Waifu Krieg

"As the night winded down and the other sisters left, me and Krieger Female Model 68b #6345 settled down to bed. We were both too tired to do anything but look into each others eyes and grin.
But I think, that was enough for both of us."

Unit 632-88c blinked, watching the dataslate flicker off. Nonsense.

The unit looked around her, the thick gash in the earth that was her most recent garrison awash in the smog of artillery battered the solider's air filltration units. The krieger nodded, this was how the world worked.

So why did it make her feel off... Pondering the possibilities the krieger drew her laspistol and shot the slate. The broken wires sputtering sparks but not the wail of dying daemons.

So conclusion was false. Annoying. And 88c just destroyed administratium property for no reason. Regrettable.

Krieger pondered the slate, why would it be so effective on altering moral if it was not heretical. Perplexing.

Furthermore if it was not heretical then it could be efficent in bolstering moral. Repairs were needed.

The Krieger grabbed the slate, rushing off to find the techpriest, they will know what to do.
"Hmmmm. The engiseer peered at the dataslate, mechadendrites surrounding the machine. "It appears to be repairable, but it has been hit by a las round in close range." The seer turned towards 88, unblinking red eyes attempting to peer through the gas mask and uncover the Krieger's guilt.

Impossible, krieger minds are built like steel traps, lonely, cold, steel traps. You look away, "I encountered it already damaged." Deceitful.


The engiseer eventually turned away. "Well I will have it fixed by the end of the 3rd ration. Continue duties."

You nod and salute the engiseer. He originally stated his name but given 01001110011001010111001001100100 was inefficient to speak you decided to refer to him by title.

You bound off, pondering the oddity of the slate's data, particularly one incident, in which the Male unit touched the top of the female solider's scalp. Data implies that this was... pleasurable. You don't understand the term, or its association to the action.

You crouch down to avoid sniper firer, briefly unclasping your helmet to administer a self headpat. patting your red hair before hastily reapplying the helm. Nothing. Disappointment.

You ponder, perhaps it needs to be received from another, similar to the medals of sufficiency that Krieg can receive post humorously. You were always jealous of those lucky few who got buried with the marked spent lasrifle charges, they got to be special.

You look around, noting a catachan solider nearby, the man sitting and watching the Lho-stick smoke rise. Lho are a inefficient substance deemed useless by Krieg command but you derive... interest in the act on a cosmetic sense. The smoke reminds you of Krieg itself, or rather, your presence off it. It's not a unpleasant thought.

The man however, was, as he scowls at you and initates Rude Gesture #342-B from the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. Irritating.

You certainly will never let HIM perform congratulatory scalp touches on YOU. Pout.

88c poked her ration, Soylen Slurry with Cheese imitation. The congealed mass bent under the attempt to skewer it, the corpse starch wallowing like a cold oatmeal of dead bodies.

88c lifted the plate, swallowing the mass as fast as possible, swallowing the flavorless mass as she pondered her next move. In front of her was the dataslate having been returned by the techpriest dressed in the Ommissiah's sacred bandages.

You flick the slate back on. Immersing yourself in the mysterious log entry. Perhaps if you investigate the story deeper you can understand its strange affect on your psyche.

Hmmm, the krieger flicked through the pages, legs swaying under her chair as the Krieger reads the slate.

Wait, you can touch someone's HANDS? WITHOUT GLOVES? A small wisp of steam emitted from the Krieger's mask as she pondered that. But... but that was unsanitary!

The krieger closed the dataslate, shoving it into her bag before anyone saw her read such... such... inefficiency!

The krieger sat at the table, initiating Imperial Meditation #23 of the Uplifting Primer, the Deep Breath. Upon retaining full control of faculities the Krieger walked out of the hall, resuming patrol of the perimeter as she determined the best strategy for SECONDARY OBJECTIVE.

Primary objective was of course, how to die in a manner benefiting a servant of the emperor. Given current garrison was a preemptive occupation in order to prevent heretical elements from raiding this Armory world primary objective appeared... difficult.

Secondary objective was however, the acquisition of scalp touches and... further morale supportives, should the necessity arise.

88c tried not to think about the hands. Just the thought of having bare skin, much less having it touch others was just... peculiar.
"Alright 24 in a row." The catachan chortles, lho stick dangling from his lip and the upper half of his flak armor tossed aside for the more effective armor of tattered vests and sweaty abs. The Catahan tossed his lasrifle to the floor, top of the gun still warm as he admired the smoldering crater of his target, the sergant at the practice range hosting up another dead ork to replace the spent test dummy.

88c huffed, of course the catachans would be so obscene as to ignore army regulations. The catachan hears her, eyes lowered as he glares at the dimunitive linewoman. "Oh so you think you can do better?" He picks up the gun and tosses at her.

"Credits where your mouth is." The man points at the ork dummy as 88c clutched the gun. Ugh it smells like... he does. "I win you shut your trap. If the warp spills over and you win I'll do something you say."

88c ponders this, if she loses she doesn't have to deal with him, if she wins... well the scalp touch is a congratulatory measure.

88c nodded, hauling the smelly rifle over the range.

Ptow! The laser fries the orc's eyeball, a second ptow and the orks head jerks back, the top of the head smoked but not penetrated.

Twenty two shots later and the las had burnt a fine hole through the other end of the skull, only one more shot and she'd win. And then... then...

Click. The rifle sputters, the cartridge blinking red in protest of it's empty charge.

"Shit, forgot I've been practicing for the day." The catachan said, peering over the blinking cartridge. "Hold on I got a spare some-"

The Ork jerked, the serreted blade of the krieg's entrenching tool firmly pinned in the ork's neck, cold blood dripping down from the wound.

"25" 88c said, standing up from her throwing stance. "I win."

The catachan blinked before chuckling. "Shit guess a hits as good as any. Fine what do I owe ya gassy."
88c looked down, ignoring the troopers smelly chest as it pondered. It was distasteful but the probability WAS optimal...

"My head..." The krieger muttered. Hmmm, elocation was unexpectedly difficult. She needed to expend additional effort.

The catachan scratched his head. "Excuse me?"

"You need to touch my head and tell me I did a good job!" 88c yelled. Too much, way too much effort. Hmm socialization is difficult. Aggravating.

The man turned his head looking to see if his friends were around. "You're serious? This isn't a joke my mat... course it's not you can't joke."

The man bit his lip before sighing. "Alright, but don't tell anyone."

The man lifted his hand, Catachans have large hands you noticed, it explains the trenching knives.

"Hey. Don't stare at me, this is awkard enough as is." The catachan seethed as you look away feeling as soft thud as something knocks your head.

"Um... good job mate. Really fucked that ork up." The catachan said. "Okay so um, fuck off." The man said before running off, face redder then healthy. According to the uplifting primer that could be signs of heat exhaustion. Worrisome, a medicade should be informed.

88c thought for a moment, reflecting on the situation. Results were suboptimal to useless. Upon reflection nothing happened at all, though there is this shrill noise that wasn't there before, the krieger wished it would stop, it sounded annoying.

Oh it was emitting from her own voice box... odd. The krieger sighed, now her helmet smelled.

The krieger looked down, noting the man's rifle still in her hands. She'd need to return it post haste.

