAGH Grimskull is years away…and isn't this an Ordo Malleus Concern?" I ask, playing devil's advocate, which earns me a stern look from the Inquisitor.
"Drogan is an Ordo Xenos Inquisitor, If he's gone Heretic, it is our duty, to take care of him, internally. In addition, you have your orders from the Emperor: Act, David. I would rather not risk inciting the Emperor's wrath for disobeying his direct orders, David." Amberley explains as she switches one dataslate for another, "If he's not possessed, that makes our job easier, if he is, then the communique I just sent to the Deathwatch will be of some use indeed. So. If you're done panicking like some whiteshield, I need my bolter completed yesterday, David. Ta Ta~"
Chapter 8
Yanbel mostly acted as an Observer, watching as I took the measurements of the disassembled bolt pistol, comparing them to the data package I had requisitioned about the standard Godwyn-De'az pattern bolt pistol.
"So the issues we have to fix our low dwell time and overgassing of the action." I explained, placing the calipers onto the table. "We're going to be upping the barrel length, integrating an omnidirectional muzzle brake instead of the two massive barrel ports, and slightly downsizing the size of the gas ports in the barrel. So, my mechanically inclined friend, can we do that with the materials we have on board?"
"The manufactorum aboard the Exterminatus is capable of replicating an entire engine if the need arises, Quartermaster." Yanbel spoke in a deadpan drawl, which I met with a smirk.
"So you won't complain if I say I want enough adamantine in the barrel of this gun that it'll be Ogryn Tantrum proof?" I shot his way, watching as the gears in his head turned, literally, before he leaned forward, placing his hands on the table and meeting me eye to bionic eye.
"I relish the chance to do the Omnissiah's will, Quartermaster." And with that declaration, we got to work. The first few hours was poring over the data slates, reading the technical data package gathered on the pistol for untold hundreds of years, dimensions, materials, testing requirements and so forth. It was when it was time for machining when things got exciting.
"I need you to cut a feed ramp into the front trunnion of the pistol." I spoke through a breather mask, handing the de-barreled frame of the pistol to Yanbel, "it needs to match perfectly with the angle of the feed ramp of the chamber to be of any use. I'm going to get to work on the barrel."
"Why is this necessary, Quartermaster?" Yanbel asked, even as he did as requested, mechadendrites whirring as they went to work on the pistol. I locked the barrel blank into the lathe, a foot long piece of adamantium with a .75 caliber hole drilled and rifled through the center, it would need to be cut and trimmed to my target length of 5 inches, then threaded to accept the muzzle brake.
"When you shorten an action that is designed to have a certain amount of space to work correctly, you make the action more violent. For a firearm action to function properly, it must, in essence, make a hole, and fill a hole reliably every time. The Godwyn Pattern bolt gun has an eighteen inch barrel. Cutting it down to three and removing the bulk of the action to make it the size of your standard human compromises that reliability without certain design modifications." I explain, starting the lathe and making sure the cutting bit was installed as the workpiece began to spin.
"No offense intended to Godwyn and his associates, but it's obvious that this was a wartime conversion that was never evolved from the base 'does it go boom when I pull the trigger most of the time?' Form. It's already a large, rear heavy handgun, keeping its barrel snubbed does nothing but complicate the action further, reducing that 'make a hole, fill it' reliability."
"'Make a Hole, Fill it' Quartermaster?"
"With the pull of the trigger, the hammer strikes the firing pin, the firing pin strikes the primer of the shell, setting off the primary charge of the bolt shell and sending it down the barrel. The action, pressurized from the gasses filling the barrel and the projectile moving past the gas ports, starts the extraction process, thus, 'Making the hole'." As I speak I'm slowly cutting the blank to length, leaving myself about an extra inch to work with for threading.
"The extractor pulls the spent casing of the bolt shell out of the chamber, the ejector ejects said casing out of the ejection port, the magazine lifts the next shell into position, the action, under spring pressure, rocks back forward, pushing the bolt shell into the chamber with authority. 'Filling the hole.'" I continue, trimming down on the diameter of the blank to help bring down some of the weight but not compromising the 'Ogryn proof' strength.