Hmmm Sergeant Richand Tear.
~~~~~
"I'm TELLING you fuckwits I'm serious!" Richand yelled at his chortling squad, Iho stick smouldering between his fingers, a pile of thrones and ammo casings sitting between the table as the squad of Catachan Nutcrunchers played there annual poker game.

"I was fuckin up the dead Ork we string up when all of a sudden I see this biddy gasmask staring at me. Bleeding fuck then matches my record, stabs the fuckin dummy with a shovel and begs me to pat her on the head and call her a good girl. Like a fuckin dog. Also raise 3 shells ya fuckin pansies."

"Pull the other one Sarge." His vox officer said, mechanical pack sitting next to him as he pushes 2 Iho sticks into the pot. "It's got bells and everything."

"Fold." Private Belchett said tossing his hand aside. "If the Sarge is willing to raise and is such a shite liar he wants us to believe a Krieger wants to jump his bones then his hand beats mine."

"Oi, I'll have you scrub toliets for that with your teeth." Sergeant Tear said. "What about you Harmond, you believe me right, we are mates and all."

The medicae sighed, matching the bet and flipping her hand, cursing as vox operator Mary grabbed the pot. "It's hard to believe to be honest. Krieg are conditioned to ignore emotional input from childhood. Even if one felt affection they wouldn't be able to recognize and react to it. Historically speaking such a relationship only comes from unpredicatble external stimulai."

"Oi I think I got it." Mary said, the man's pyrite tooth glistening in his smile. "The biddy saw Sarge with his draws down and saw love." The operative winked. "After all, the lass finally found a sight more horrible then her hellhole of a home."

The table burst into laughter as Richand glared at the vox operator. "I hope that was worth extra shifts because you're waking up a hour before these lot."

Mary saluted. "It's a honor to serve the emperor sir."
Belchett frowned. "Hey boss, this Krieger girl of yours, is she tall?"

Richand shook his head. "Hardly, I got dogs bigger then her back home." Granted you can say the same about most species of bears but the creepy bitch was only five feet tall, guess it saves them digging time to be short.

"And was her gasmask lense red or green?" Belchett asked, the large catachan taking a sip from his flask.

The sarge blinked. "Red lenses, and smoke comes out of it like the bitch had her head up a volcona, why?"

The Private pointed to two red dots staring at the other side of the tent. "So kind of like that one?"

"Emperor's shitter." The sarge cursed, Iho stick dropped to the floor, staring outside, hands clutching his lascarbine and smoke floating up from two souless red beads, was the krieger.

88c blinked as the Catachan stormed up at her, gloved fingers clenching the smelly mans smelly lascarbine as he loomed over her. The man's lho stick smouldered on the table, forgotten.

Emperor's throne he still wasn't wearing a shirt, didn't he worry about parasites?

Okay 88c thought to herself. All she had to do was employ that 'cuteness' that was mentioned in the dataslate. How did it go again.

"Losing gear is a violation of article 3 of the Uplifting Primer." 88c said, the krieg handing the carbine with him.

"Maximum penalty would be 30 lashings in public. Which would be highly visible given lack of apperant upper armor. Deficient uniform is another violation, punishment includes 10 floggings. Don't do it again." See, see how generous you are by not telling on you Catachan person? The Kriegling thought to herself... wait there was one thing to perfect this, that, Tsunderocratise techinque it was called right.

"Empathy minimal, you're stupid." Yes, the Krieg thought to herself.

Nailed it.
"Oi! I ain't stupid, this is tactical! It's easier to sneak around in the woods like this!" The catachan said. "Not that you would know you are the least sneaky person I've ever seen shorty!"

"Do not refer to this unit as short." 88c said. "Subject is, optimally compact."

"Is that what they call it in gasfuckia?" The Catachan said. "Look I appreciate the gun and all but where you get off lecturing me like we know each other."

"You touched my scalp." 88c replied, head tilted. "Interaction is sufficent for admonisment."

"I did not! You were wearing your helmet! I touched your helmet." The Catachan yelled, exhasperated. "I didn't touch no fuckin scalp yet."

You have to remove your helmet? That explains the insufficent response levels, but that's... thats a uniform violation!

"You... you won't disrobe me that easy!" 88c yelled, the heavy booted woman scampering off into the distance.

"Wow." Mary said from behind the table. "The sarge wants to get into the little krieg girls joppers."

"Mary for the Emperor's sake go fuck yourself with a chainaxe and report to the Commissar for being a raging cunt."
88c ran down the hall, huddling in her sleep bag, ignoring the questioning stares of 88a and b as she rushed by.

The evidence was undeniable, 88c thought to herself. Sargent Tear told her that the scalp touch didn't count with her helmet on. Logically, this meant that, in order of her to recieve her reward, the Sargent demands she must remove her helmet. To do so would be to bear her skin, to the outside, she may even have to remove her mask.

It was plainly obvious that the Sargent was a raging pervert and after her body to do... illicious things with, like flesh touching. 88c pulled her blanket even closer to her, ignoring the stares her fellow wombmates were giving her.

The dataslate was too powerful, she performed the morale procedures exactly as stated in the Amore et Krieg slate and it has reduced Sargent to a savage beast thinking with... with...

...What do males use when overcome by depraved lust anyway? 88c wondered... not that she was interested mind you, but she needed to defend herself. She supposed it didn't matter. What did matter was that as soon as she performed it to boost regiment morale a squad leader has become obsessed with her, all because she was watching him that one time... well those two times... three? Well who's counting, that's the administratium's job.

Whatever the details of the Sargent's behavior the cause is all to obvious. 88c has, drunk on power, become too 'cute'. This was awful, she let her ambition get ahead of herself.

88c's respirator hissed, maybe this wasn't that bad, she should collaborate externial data.

"645-88a? 645-88b?" 645-88c whispered, the two krieg's heads emerging from the top of the bunk. "Am I too cute?"


The krieg sisters looked at eachother, then back to the girl. "What's a cute?" 88a questioned.

88b however, nodded sighed, white steam hissing from her gasmask. "Is cute a height thing? The magos biologis already told you countless times that your size is not a mutation but a random quirk of the external genetic material the vitae womb uses to reduce genetic degradation right? You aren't a heretic just because you are short."

"I... I am not short!" 88c hissed, steam venting from her mask. "I'm just... optimized for trenches, that's all. And that's not it cute is like... something that makes people want to...touch your scalp." 88c mumbled the last 3 words.

"...repeat that?" 88a asked. "You said something about touching your head."

88c shrinks into the sleeping bad, steam wisping out of the bag hole as 88c hid out of view from her sisters. "Nothing! I said nothing of the sort! Good night."

The two other kriegers nodded before getting back in there bed.

"...Inquiry? Why are respirator's required uniform if the regiment components do not?" 88b asked from within her bag.

88a and c stared at their sister. "645-88b!" 88a replied astonished. "You can't bare your skin, you'll corrode.

88b waved outside. "In Krieg maybe but look at this place, that catachan 645-88c observes does not even wear the top half of his uniform and his vitals are clearly more optimal then any of the krieg males I've been outfitted with.

"Confirmation?" 88a asked, head tilted. "His perspiration ratio seems unusually abundant. Perhaps sweat glands are suboptimal."

88b shrugged. "Retort acknowledged but the flaw is slight compared to the rate of skin barred. Further upon review of the uplifting primer there is no clause against removal of the uniform off hours. So long as my gear is within my person in case of ambush, the uniform may be modified with permission from the solider's nco."

88c gasped. "But, 645-88b, that's improper!"

88b made a noise that sounds like a clicking of the tongue. "Concern acknowledged and dismissed. Unit will request permission for uniform adjustment from Sargent 645-13d at second ration. Resume nighttime cycles."

The krieg turned around, red lenses glaring at the wall as her sisters turned to their own business.

88c was worried, it was clear her cuteness was infecting others, inspiring... inefficiency in the ranks from overabundant moral. There was nothing to be done.

She was going to have to report her crime to the commissar. 88c sniffed. This life... withstood expectations. It was regrettable for it to be over without her ever getting to have her genetic material sampled for the next regiment.

88c walked down the barracks of the 645 second company it was interesting, 88c thought. But as a condemmed woman everything had a different light to it.

88c accepted her death, she's accepted it since the day she was spawned, all the kriegers have, but that was always a "Hopefully soon" kind of deal. It was different then actually knowing that you would never see the inside of your sleeping gear again.

She looked at the copper monolith vault overhead, the reddish sand she stepped on, it looked so peaceful... which was improper given that it was a warzone. The fact she saw less dead in the guard then off it was a odd realization. Irritating. Puzzling.

The krieger wandered the tents, looking for the Commissar's it was best to do it quickly. Unfortunately doing so involved going past the firing range.

88c watched the Catachan Sargent take his shots, Lascarbine firing into another ork corpse, the bleeding corpse's chest riddled with small holes where the las hit it enough to bore through the skin. The man grinned, slinging the rifle on his back as he noticed the diminutive depressed digger.

"Oi gassy, back to stalk me again?" The man tilted his head back. "Wait what the hecks wrong with you, I didn't even think Kriegers could slump, thought they shoved those shovels of yours up your arses so you can't bend."

Steam hisses from your mask. How rude! He isn't THAT far off but still, can't he feel sorry for her, on the last day of her life. You thought these offworld guys were supposed to be romantic and offer people freeze cream and deweaponized flora. Honestly this is why catachans are wow that guy is a lot closer then he was five seconds ago.

"Are you getting down with the sniffles or something." The Sargent says placing a hand on her mask, "You feel awfully warm and given this place used to be occupied by traitors disease outbreaks aren't impossible."

88c knocks the hand away. "Unit is functioning optimally." The krieger hissed, wait this was her last day alive and the company did not have a confessor, she should say something meaningful to him so she can confessor for him.

"Listen, unit is apologetic for unwanted surveillance." The Catachan nods but 88c continue before he can continue. "And for making disparaging comments on your effect on my olfactory senses. And for confiscating your used drying apparatus during daily sanitation rituals."

"Wait your the loon that stole my towel?" The Sargent glared. "What the Soritas's ripped for her pleasure chainblade did you do that for?"

88c waved a hand in the air. "Research purposes. It is against protocol to interrupt. Proceeding." 88c thought on the towel, she procured the raggity red item in hopes to discover how his skin always held moisture regardless of how long it's been to skin to water contact. Results were inconclusive. Puzzling, yet rewarding.

"Unit further is apologetic for borrowing your lascarbine, using the weapon in recreational activities rather then immediately returning it. And finally unit 88c is sorry for ensnaring you within her malicious web of avarice endearment and false aesthetic pinnacles." 88c bowed. "Unit is finished and will now report to the commissar.

88c scampered off, steam trailing from her mask as the sargent blinked, thumbing through the dictoral section of the Uplifting Primer.

"Let's see here, Dictatium Administratium, Kanak... here we are, how to speak Krieg... " The sargent mumbled as he attempted to decipher the weird girl's ramblings....

"Oi did this cocky cunt just admit she's going to get herself executed for being criminally cute? That cheeky bugger." The sargent ran after the girl.

"Imbeciles, children, and loons. Why can't the guard ever recruit someone as well adjusted and civilized like meself?" The man muttered.

Commissar Cicartus von Unterbrechan thumbed through the dataslate.

A giant of a man, Unterbrechan left coatarm dangled uselessly, a single brown eye trailing through the lines of the dataslate.

"The Amore et Krieg?" The commissar rasped, placing the dataslate down and reaching for a copper tin within his greatcoat, flipping the lid open to reveal a set of flower petals.

"Lovely aren't they? Consecrated with the blessed waters of Holy Terra, they are particularly fragile in the face of the witch's foulness." The man placed a petal on the slate the pink petal sitting peacefully upon the mechanical device.

"This is not the work of any foulness of the psyker 88c." The man said, his face a patchwork of burns and scars pursed into a single lipless line. "Therefore the rot does not lie within this, tale of fancy."

The krieger gulped doing her best to shrink under her chair, it... wasn't cursed? Then that just meant... she was naturally cute? The implications were horrifying. Then, just on her own she could make the catachan do... do those THINGS HE DOES.

A sharp cough interrupted the krieger. "Now then." The man drew out the report of treason that 88c filled out for herself, eye turned away from the woman to the paper. "You report your symptons as?"

The krieg nodded. "I believe my cuteness has robbed Sargent Tear of his reason. This was the fault of my own avarice and materialistic failings."

The commissar noted. "Ah yes, the Glamour de Bellus, a popular technique of the Lord of Excess's bloated brood of perversions. And you say you have signs of this compromise?"

The krieg paused... in hindsight this seems a awful lot like Tear was going to get shot, that was unintentional. But they are orders, she must comply. "Yes, shortly after third ration, two days prior, Sargent Tear was coerced into... applying his fingers to my helm and issuing unnecessary commendations to my person!"

The commissar crossed the sign of the Aquilla. "By the throne."
Steam hissed from the krieger's mask. "There is more." She whispered.

The commissar leaned in, face devoid of any mirth. "No."

The krieg shook her head. "That same day the Sargent misplaced his lascarbine. And when I went back the next day, he stated the previous detraction did not count because he only touched my helmet. Implying he desired... skin to skin contact."

The Commissar muttered a prayer. "Clearly the rot has sunken deeper then either of us have anticipated." The commissar rose from his seat, laspistol hanging from his waist. "Alright then, let us retrieve this Sargent of yours."

"COMMISSAR HOLD ON A BLOODY MINUTE." The catachan ran into the room, muscular chest heaving with exertion.

"NOW this bloody idiot in a gasmask is going to tell you she is possesed by some, oh look shes aint shot yet cool, anyway she think she's possesed by some mind altering cuteness or whatever but I want to point out something."

The man pointed at the krieger. "This shorty is the dumbest motherfucker I ever laid eyes on and I played cards with ogryns. You don't go shoot those big blokes just because they thought they killed you when they blinked to long right? So you ought to spare this lass even though she's clearly off her rocker, she's not off it in a heretical way or anything."

"Are you finished?" The commissar rasped as the man shook his head.

"Just getting started mate, you see not only is she stupid but this crazy lass is a crazy good shot, and of course that means nothing if she was a proper heretic but shes just not right in the head and all, its not like she don't think the Emperor is a right bloke or nothing she just thinks shes cuter then she is."

"Unit's intelligence is not lacking." 88c muttered.

"And another thing!" The Sargent yelled. "You see um... er... yeah I'm done."

The commissar nodded. "Very compelling argument but one can not be lenient in the face of treachery."
The commissar pointed a gnarled finger at the Krieg. "Infantrywoman 645-88c, for attempting to subvert the ranks of the Astra Millitarium you will be removed from your squad and integrated into Sergeant Richand Tear's, you must bolster yourself in this advesary and remain stalwart against temptation.

The main pointed at the Sergeant, "That goes for you too Sergeant, these are serious charges, and should such incidents continue you must report it to me IMMEDIATELY. As a recently absorbed regiment I understand cohesion can be difficult but failures of the self is the weapon of the heretic and the xenos. Dismissed."

The krieger scampered off as the catachan blinked. "But wait sir, that's it? You ain't gonna blow anybody's head off?"

Commissar Unterbrechan would have raised a eyebrow if he still had them. "Do you wish for me to blow your head off." As the Sergeant shook his head the commissar pointed out the door. "Then you will survive, and understand the Emperor's mercy all the more for it. Dismissed."

The sergeant trundled off, the Commissar watching them disappear from view with his single lidless eye, watching the two figures shrink among the sea of tents before collapsing to the floor.

"Oh emperor. Too cute she says." The commissar rolled on the floor laughing, dust tracking on his great coat.

"Oh it hurts, everything hurts. Her boyfriend even tries to, emperor have mercy." The man slams his hand on the dirt floor. "I can't, too cute." The man chortled, coughing as he crawled to his desk.

"I have to call Annrietta, she'll flip." The commisarr crawled his way to the desk, still giggling as he dialed his fellow commissar.

"Annrietta, are you alone, I need to divulge a confidential matter. Look your ogryn story can wait you will not believe the report this Krieger gave me."

Sergant Richand looked as it his squad, the congregation altogether ten of the most grizzled and hardened soldiers he'd have the pleasure of working with...

Well, nine of them anyway, the sergeant thought, staring down at the unblinking eyes of that annyoing Gasser, the krieger's rebreather hissing slowly with each intake of breath. Baring what she could do to target practice dummies and his long since expired patience, he hasn't really seen the Krieger do... anything. Which didn't set quite well with the Catachan, who, having grown up in a world so murderous that its a wonder the hunk of rock didn't just say "sod it" and dedicate itself to the bronzed incontinent, had a very short list of things he was comfortable with to begin with. Weren't Krieg's well sought after as the Emperor's bodycount or something equally depressing. Why would the administratium leave them here and not order them to some other hellhole to go choke a puppy or whatever dumb depressing shit Kriegers do? And leave him and the rest of the unlucky buggers to deal with the orks.