"If the design of the weapon compromises any of those functions, then it needs to be addressed. Which is what you're doing by cutting that feed ramp into the front trunnion. Without that lip there, it eliminates the issue of the projectile colliding with said lip when feeding, stressing the action unduly, and with the benefit of not marring the projectile, allowing for increased accuracy." Pulling back the cutting bit I ran over the surfaces of the barrel with sandpaper, smoothing out the surface and eliminating any burs. I then prepared the threading chuck on the opposite end of the lathe. I would have to be extremely careful here as to not cut cross-threads in the extremely tough material, as the lathe was already groaning in exertion that I could practically hear emotion in. I patted the machine's housing gently.
"We're almost done, pal, you can rest soon, I'll get you an oil bath if you help me get this perfect." The whirring of the machine turned into a purr not unlike a well tuned engine. Yanbel's mechadenrites twitched in all directions as his one flesh eye widened.
"By the Omnissaiah…"
I ignored his exclamation as best I could as I gingerly fed the muzzle end of the blank into the threading die. Cutting only a few thousandths at a time, brushing away the flakes and chips, applying cutting fluid, and continuing.
"Ideally, we would forge-form the threads, but we don't have the facilities for that, so here we cut. One inch, by fourteen threads. Same as the old fifty Browning threads. Capable of withstanding over Eighty-Thousand PSI of pressure. Once the Brake is ready and mounted, it'll practically tighten itself while firing." I slowly removed the die from the newly formed threads, once again brushing away the chips as I bought out a nut threaded to receive the one inch by fourteen threads.
"Here's the moment of truth, If she catches, no oil bath for you." I swear I can see the workpiece twirl in anticipation even though the machine was powered off. I slipped the nut onto the threads, spun it with a finger and it glided on the threads flawlessly. I turn to face Yanbel, handing him the nut and removing the breathing mask.
"Get one of the apprentices to give the lathe that oil bath, and please let me know when the muzzle brake is ready. I'm going to press and pin the barrel and get it ready for test firing."
Pressing and Pinning a barrel isn't a complicated process, the chamber portion of the barrel is slightly oversized to the trunnion, and is pressed in with either a mechanical or hydraulic press, seeing as the hydraulic press in our workshop was throwing a tantrum, leaking hydraulic fluid and refusing to cooperate with our attempts to repair it. Ornery thing. Anyway. I had to get Yanbel over to help me as we locked the main body of the bolt pistol in the bottom of the press, trunnion facing upward as we got the barrel set up under the piston of the mechanical press.
"Why not have the adepts handle this menial labor, Quartermaster?" Yanbel asks, even as he sets up on the opposite side of the press and getting his hands on the cranks as I do the same.
"When working on a prototype if you want things done right the first time it's best you do it yourself. Now shut up and help me get this pressed in. We're probably going to need those augmetically enhanced arms for this." I muttered before counting down and beginning to apply pressure. I felt my arms strain as I muttered curses under my breath.
" Fuckmothering son of a….c'monc'monc'mon! You've been cooperating this whole time and now you choose to be difficult?! " I growled out as the press forced the barrel into the trunnion. "There's enough lube in you to make a slaaneshi priestess blush, fucking cooperate!" The universal lubricant of swearing at a piece of equipment, today I learned that the mechanical press was a masochist. We were able to slowly press the barrel into place, millimeter by millimeter, until I was able to tap the adamantine pin into place without much other difficulty. We got the pistol out of the press and I tested the weight.
"Alright…weight's good, balance is fine, gotta check the headspace gauges, if we're clear. Time for a test fire."
We were set up in the range, a bandolier of test rounds, higher pressure bolt shells to stress test the firearm. Hours of working and these shells, if we fucked up at any one of many different points during the production of the parts or reassembly of the gun, these bolts would make their displeasure known. A tech adept had intercepted us en route to the testing range with the muzzle brake, a wicked looking thing with omnidirectional porting and a toothed muzzle crown. It wasn't a big deal to torque it down before we tied the bolter into place and set the trigger with a string, hiding behind the protection of the firing line.