And, now that the Catachan was complaining he might as well go all the way. The regiment absorption makes a degree of sense, in the derangness the adminstratium always does. But things have been too... subdued. It's been a good week and not a single suicide charge has been ordered. No rush of the Ork camp, just reconnaissance and sniping jobs. Which, when it came to orks, translated to "Find the biggest guy, shoot him with a krak missle, and run like hell". High command was waiting for something, and Richand doubted it was a contingent of the Order of Overflowing Bounty coming to wish the boys in boots a enthusiastic thank you for a job well done. Whatever was happening, it was probbably going to end with something shooting at him...

Where was he again? Oh right, the sergeant looked down on the short krieger staring at him, blackened greatcoat immaculantly kept in the windswept wastelands of the planet.

The sergeant took a deep breath. "Krieger, you are aware we have been given a reconossiance mission."
The kriger nodded. Good, that's step one.
"And, dear private, on a scale of one through ten, how prepared are you to leave?"

"High confidence sir." The Krieger said, as emotionless as... well never if Richand thought about it. When serving alongside other regiments they always called the Kriegers automotons, but in the span of 2 days he's watched this single one have three nervous breakdowns... Maybe they just send defective soldiers to this planet like some Mechanicus Holy Reincarnation Pile.

Richand smiled. "Okay that's good, really lovely, fantastic even. I see you got your gun lovely, and your shovel, we can't be without that we may need to build a sand castle after all but there is a small problem just a courtesy really." Richand took a deep breath. "WHY IN THE EMPEROR'S ROTTING TESTICLES DO YOU THINK A SHINY GREAT COAT WOULD HELP IN A SCOUTING MISSION?"

Mary sniggered as the Krieger withdrew her primer, unaffected by the outburst. "But, sir, uniform regulations clearly states that-"

"Regulation zero of the Uplifting primer, the sergeant is always right." Tear retorted, pulling out her own book and showing her the last page. "Look."

"...You wrote that." The krieger said, red lenses peering at the spiderlike scrawl that says "Listen to the sargent". "You even mispelt sergeant."

Richand glared at the Krieger, doing his best to hide his smirk, 'finally got you ya little bugger' the nco thought to himself as he head out his hand. "Mary, your primer if you will."

The vox operator grinned, the bearded man pulling the manual from his satchel and tossing it to the sergeant who flipped to the back of that book as well.

"See?" Upon the last page of that book was the same misspelled rule. "That's two books to one, that means your books the bad copy."

The krieger looked at their book, lenses unblinking as they look back at the two defaced primers the sergeant was holding.

They TECHNICALLY was right, he did right it, but he didn't just write it on his own book but everyone in his command, and a few others when they left their book around. That way at least it would seem more like a publishing error and keep the commissar off his pistol hand for a bit while trying to route out a wild goose chase. It also worked great at throwing off the odd pdf recruit who thought they new everything because they beat up a hive ganger that one time.

The krieger was shuddering, as Richand's scowl turned into a more genuine frown. Shit he forgot the little robot had a sense of humor the same way he had shirts. "Hey, look, it's alright your new to the squad so I'll let you off with a warning about keeping defective books around." You plucked the primer out of her hands, the krieger's fists reflexively grasping at something that wasn't there anymore. "I'll get you a new copy while Harmond gets you into a more appropiate uniform." You nod to the Medicae who kneeled down to the shorter girl.

"Hi, I'm Harmond, it's my job to patch you up okay." The woman's smile turned to a frown as the shellshocked krieger ignored her.

"But... uniform regulation 61b-5 states..." the Krieg muttered, reciting passages off her book like they were holy litanies (Which, the sergeant had to concede, the book did have in chapter 3, Prayers for When it all Goes to Sod, but they certainly were not in the uniform section). "Um... hello?" Harmond waved a hand in front of the krieg, the private still motionless if not silent.

"Alright then suit yourself." Harmond, her patience at a limit picked up the girl, the veteran medicae easily slinging the inert krieger on her shoulder and setting out to switch the girl in a less "please shoot me" uniform.

Mary sniggered, elbowing Belchett, the shotgunner ignoring his enthusiastic companion. "Looks like our family's off to a big happy start eh Sarge?"

Richand ignored him, by the throne did he have work to do. He should have taken the commissars offer and got shot.

Tear sat waiting for the runty Krieger to come back. He'd have to figure out her name eventually.

No wait Krieger's don't have names do they? Rays of fuckin sunshine those kriegers, well since he's not going to bother with any stupid number thing he's going to have to make one up.

"Hey Mary?" Richand said, the bearded private looking up from his auspex.

"Yeah sarge?" His operator asked, cracked googles strapped to a mangy, soot coated mop of red hair.

The sarge lifted the lho stick out of his mouth, blowing a small cloud of smoke. "If you had a dog, and it was the kinda excitable shit that pissed all over your floor when you showed up, what would you call it?"

The operator frowned. "Is this about the Gassy? You've been dating for three days and your already on pet names?"

Richand sat up, watching the tent Harmond dragged the shellshocked krieger into. "It ain't like that, do you want to be ringing of serial numbers in the middle of a firefight? She gets a name."

Mary shrugged. "Why not Krieger?"

Sargent snorted. "Half of the regiment can go by krieger, if we lose ours and pick up the wrong one Unterbrechan would skin me alive."

"I like Mera." Belchett added, the catachan watching the clouds pass by as the dust of Kathas V swirled around him.

"What like the tank?" Mary said, raising a eyebrow at the private, who shrugged.

"It's a good tank." Belchett responded, his voice flat and disinterested. "Beats walking everywhere."

Richand sighed, noticing the tent flipping open, Harmond walking out, the medicae frowning and talking to a unseen krieger.

By the throne, Richand thought, she was...
"Corporal Harmond." Richand said to the saluting woman. "Why is our newest member in our camo-suit?"

The krieger looked up at you, coated in a camo cloak, her armor laired with fake folliage and her face obscured by a collection of leaves that the sergeant new from experience were entirely transperant from the inside. Combined with her shortness, the newest member of Tear's squad looked all the world like a walking bush.

Harmond shrugged. "Sorry sir, but she insisted on wearing this. She took your camouflage order really seriously. "

You hear a slight rustle as the krieger turns to stare at you, her expression entirely unreadable due to the complete lack of a face. "Stealth achieved." The krieger stated, her voice devoid of the pride Richand would bet a weeks rations she was giddy with.

Richand coughed, fuck it these were orks they were dealing with, they probably didn't realize there weren't any bushes on the planet either. "Alright, good show krieger now pay attention."

The bush saluted you.

"Okay gassy things don't work like they do in the trenches. When we go out into the field there is no trench to hide in, so you can't go attacking the first thing you see. You shoot on my command and ONLY on my command do you got that?"

The krieger nodded, now came the tricky part.

"Alright krieger this is the most important part, everyone here has a name and even if your just a tagalong the devils have a reputation to uphold and that means we can't just throw 5309 or whatever on the squad listings. So you are going to have to have a name. Which means I have to give you one."

The krieger didn't nod this time, Richand biting down another sigh, the lass probably broke again.

"So from hence forth your name shall be..." Shoot he was coming up blank... lets see she had a shovel, that's useless. He can't exactly name her shorty, not unless the he was itching to get a pair of augmentic shins.

Richand looked up, noticing a small trail of steam emitting from the Krieger's rebreather unit. He wasn't paying attention, but apparently the krieger masks ran some complicated filtration system that could protect against radiation, contagions, blah blah blah, the kinda shit you'd find on there shitty planet. But as a side effect the masks some liquid component in the mask would be ejected as vapor when the wearer was agitated. Which, for this krieger, seemed to be all the time. Well that was close enough.

"...Misty?" The sergeant watched the bushwoman, looking for some sign of acknowledgement. It was a shitty ass name but he was stumped, what really mattered was whether or not his newest private had the gall to call him out on it.

Misty turned and walked away, calmly sitting down, looking all the world like a simple serene shrub. Well if someone didn't notice the billowing cloud of white smoke trailing upward. The newly named krieger sits there for a few seconds before standing back up, turning around and saluting.

"Acknowledged." Misty whispered, as you hand her her gearpack. You have to admit that Misty atleast was thorough enough to add the netting to this too so that the gear all but disappeared into her suit when worn.

"Alright then squad, what are you all laying about for. Move out!"

88c clutched her lasgun, huddled behind a rock cropping as Belchett took point. The squad leapfrogged through the debris strewn field, chimera's smoldering near defilers and melted slag that once was profanely emblazoned.

88c, no wait addemun, Misty thought, she's been Redesignated with a name, pouted. This was, plainly speaking, madness. Imperially sanctioned madness but a kriegers place was in the trenches, things were simple that way. Everyone in the line was a loyal solider. Everyone out of it was either a deserter, a xenos, or a heretic. Either way the same instructions applied. The only time a krieger was out of a trench was to make a new one or on a horse and even then the Riders were simply human artillery.

Simple, efficient, not this... scouting!

Misty took a deep breath, the rebreather hissing as Misty calmed herself, she was in a new unit she was the one at fault here.

Belchett raised a fist, halting the squad as he pointed forward, large boot prints crashed into the dust. Ork tracks... probbably. 88c never truly took the time to study marks of passage. Regrettable, immediate rectification scheduled.

The catachan... the sergeant nodded, taking the front of the line, lascarbine out front as the squad followed the tracks, camp and its comforting bulwarks fading into the sunny distance.

After several hours on foot Misty began to understand the weight of the pack she was requisitioned. The enemy line was far away and, since the motor of the chimera could alert their position, they had to walk the whole way. There was a chance that the 645ths 2nd company 3rd platoon Devil squad would be here for days. And as the junior member it was up to Misty to carry all the gear.

Efficent, Misty mused. By doing so the more trained members were unhindered, so long as she managed to guard the supplies efficiently she will serve her new assigned roll well.

Misty looking up at the massive ceramite mountain overhead. Misty gazed at the Omnivault, the massive arcaenotech relic dominating the skyscape. One of the most impenetrable bastions in the Imperium, it was the omnivault's presence which had Kathas V declared a Armory world in the first place. The fact the orks were stationed so close was worrisome, even if the 645 did have companies stationed around it to breach the vault now that its keeper was executed. If that vault was opened by the orks...

Well, Misty figured, holding for reinforcements would become significantly harder.

Sergeant Richand stopped the squad again, pointing at a ork patrol. They were getting close.

Richand motioned for the rest of the group to hide behind cover as he motioned for Harmond, the woman looking embarrassed as she coughed.

"Oi, you wit da big dakka, who'd you have to sock ta get such a fine shoota?" Harmond yelled out, the medicae's voice twisted in a gross imitation of the ork dialect. Misty stared at the sergant, who nodded quietly from his cover. The fortunate thing about being near a ork base was that the area was littered with debris. Orks never understood tidyness, the only orks who left a place cleaner then they left it was the lootaz and even then only if the place wasn't theirs.

The ork guard blinked, his skin darkening as he kicked the ground, a small bandanna affixed on his head. "Uh shucks, dis ole thing? Killy was made by da mek special on account of me pushin one of da humies tanks all the way over to him for some gubbins. Coulda got da grots to do it but you know de'll muck it up some how." The ork looked around confused. "Where are you anyway?"

Harmond laughed. "Can't you tell a talkin rock when you see one? All proppa boyz see a talkin rokk eventually, how you gonna be a nob if you aint ever talked to a rock."
"Sure I seen rocks talk!" The ork said, beady red eyes darting to make sure no one heard it. "It's just dat i got to keep an eye out for da humies, day gonna ruin our plans."
"Dat does sound bad, can't trust does hummies wit nuffin dat waht i always fink." Harmond retorted. "But why youze off doing dis planning nonsense when you can be having a proppa fight like orks should."
The ork shook his head. "Dat's the clever part of the boss's strategy. We'ze gonna krak dat big fingy up dere and take all da lootz, den we are gonna use it on da humies and krump dem with dere own dakka."
Harmond laughed. "And how you gonna do dat. Dat rokks way to big to be krakked by yous guyz."

The ork stomped his foot. "Nuh uh! We'ze got a plan."

The earth rumbled, Misty watching the Catachans grip tightly to the rock. Amateurs, Misty thought, who isn't used to the roar of artillery fire at childhood?

"Dat is da plan." The ork said as Harmond coughed.
"Roight, dat was a good talk but you see dat ork ova dere, da one in da hat?" Harmond said as the ork looked behind him, looking at two other orks boredly making patrols.
"Yeah? What bot dem?" The ork questioned.
"Dey called you a git." Harmond said as the ork reddened.
"DEY WOT? DEY ARE GITS!" The ork yelled as he chased after the two, the guards looking up to see the descending mass of personally insulted slugga boy crash into them.

Harmond looked at the Sergeant, coughing. "That's not good." Harmond said weakly, her throat sore.

The sergeant nodded. "No, its not. We took years prying the vault off the hands of heretics we can't let that thing get into the hands of the xenos." The sergeant's mouth curled. "Mary, report to command, we are going to have to go in and see what these orks are doing.

The sergeant turned to Misty, a grim smile on his face. "Well welcome to the Devils, hell of a baptism huh."

Misty shrugged as the sergeant frowned. "Bah, little bundle of comedy aren't you? Any idea what that racket was about?"

The krieger paused considering the options "Artillery fire, but given the sound to distance it would have to be of similar ordinance to at least death strike missile. " The sergeant frowned.

"If they have something like that pointed at the door we have some time, weapons that big don't reload themselves. But then they might just beat us."

Misty tilted her head. "Possibility is calculated as zero. Orders are to hold planet till reinforcements are arrived. Krieg does not break orders."

The sergeant chuckled. "Well I ain't too keen on getting my face mounted on a ugly ass pole either. Guess we just have to stop them."

The krieger nodded, maybe the devils were not so complicated after all.
The landscape was littered with smoldering scrap, broken heaps of metal, some recognizable as vehicles the local speed kult likely crashed, others look more like huge wedges of slag smoldering in the air. Fortuitous, Misty thought, as it provided a optimal range of cover as they reached closer and closer to the Ork Kamp, facing the wall of melted slag the orks propped up in a vauge understanding of "Fort."

The fort was ugly to begin with, a massive, smoldering pile of slag looming overhead surronded the smell of blood and mushrooms that even permeated through the krieger's triple filtered rebreather unit and no doubt permanetly ruined this camo suit.

The whole effigy made Misty want to puke, the screws were only half way on, their is a patch where a nail went through ANOTHER nail and the wall was just a random mashup of whatever metal they found, with no regards of color or shape. There is a ENTIRE chimera hull just hanging twenty feet up, the treads and bolter placements ripped off, and you can see a mound of sand and several ripped bags here and there.

Misty's mask steamed, this was, without a doubt, the worst fortification you ever saw. If you did half this bad as a child you and the rest of your pod mates would have been publicly shot.

"Ugly shit isn't it." The sergeant sad as the krieger nodded. Finally, common agreement point, camaraderie assured. Belchett reached into the krieger's pack, pulling out a rope and hook and scaling the walls, Mary, Harmond, and the sergeant all following.

"You may want to see this Sarge." Belchett said from the top, signing the aquilla as the others hurried their pace to scale the wall.
Orks fought in a writhing mob, a bloody mass of limbs and flying teef as they raged against.. well they probably forgot, a green see of fists and banners and rusting scrap heaps that likely counted as top of the line tanks to the ork mind. Pirates they may be but Misty's headcount of them already numbered them atleast twice that of the 645's. That was expected.

The worrisome part was the fort itself. It wasn't just a mere towering hunk of metal and guns. It was a Krooza. the wreckage having crashed (likely intentionally, according to the ork behavioral patterns) bow first into the ground, a broadside macrocannon pointed directly at the omnivault.

"Well that explains why they haven't attacked us yet." The sergeant said, unlit lho stick in his teeth. "They probbably dont want to waste the fight without a chance to play with there pretty new toys."

Misty looked at the vaults wall, a large smoldering dent where astroid sized slug after slug pounded into it. The last battle the heretics already had the vault open, and the things in it... Grav-guns, Marcharious tanks, even a Warhound.... If they open it again then this whole sector would very quickly become very inconvenient to defend.