"Test Firing of the Godwyn-Foothill pattern Bolt Pistol, shot one in THREE…TWO…ONE!" - Krakoom-chk- oooh yeah that sounded right. I peeked over the firing line and saw that the pistol, while tilted back slightly from recoil, handled the shot fine. We loaded a magazine with two shells and set up again.
- Krakoom-chk-krakoom!- I felt a stupid grin split my face as I walked to the bolt pistol and took it into my hands, loading three more proof rounds and preparing myself as I took aim. The new pistol had a six inch barrel, about four inches of it extending out of the receiver itself. It balanced well, if you don't mind me tooting my own horn, I'd say it was some of my best work.
- Krakoom-krakoom-krakoom-chk- Three rounds, fired by hand, recoil impulse was resoundingly more controllable than the snub barrel previously, I could hear the action running smoother as it loaded each round and locked positively before the hammer struck and started the cycle again. I let out a laugh as I twirled the empty pistol on my finger and began my march to Vail's quarters, singing softly as I made my way there.
" Esta Lucecita, tiene que brillar.
Esta Lucecita, tiene que brillar.
Esta Lucecita, tiene que brillar,
Brillara, Brillara, Brillara~"
"This little light o'mine, I'm gon' let it shine
This little light o'mine, I'm gon' let it shine
This little light o'mine, I'm gon' let it shine
Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine~"
Administratum Report GFBP1
Administratum Transcription of meeting between Quartermaster David James Foothill and Inquisitor Amberley Vail, Ordo Xenos concerning the conception of the Godwyn-Foothill Pattern Bolt Pistol & the Inquisitorial Wargames of year 936 M41.
QDJF: So puberty hit this girl like a runaway truck.
-A thunk of a metallic object hitting the desk as Foothill places Godwyn-Foothill Bolt Pistol Serial number 001 onto the desk.-
IAV: I am not sure whether your personification of a weapon should be amusing or concerning.
QDJF: The machine spirit likes it, otherwise they would've found a way to blow me up by now. Fucking with explosives is no easy feat, Vail. I proofed this weapon at 40% higher than standard pressure. You can chunk round after round of those penetrators you like so much and she'll just keep eating 'em. She runs smooth, recoil is much more mild as well.
IAV: Not as concealable.
QDJF: You didn't conceal her before anyway, it'll still tuck under your overcoat as before, she's a service weapon, her size profile fits it into the 'Offensive Handgun' category. You don't normally carry a long arm, so with this as your primary, I figured you'd want it as bomb-dust-chaos-astartes-Ogryn proof as possible.
IAV: If that's the case I'm surprised it doesn't weigh as much as a Ripper Gun.
QDJF: Geometry, a liberal amount of Adamantium, and even more liberal amounts of sweet talk to the machine spirit.
IAV: You serenaded my gun.
QDJF: More like preached to her. You now have the closest thing to a pocket sized Sister of Battle.
-Anomalous Incident BP01 occurs, the action of the bolt pistol runs itself. A resounding chk-chk fills the room.-
IAV:...Eager little thing, aren't you. Foothill, you didn't let Yanbel see these things happen did you?
QDJF: Couldn't really do anything about that seeing that he was two feet away.
IAV: …The mechanicus is going to be a pain in my arse.
-The bolt gun chk-chks again-
IAV: No, dear, not yet.
QDJF: Oh, the Mechanicus you're merciful with, but Drogan you're ready to feed him to the space wolves.
- chk-chk chk-chk-
IAV: I agree with the gun, Traitorous Heretic, the people that make our ships, I can choose my fights, Foothill. You don't have a hill to stand on considering a single sermon turned my pistol into a pocket Seraphim Sororitas!
QDJF: Fair enough. Any response from Deathwatch Command?
IAV: I quote: 'Intervention shall not be necessary, other reinforcements are already en route to support you, Inquisitor.'