You prop open your bag, withrdrawing your collection of grenades, the weight of the meltas heavy and reliable in your hand. You probbably had only one shot at this.

"Alright, Harmond, Misty you take point. Mary, vox this immediatly and then take point, see if we cant get muster up reinforcements. Me and belchett will disable the gun."

"Sir." Misty hesitates. "Kriegers are fortification experts, I request to take point in Belchett's place."

The catachan hesitates, the scrap of steel indicating the orks were slowly pushing the next shell into the battery. "Alright fine."
The pair rappelled of the wall, easily slipping through the mob, the orks more concerned with who got first hands on the loot then with needless frivolities like "safety." Granted Misty had reason to suspect that even on the best day the concept of safety caused a ork's piggish nose to wrinkle in distaste.

The two scaled up the wreckage, the smoldering patched up mockery of a Imperial vehicle easy enough to scale, the pair's hands easily finding purchase in the bullet holes and random sticks jutting out of the machine as the Orks milled under her. Then the gun fired.

What was merely earthshaking a few miles away was now worldshattering, and it was only Misty's iron clad discipline that kept her on the wall, blood trailing down under her mask and no doubt ruining the camosuit she just got, she turned to the sergeant who was equally shaken, the smoke of the wall rising.

"Nows our chance." the sergeant mouthed as the two of you disappeared under the smoke of melted ceramite, Misty climbed until she felt the jagged ends become longer, the still warm barrell of the macrocannon over her, one hand still clutching the wall for safety's sake, the grenadier undid her bandolier of demo packs clambering onto the blistering gun to place pack after pack.

Misty turned around, loooking straight into the beedy yellow eyes of a gretchin.

"A... bush?" The gretchin stutters before its head jerks, lasbolt sizzling in its head as the goblin falls of the barrel. The pest's limbs flailing as it screamed to its death, the orks ignoring what is probbably just another casualty of being a pansy git as you place the last pack, climbing down the gun and rushing back to the relative safety of the wall, detonater in hand.

The smoke clears from the wall, revealing a large gash in the ceramite. You were too late.
Kaptain Bullettoof of da ship "Mine Mine" grinned, he hit da x right in da spot. Da smoke clears up as he peered into da vault.

It's just a small room, the captain scowled. He was hoppen hed hit da main hall but he just hit one of da cells, he'd have to shoot the vault all ova again ta get all da loot. da cell proper wasnt even dat good, more posh den dakka, humies special paper burning all round dis foul smellin room dat was filled with smoke surrondig dis...

Why, the kaptain thought, dat was one beut of an Choppa, it only got a few teef, big black jagged blades the size of ya finger, and it was mostly brass then a proppa blue dat was all good an lucky. But it was shiny and he liked da skull on it, especially how blood spilled off it down da handle.

The Kaptain scrambled into the room knocking aside da humies stupid I's ans bandages to grab da axe.

It was a really nice ax, its blood felt good and comfy in its hands... he should get some more blood an have a proppa soak while dey finish breaking into da loot.

The kaptains eyes flashed red as he considered how much blood constituted a proper soak... an he had to consider quality too... it was awfully hard staying clean and ealthy deese days, hed just have to kill as many as he can, den he'll hit some good blood eventually right?

The kaptain stumbled as the earth quivered, but he didnt order any firing of dakka dat big. He turned around and saw his kannon krak in half, the barrel melting into the floor and scorching a good lot of his boys to death.

The kaptain growled, dat... DAT WAS CHEATING! YOUZ CANT JUST TAKE A ORKS DAKKA LIKE DAT! The ork sniffed the air... somefin smelled off, like da awful stench of not dead yet, he looked up... what were boys doing up on dat wall.

"Theives" A voice whispered in the kaptains ear. "They took your gun from you, stop them before they take more."

The ork pointed a quivering finger at the wall. "GET DAT BUSH! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!"

The sergeant swore as the orks charged the wall. "Mary how long till that evac?"

The vox operator fires his long las, smoke trailing off his gun as a ork flops dead over his Big shoota. "They are flying as fast as they can, but I don't think we can hold this position long enough.

Harmond nods tossing a handful of grenades into the masses, the smoking canisters filling the sea with a black fog. "That can buy us some time but we should probably hoof it."

The sergeant nodded. "Right tactical retreat." The Sergeant tossed the rope taking a moment to glare at Misty. "That include you, retreat is the direction AWAY from the mob of enemies, not toward."

The grenadier looked down at the angry horde. "Permission to atleast shoot one."

The sergeant sighed. "Sure ONE shoot, aim for the guy with the axe." The sergeant sighed and slid down from the pool as the Krieger took aim with her hotshot the red beam being smacked aside by the warbosses fist.

"OI WATCH DA AXE!" The ork screamed, charging into the smoke stained field. "AND YOU GITS. STOP MUCKIN ABOUT!"

88c ran down the rope as she heard a ork scream, a bronzed blade sticking out of the orks defensive wall.

"I be da Kaptain." 88c heard the warboss seathe, lasgun thick fingers grabbing the melted plasteeel and crumpling the wall like it was paper. "AND DAT MEANS WHEN I SEE GIT YA GIT GOT." 88c ducked as a hail of dark bolts flung over head, the ork holding a twisted scythe gun, blades jutting from it as the ork tried to pry the hole bigger to get a better shot.

Misty tossed a grenade behind her and headed for cover the roar of a chimera getting louder and louder as the group ran for it.

The ground shook as the ork ambled behind them, blood trailing behind him as the axe slung to his back coated his skin red, the orks gun slung at its waist like the cannon was just a odd shaped revolver.

The ork seemed bigger then it was just a few minutes ago, Misty noted, but that may be the adrenaline.
"WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU LOT YOUR GUTS GONNA BE ME GROTKIBBLE!" The ork screamed, fists slaming into the ground as the ork charged them in a bestial gait, eyes burning with a almost tangible hate.

"DEN IM GONNA HAND YA SKIN OVER MY POT AND SOAK IN YA BLOOD." The Ork screamed as it leaped over, grabbing the Sergeant in a hand as big as the Catachan.

Richand squirmed, grabbing his combat knife and jabbing it into the Orks thumb. The kaptain chuckled, ignoring the gun fire pinging against his skull from the his squadmates. "Not efun a tickle mate." The ork said grabbing the Sergeants arm. "But it right pissed me off ya tried." The ork twisted, ripping the sergeants arm off with a sickening pop.

The ork chuckled. Silly humies with there small arms an... where did da bush go?

Misty tackled the ork, bayonet gripped in her hand as she clawed the orks face in a blind rage, the kaptain dropping Richand to try to pry the grenadier off him.

Giving a scream that, through the rebreather, sounded was distorted to a shrill wail, Misty shoved the bayonet deep into the orks eye socket, the ork screaming as the sergeant stabbed the ork again and again, the sound of the battlefield drowned out by a vicious screaming... oh wait that was her. Irregular.

Eventually green fingers gripped the krieger, forcibly yanking her off the ork as the Kaptain stared at her, blood dripping from the many knife wounds on his face.

"Dat, urt." The ork seethed grabbing his axe from his back. "But let da kaptain show ya what a proppa urt is." The ork lifted his axe as a loud horn blared.

"Da zog is?" The Kaptain had time to turn around before getting rammed by the Chimera, Misty crumpling into the ground as the axe flew out of the Orks hand.

"Devil unit this is Gaberiel of the 645 Chimera unit." The machine blared out of its speaker as the back of the chimera opened up. "Lets get the frak out of here."
Misty felt herself being lifted and looked up at the face of Harmond, Belchett dragging the Sergeant behind her. "You two are going to be okay."

"MY AXE!" Misty could hear the ork dimly wail, the floor rumbling as the ork ran off in search of its treasured loot, thhe squad moving as fast as they could into the relative saftey of the Chimera as the box tank bolted from the scene

"Internal bleeding suspected. Requesting leave of absence to report to Quatermaster." Misty wheezed through her damaged rebreather unit turning to Richand. "The Sergeant."

Harmond looked at Belchett who gave a thumbs up. "Don't worry about him. We've had worse growing up." Belchett smiled grimly as Misty nodded, then retreated to unconsciousness.

"His arm is off." Mary whispered. "How could he have worse?"

Belchett frowned. "Well thats not good hospital side manner, be more optimistic." Belchett turned to look at Misty, the grenadier. "Odd girl, didn't know Kriegers could go crazy like that."

Mary nodded. "Yeah you can't pay me to get anywhere close that Ork with anything less then a melta. He shrugged off our lasbullets like they were the wind. How do we take down something like that."

"We will." Harmond stated plainly. "It's either that or die."