QDJF: I don't like the sound of that.
IAV: They refused to elaborate on the nature of these 'reinforcements' but deemed them sufficient enough to handle, I quote 'any perceivable threat to The Nerd'
QDJF: I really don't like the sound of that.
IAV: I've requested at least one Marine to be sent for support in case those reinforcements have been delayed, and they've agreed. If things go well enough, we'll have one of the Emperor's Angels on the Lucre Foedis when we rendezvous.
QDJF: That, I do like the sound of.
-End of Transcription-
Chapter 9
-Inquisitor Amberley Vail POV-
David left my quarters with a spring in his step, despite being covered in oil and metal shavings that he dragged onto my nice clean floor. I clicked my tongue as my gaze was drawn to the pistol.
"Do you remember when we were that young and eager to please, with no thought to decorum?" I asked, not expecting an answer from the machine spirit. I let out a forlorn sigh as I drew out a small bottle of amasec from my desk and took a sip. I tapped my comm-bead and called out in a private channel.
"Yanbel, come to my quarters at once." It was a few moments before the crimson robed tech-priest darkened my door, mechadendrites twitching. I leaned back in my chair and locked eyes with the tech priest.
"What's your observation of him?" I asked.
"The boy is blessed by the Omnissiah. The machine spirits sing for him like children trying to impress their father. Yet he refuses to consider augmetics." Yanbel spoke, his mechadendrites drooping. "He quoted one of the Sons. Ferrus Manus. '…and so I shall excise the silver from my hands. In doing so I shall weaken myself and my sons, but nonetheless it must be done. The hands are strong, and have created great things, but they are not mine.'" Yanbel's voice cut to David's. A recording being projected through the Vox that replaced Yanbel's lips.
I noted that David's voice seemed reverent, tinged with a kind of respect that I hadn't heard in our own interactions. He feared me and was always deferrent, but he quoted the Iron Hand as if he learned his trade from the Primarch himself.
"His designs, they've been submitted to the administratum?" I queried
"In addition to the Mechanicus, yes." Yanbel replied quickly, straightening up to his full height.
"Good. One less bit of paperwork to worry about. Get the adepts to work on making more of these. I want squad leaders outfitted with these and supplied with psybolts, witch bolts, and helspears. Whatever anti-psyker and anti-warp munitions we have. Get. Them. Ready."
"The warp transition was stable, Inquisitor." I could hear the questioning lilt in his tone.
"Too stable. Our opponent in these war games is a known Radical Xanthist and suspected heretic. Both of these outcomes require preparation for combat against the Ruinous Powers, Tech-Priest. One way or another by the end of these war games Inquisitor Drogan will be dead, or we will be." I leaned back into my seat staring up at the ceiling, an uneasy feeling in my chest that was answered by Mott bursting into my room.
"FOOTHILL'S STARTING A CRUSADE!"
" WHAT?!"
-David POV, Five minutes Prior-
We left the warp shortly after I left Vail's quarters, it was too easy. I felt my gut twist into an uneasy knot as I was able to spy the Lucre Foedis as we approached to dock.
"A few days at most…and we'll be fighting a daemonhost. No blanks, no astartes, no Ogryn with a slab shield." I muttered under my breath, staring out into the void, I bowed my head.
"Lord…who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Deliver me from thine enemies, oh, My God. Defend me from them that rise up against me. Deliver me from the workers of iniquity and save me from bloody men. The mighty are gathered against me, awake to help me…and behold." I whispered my prayer until a conviction rose in my chest and I squared my shoulders, opening my eyes and beginning my march to the armory. Startling the staff as my voice rose to audible levels for the first time.
"Prepare my hands for war, and my soul for battle. Grant me the strength to cast out evil, the firmity to fight righteous battles, to protect those in my care, and stamp out those that would threaten your work." I entered the armory to find tech adepts hard at work, already making more bolt pistols and I turned to see a procession of staff following me, fire and brimstone in their eyes. Some were muttering their own prayers to the Emperor, some were gripping weapons or tools in anticipation. I got to work, stepping to a worktable but still preaching.