~~~~~~~~
The sergeant woke up with a groan and pain everywhere. "Ugh fuckin hell."

"Profanity in the emperor's place of holy healing breaks rule XLV-VII of the Lectitio Divinitatus and requires a tithe of 3 thrones to the Ministorum." The resident sister hospitaller said moving a jar to the sick man's bed without even glancing up from her holy documents.

"I am not going to pay any fu-bleedin tithe." The Sergeant said, hastily correcting himself as the lady placed a chainknife on the table next to the jar. Richand tried to put a hand on his temple to nurse his aching headache only to remember that he doesnt have one anymore.

Blinking through the haze of pain most of the past day came back to him, the Misty's stupid bush armor, the vault, that fuckin (he can swear in his thoughts) ork and his crazy axe. Now he is missing his arm and his side is cold... wait why is his side cold?

Richand ripped his blanket as he leaped backwards with a curse. "Fucking warp!" The sergeant said staring at the stiff form of a familiar lunatic lying right next to him, Misty decked in a full armor kit because of course she was.

"Nine thrones." The hospitaller said not looking up. "I see you met your bed mate. Your squad mate insisted that for moral purposes that the two of you would heal quicker if you slept together."

Richand sputtered as Misty sat up. "Greetings sir, I see the treatment has been as swift as Mary predicted."

Richand glared at the sister, who refused to dignify the glare with actually looking up from the book before turning back to Misty. "What, perchance did Mary tell you."

The krieger nodded, giving a salute. "Sir, the theory proposed was that as blood flows quicker through warmth, body contact will increase the flow of oxygen and thus ensure enhanced medical progress. This theory was confirmed by Corporal Harmond and as the leading officer at the time and put in place by Sister Agotha of the Order Hospitaller.
Richand gave the Hospitaller his best glare, the kind that made bloodletters turn and run. The Hospitaller, a aging woman in brown rags with glasses thick enough to block a lasbolt, stared back unimpressed. "Why" The sergeant questioned slowly lest to increase his debt. "Did you believe anything my squad mates told you."

"Well darling, it certainly did the trick, your girlfriend there woke up only a few hours prior and recovered from her surgery remarkably quickly. In fact I have never seen a Kriegling quite as lively as when she woke up, even the ones who aren't under medical attention.

"Yeah I bet she was." Richand muttered as she noticed that, for once, the krieger was dressed rather sensibly, green fatigues covering her body rather then a greatcoat or bush, a vest to hold her rebreather and grenades was worn over that, shovel slung on her belt. Richand had to admit without the stupid greatcoat and other ridiculous nonsense she was almost kinda, in the right light maybe a little not entirely horrible to look at except not really because that was a stupid thought and he hated himself a little for having though tit. "Why are you dressed differently."

The krieger thought. "Unit was informed that for morale purposes soldiers in other regiments would be rewarded for being wounded in battle or successfully fulfilling orders. Nonsensical but to provide camaraderie unit has deigned to squad's suggestion of loadout redistribution as suitable reward." The kriger tilted her head. "Was the strategem effective, does my new clothes swell you morale."

The sergeant shoved a fistful of bills in the jar. "Here's a 100 thrones, I'm paying this tithe forward."

At the end of the tirade the sergeant still owed a additional 16 thrones.

Misty sniffed in her shared bed with the Sergeant, a dent in her helmet. "Physical discipline was unwarranted! Unit's precious uniform was sullied."

The sergeant snorted. "You'll live, I've had breakfest that hit harder then I whacked you.." The shirtless nco commented, handing the Hospitaller the rest of the thrones he owed. "Try following some common sense next time rather then your stupid dataslate or my stupid squad."

"Dataslates lack intelligence, stupid is a incorrect adjective." Misty stated as the sergeant flicked her helmet, the krieger doing her best to keep it on.

"Permission to enter?" Two voices intoned at the same time as the hospitaller looked up.

"Granted." Agotha nodded as Misty's sister 88a walked in.

"Greetings 88c." 88a nodded turning to the sergeant. "Inquiry, why are you sharing a bed with foreign element."

The sergeant raised a eyebrow. "Excuse me I am her sergeant not a foreign element... wait and I also don't want to be sharing this bed either. The sister insisted."

"He annoys me and I enjoy his unhappiness." Agotha states, the elderly woman flipping through her tome and ignoring the sergeants glares. "Oh Saint Drusus, such a finely formed example of the Emperor's blessing."

"If the resident commanding officer decreed it further inquiries are unnecessary. Are you fulfilling requirements 88c?" The masked woman stated, the krieger standing stock still as Misty looked down.

"Well about that, Unit was named by commanding officer, unit is referred by the moniker Misty now." Misty says a small vent of steam rising from her head as she pointed to the sergeant.

"...Unit was named?" 88a stated, a slight whisper of suprise entering into what was otherwise a complete monotone. "Is Officer aware of the total implications of the act?"

The sergeant blinked as Misty nodded. "The Sergeant must always be listened to. Intelligence must have been sufficently gathered."
"Right... Intelligence gathered." The sergeant said, his red headband soaking up a drip of sweat. "But, just to make sure you are correct recite it for me."

88a salutes. "Sir, Kriegers are given number systems based on purpose and origin, as Kriegers owe at creation a debt of the Emperor's forgiveness. Until we clear the debt we do not have the rights of humans, above the mutant and witch only in that we seek the Emperor's light when others curdle in it." 88a forms the Aquila, as if even mentioning the word Mutant somehow sullied the air. "Naturally this means that acquiring a name is a indication that one has served with enough distinction that they managed to earn the right of humanity early."

"...Early?" The sergeant asks, almost regretting to hear the answer. "When is it normally awarded."

"Death." 88a shrugged. "Never mostly."

"You are a cheery lot." The Sergeant muttered.

"Unit personally found the theory overly optimistic herself." 88a nodded, unable to detect the sarcasm. "Nevertheless a Naming is a serious affair. Kriegers only know krieg, for that debt to be alleviated puts their life in the hands of whoever gave it to them. Normally the Departmento Munitorum, in this case you."

The sergeant frowned. "Wait that would mean."

"You adopted your private. Congratulations." Agotha stated flipping to another page of her book.

The sergeant looked at Misty, red lenses sparkling. Whatever he guesses, they'd probably die before retiring anyway and even if they didn't he suspected Misty was going to find a way to tag along somehow. And he got to stick it to the stupid slate shufflers a little anyway. "Thank you." You tell Agotha, the sister frowning at his lack of suffering.

"Inquiry," Misty began. "Unit heard 88b's voice, what become of her?"

"Unit won't like this..." 88a began before the tent flap opened, Misty fainting in her bed.

The Sergeant had to admit he was a little surprised himself.

He never saw a krieger not wear a mask before.

88b glared at the onlookers, the sergeant with vague confusion, Misty with blatant horror, 88a with stern disapproval, and Agotha with rapt fascination... except said fascination was pointed specifically downward at her book.

The girl frowned, alabaster skin that was perfectly unmarred if one ignored the three stitches wrapped around and across the face, black hair tossing around her helmet and goggles hanging off her neck, the bottom ends of a gasmask clipped to her belt. "You don't need to be so dramatic, those two have faces why can't I get one."

"Those two are PEOPLE 88b you aren't one." 88a stated finger pointing accusingly at the rebellious krieger. "What about selflessness, what about the reward? You can't throw that all away on, cosmetic adjustments."