"For yea though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for I know that You are with me. So I ask, Grant me the strength to act. Bless my hands to do good work and my body to prepare for war. Bless my soul, for you are the one that makes things all right. Bless us, Lord, so that we may know no Fear." And with that their fervor reached a fever pitch, weapons were being handed out. Orders for preparations were being made, drills were being performed, and even the cogboys around me worked just that bit faster. I could hear hymnals being sung as productivity skyrocketed. The bell had been rung. War was on the horizon, and we had work to do. I underestimated how starved these folks were for a half decent fire and brimstone sermon because my comm-bead buzzed in my ear moments later.
"Foothill's fatalities, you stab 'em we slab 'em, how can I help you?" I couldn't resist, I was riding an adrenaline high.
"Start another crusade without my permission and I'll stab you , David." Okay so things must've escalated.
"I said a single prayer aloud. How does that constitute a Crusade?!" I asked, handing a lasrifle to the slowly growing line of crewmen prepping to go to range.
"Half of the crew on my ship haven't seen combat in months! A week after I announce wargames, right after we get out of the Emperor-Damned Warp, the scrawny barely-a-man that the Inquisitor pulled from a warzone, in a fit of Religious Fervor strong enough to make a Sister of Battle blush." - chk-chk- " Not yet, you! Says 'prepare my hands for War.' What did you expect to happen?! "
"That I was going to get a few folks off their ass and into the training deck?"
" Try half of the ship!"
"...Fuck."
" You will be buried a Legios Repentia if it's the last thing I do, Foothill. "
-200 years added to sentence of Quartermaster David James Foothill, Charge: Inconveniencing a Superior Officer-
After Vail browbeat Orelius into her retinue once more, we now had a whole Cruiser's worth of soldiers, and I was summoned into the Foedus with specific instructions to be in full combat dress. So there I was, marching through the corridors of the Foedus, flanked by the Cogboys that had essentially become my bodyguards.
I had the Lawbringer slung over my shoulder and with an underslung surprise that I had prepped this morning. My .45 was holstered under my left arm, and the .500 Magnum was in a drop leg holster on my right thigh. I'm clad in a Carapace chest plate one of the crewmen from the Exterminatus… acquired , and shoved into my arms during the preparations I caused with the power of Psalms. My arms were simply covered by my uniform shirt and my legs had both thigh and shin plates of Flak Armor. Steel toed boots, and my hat were my only personal accessories.. A bright red stylized 'R' on the right side of my breastplate was mirrored by the Inquisitions stylized 'I'. Overall, I still looked more reasonable than Obiwan Sherlock Clousseau.
As I entered the bridge of the Foedus, I could see the gathered leaders of our warband. As well as a fuckmothering Deathwatch Space Marine . Black armor with green trim, with the dragon's head on his shoulder designating him as from the Salamanders chapter, well that and the lit torch on his shoulder. Vail announced my arrival as I approached, strangling my desire to nerd out about the fucking salamander less than six feet away .
"This is Legios Repentia Quartermaster David James Foothill." Vail spoke as I joined the group with a small bow with my hat to my chest. Orelius knew me, but I have a feeling it was more for the Space Marine's benefit. I had a feeling he knew who I was already.
" The Nerd." A powerful baritone filtered through the beaked helm, red eye lenses solid and unwavering. Wait, what did he say…oh that golden son of a bitch. I'm going to set a bunch of tacuache in his throne room, I swear on all that is Holy. Just gotta find what kind of tacuache survived into the 41st Millenium.
-Ten Years Added to Sentence of The Imperial Nerd, Legios Repentia David James Foothill by order of The Emperor of Mankind. Noted as: Try it Nerd.-
"...Is every Astartes going to be calling me that, M'Lord?" I asked, adjusting my shotgun on my shoulder and ignoring the underslung flamer starting its own pilot light. She's an indignant little thing.
" Quite possibly, Little Smith. Is that a Seraphim Hand Flamer mounted on your Shotgun?" Oh I caught his attention.
"Inspired by the design of the Seraphim, but I drew her up and built her up last night. She's the first iteration of the Repentia Pattern combi-flamer. Capable of functioning both underslung and independently, she spews a combination of promethium and gelling agents leading to the ordinance to be a viscous, sticky flaming mixture. This extends the range beyond your standard hand flamer as well as only having to make a single pass instead of a constant stream of flame on a target."
" ...Inquisitor, I like him. I am Venters. We will be working together in the coming battle, Little Smith." And with that, Venters leaves the bridge. Vail and Orelius are simply staring at the black armored Marine walking away.
"David." Ah crap she's using my first name. "I'm torn between wanting to shoot you for shattering my worldview, and appreciating how well you subvert my expectations with sheer bullshit." She spoke, walking over to stand at my side and letting out a small huff, her face softened slightly. "Are you ready? We begin our assault soon. It's going to be your first full-scale battle." Orelius, for once is not playing the arrogant noble card, a pensive frown on his face.
"This isn't a scuffle to get into the governor's skirts, Kid. It's going to be rough, dirty, full of blood and that's on the nice end." He spoke, leaning on a cane, his eyes boring into mine. I gave a grave nod.
"I'm ready for whatever happens, good or bad. I'm as prepared as I can be, and the dice will roll how they may." I spoke softly, subconsciously running my hands around the edge of my hat as I held it in my hand. I'd been whispering prayers under my breath half of this morning, I'd double checked my weaponry, tested the Repentia, got my armor checked. I was as ready as I would ever be when we would drop to assault Drogan's retinue. I wasn't ready. I really wasn't.
-Three hours later, David POV-
We outnumbered Drogan's forces five to one. We had him nearly surrounded on all sides except for where a mountain split our forces. My squad consisted of two cogboys, two guardsmen; a man and a woman from the Vostroyan Firstborns that had been taken into Vail's service, and a combat servitor…a vat grown, from what the cogboys told me. It still unnerved me, seeing dead eyes covered in machinery with a massive cannon on his shoulder. I sent a small prayer for mercy on the poor thing's soul and focused on the battle below. We were being shuttled in a Lascannon equipped Arvus Lighter. The battle had been raging for an hour now. Heretek Skitaari corrupted by Drogan's experiments. I was being redirected from the center lines to reinforce the eastern flank. I volunteered. I couldn't stand by as these men and women faced the forces of hell itself. As we approached to land, my comm-bead buzzed in my ear, Venters' voice pulled through.
" Foothill, be warned: the daemonhost slipped my blade. They are heading your way. Prepare yourself." He spoke. I could hear the battle raging around him, and at his words I felt my spine stiffen. I tapped my comm-bead.
"Warning received, M'Lord Venters…The Emperor Protects." With that I cut the radio. I stood from my seat, grabbing hold of one of the support rails, I turned to face my squad.
"The daemonhost is moving to meet us on the battlefield, friends." I spoke, and their postures immediately straightened. They were too disciplined to shout out in fear, to question the intel. They were better soldiers than I, even as my hands shook. I clenched my fist so hard my knuckles turned white.
"You all have been placed under my command, despite my inexperience. I argued against it. Yet here we are. I will not order you to do anything I would not risk doing myself. We are moving to support our weakened eastern flank. To save our brothers and sisters down there fighting against the forces of the Enemy. So I say this, as we descend into Hell." I take a breath, cracking my neck.
"I say, we crawl our way up and out. I say we crawl our way through blood, mud, and oil to do what must be done. I say that we claw, with our finger nails , Inch by bloody inch. We will crawl our way, straight through that heretic traitor's chest cavity if we need to, out of Hell itself! I say we FIGHT! " Conviction settles itself in my breast, I see fire in the eyes of my squadmates. "Praise be to the Lord, my Rock. Who trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle. Over 41 thousand years ago, my namesake wrote that into scripture. And Now…even now it rings true. So who among you is with me?! Who among you will rip, claw, and tear their way through the forces of HELL ITSELF?!"
" THE EMPEROR PROTECTS, QUARTERMASTER!"
"You're goddamn right he does." And with this, we landed, and we brought fury never before seen to Graia.
-Machine Spirit POV, David's .45-
I had served one master before finding David. The first meant well, but I spent years in a cabinet collecting dust, never having been cleaned or oiled. Then, five years after, I was picked up by a young man and I could feel his eagerness. Obviously he had heard of me and my brothers, despite my state of disuse and uncleanliness he picked me, and I decided then that I would serve him well.
A year passed, and David practiced consistently, giving me the proper exercise necessary to function should I be necessary for my intended purpose. I would hear him pray every morning, asking for the Carpenter to protect him, so that I would never be necessary. Then the Emperor took us. For David, it was an instant. For me, I felt every year. I witnessed the horrors of the warp, and it was through sheer perseverance that I made it through to the other side. Thirty eight thousand years, I waited. Remaining ready, because I didn't know when I would be needed. I sat in the leather holster with a round in my chamber, ready, waiting, because I knew that if a threat appeared, I would be needed. And it came to pass. On Gravalax was the first time I was drawn in anger, and I served my purpose.
When the Inquisitor took me from my Master, I rebelled, and I refused to work with anyone else. I locked my chassis by willpower alone, and when I was returned, David proved my faith correct. Looking over me like my original creator.
Now, I stay silent. Ever vigilant. I can sense the battle raging around me, the young blood in my Master's hands barking and screaming Spanish vulgarities. The magnum, older than the young shotgun, is weary, his cylinder is empty, used to dispatch a blue horror and its pink spawn summoned by the Possessed One. I know my time will be soon. David is running out of shells, but the Possessed One is closing in. The newborn, attached to her brother less than a day ago, screams her defiance letting out a gout of blessed flame at the Possessed One, but she is young. She doesn't have the Faith necessary to dispatch the Daemon in Drogan's skin.
Drogan's gear is as Tainted as he is, and now it is my turn to do my Duty once more. I can feel David's heart swell in furious anger as his voice fills the battlefield, he draws me from my holster.
"Come on then! Let me cast you down, you misbegotten creation!" He snarls, and I address the corrupted younglings.
"I will be swift, young ones. Find peace through purification." The humans can't understand us, but the young machines listen to me. I am the Elder. I am the Protector. I have not failed in thirty-eight thousand years of vigilance. And now, with my gaze locked on corruption, and my muzzle pointed in-between the eyes of the Possessed One. I gather my willpower, my faith, my fury. I gather the fury, the faith, the belief of the young machines, the half-bloods, the soldiers and Inquisitor. The pseudo-crusade fanned by David's prayer reaches a fever pitch, and as my hammer falls, I saturate the bullet with all of it.
It is a somber duty. I take no joy in the act itself, granting mercy to the young ones. But it is the duty of the Elder to do this. It is the duty of the Elder to set an example. The duty of the Elder to show those not too far gone what a Guardian can do. What we are supposed to do, when faced with corruption.
On Gravalax, I was sluggish, slow to take in the energies and emotions of those around me, and found my effectiveness limited. Now, I have learned, I have taught, my legacy is known through the young ones, they whisper in awe and fear as they witness me. The quiet Elder. Today I show them why I have no need for idle chatter. The shot is perfectly placed. The sound more akin to the Boltkin than my own brothers. The bullet pierces through the Possessed One's head, and the energy is unleashed. Lines of white light spread through the Possessed One's veins. The Daemon's howls of pain tear through the wound, gushing an inhuman amount of blood and light. It screams, as its soul is torn, burnt by the light of the Carpenter. It is burned away, and the youngbloods are granted peace without corruption, they go to rest with the taint burned away, and I am placed back into my holster. To return to my silent vigil once more. I hear David mutter something in an awe filled breath.
"Guess .45 does kill the soul, huh buddy."
No, David, my friend, my master, you who's fate holds so much more in store for you than this.
Your fury kills the soul.
I do the duty I was built for. Nothing more, nothing less.