"Technically she is a person, she has no xenos dna, and despite acute radiation damage she had no mutations, visible or otherwise." Agotha said from over her book. "I saw no reason to humor her and with all the waiting we've been doing I had excessive vat tissue."

88a turned to glare at her, hand hovering near her bayonet. "Oh come off that." The sister said. "I leave the twerp alone cause he's injured but if you are going to go all hissy to a servant of the Emperor I have no quarrel giving you a time out on that bed over there. I grew up in the schola, you know. "

88a's hands left her belt. "Do you know the implications in humoring her. Next she'll eat solid food and do things for... for... leisure! You can't humor such defectivities"

The old lady raises a eyebrow, book slamming shut with a musty whack. "He eats solid food." The lady points a finger at the sergeant. "Are you saying he's... wait hmmm..."

The sergeant sighs. "Look I don't see the problem either."

"Unit doesn't think sir would understand, considering Sir never wears clothes." Misty pipes up as her helmet is flicked. "Ow."

"The point is individuality is a gift that has to be earned." The krieger said glaring at b, who has sat down ignoring her sisters tirade. "Its not something you can just give yourself because the rest of your squad doesn't believe in combat readiness."

"Oh come off it, it's not like I named myself, besides its easier to shoot without the mask on. I can see colors now."

88a gave a humph and walked away as 88b turns to the injured guardsmen. "Sorry about that, shes never gotten over the damn thing." 88b fiddles with her stitches. "Can't see why, they are just augmentics, we use them all the time."

The sergeant shrugged, wincing from his ork wounds. "Look, you kriegers seem depressing in general, I try to not bother with your reasoning."

88b stares at him, blinking slowly as if unused to doing so. "Unit has seen similar sentiments yes. Unit still does not understand it, the logic is sound." The guard scratches her stitches. "Yet morale has improved since adjustments were made. Perhaps former designation 88c would be interested in similar adjustments."

Steam floods Misty's mask. "Me? I can't regulation clearly states-"

"Misty, regulations are in place for KRIEGER units. Misty is a Catachan now." 88b states eyes having given up on this whole blinking business, staring at Misty directly. "You don't have to do anything besides what the boss says."

Misty turns to the sergeant, and then to her sister, then back to her sergeant. "You mean, unit can, but-but..." The guardsmen stammers confused. "...is this why you got the commissar to transfer me. To...to order me unclothed and barefaced!" The krieger gasped. "You pervert."
"You are sleeping in my bed." The sergeant replied his remaining hand rubbing his eyes. "Think thats a few steps past bare skin."

Misty pauses before flipping through her dataslate. "Bed... bed... why would sleep affect a relationship..." The krieger gasped, hands trembling as she showed the slate to the sergeant. "Did... did you think I did this?"

The sergeant picked up the slate reading the page. "This is about cuddling." The sergeant lowered the slate as Misty nodded.

"Unit assures you she'd never be so debase as performing that. Especially not in public!"

You stare at her. "Right I am officially confiscating this." The sergeant hands the tablet to Agotha. "Keep this away from her please."

The sister nodded. "Doesn't harm me to." The sister flicked through the slate. "...This is what got the girl in a tissy?" The sister asked placing the tablet on the desk. "Youngins I suppose."

"Look I'm not going to MAKE you take off your mask, so long as you stop wearing stupid unstealthy outfits you can follow whatever uniform regulations you like."

"...Thank you sir." Misty mutters saluting you.

"Am I interrupting a moment between the two of you?" 88b asked. "Unit CAN leave. Sergeant asked me to make sure some idiots don't ruin the Chimera track with some weird date nonsense."

The sergeant snorts. "We have a ork army on our tails and these people are concerned with dates. Lunatics."

Misty stared at the Sergeant, her rebreather shuddering as blended dehydrated freezecream coursed up the tube, the sugarary delite being inhaled as she watched the man chew his square bar.

"Sure was nice of your sister to to lend us her dessert rations." The sarge said fingers twitching around his dried dessert. Agotha doesn't let lho sticks into the medic tent and it has taken its toll on nerves that Misty has noticed getting increasingly thin. Catachan's were strange.

"88b said that a ogryn gave them to her." Misty said, inhaling the sugary gas. "She wouldn't say why she got them though." Misty discardered two cards, drawing the same amount from a deck between them, a small pot between them. "Inquiry. Elaborate again how Leisure is beneficial to recovery?"

"Oh right I wondered about her." The Sergeant said, placing his desert on the table and cracking a chunk of it. "What is with the stitches and face comment. The Steelies don't have those, they just take the mask off. Also as I said before, its not leisure, this is a 'mental exercise'." The catachan tosses the chunk into the pot. "Raise one snack piece."

Misty blinked, staring at the pot. "Protest, sir's residual dna is on that piece." Her mask starts steaming a little.

The sergeant raised his eyebrow. "Yes, and? You have a rebreather your hardly going to catch my no arm."

Misty nodded tossing a piece in as well. The krieger gulped, the stakes were suddenly a lot higher now. After all, the Sarge's saliva was on the line, if she won this pot and consumed the victory nutrients it would be a indirect ki-ki-ki....

A sudden jolt woke her up, the sergeant poking her helmet. "Hey, steam for brains, its your turn to match or fold."

The krieger shook her head. "Kri-kriegers never fold!" She said defiently, revealing her hand.
"Oh a three of a kind Terimators." The sarge said. "Pretty good, but..." The sergeant reached for his hand, flipping it over. "Flush, Ultramar."

The Krieger looked at the hand, then hers, then reached for the poker book... Flush, flush... they beat three of a kinds. But-but that means...

Misty grabs the pot holding it out for the sargeant. "Sir... sir wins."

"Yup." The sergeant said grabbing the pot from the krieger, the girl still gripping it. "So to the winner goes the... Misty let go."

Misty shook her head. "Unit is not doing it. Some technosorcery attached unit's fingers to the pot." She said, resisting the sergeants attempts to yank the pot out of her hands. "Amputation may be required."

The sergeant frowned. "Look, just, if it'll keep you from being so childish you can have one piece."

"...Is Sir accurate in that statement?" The Krieger said, leaning forward towards her nco. "Unit can requisition any piece." The sergeant nods as steam filters up from the kriegers mask. "ANY piece?" She clarifies.

"Yes, Thone on terra you are annoying." He lets go, the krieger hastily grabbing a teethmarked piece of freezecream from the betting pot.

The rasp of the rebreather was audible and Richand swore he heard "Sergeant's dna" whispered before purging the thought from his head. The priests always said "Ignorance was freedom" and the catachan never found the idiom more truer.

"So... why do you use the rebreather anyway? The air here is fine as my lack of dying has shown. Plus you never told me about your sister's whole stitch thing."

"Well..." Misty pauses, he is the nco she doesn't really have the right to refuse. "I MAY need the mask. Gas attacks are a present threat."

The sergeant raised a eyebrow. "Against orks?"

Steam hissed from the mask. "Well, Sir is aware how Krieg is a deathworld?"

The sergeant chuckles. "I'm from Catachan, I know death worlds. Sure Krieg's practically a garden combared to the shit I had to deal with as a child."

The krieger shrugged. "Sir is the authority. However the toxicity of the air has lead to some damage. While mutants are culled and purged as they should be, constitution training results in... scarring..."

"Scarring? Like the Commissar?" The catachan asked as the krieger shook her head.

"Those are the scars of a victory, things to be worn with pride. Our scars are just... if unit performed optimally unit would not be injured so. Units are given treatment to prevent inefficiencies but the outermost layer is not particularly vital so they remain. In doing so our faults are remembered and vigilance is stressed. " The krieger lifted a second finger. "Furthering that, our faces are individually distinct for the most part. The individual does not matter. In the thousand years of krieg's glory as a Hive world the only decent individuals that were produced were the Krieg 83rd Guard regiment lead by Saint Colonel Jurten. With everyone identical it shows that everyone from colonel to guardsmen is worth the same. Which is minimal. "

The catachan frowned. "So your telling me that your sister with the stitches is..."

Misty nods. "Unit is somewhat dissapointed at her podmate's unruly streak, such acts are not against the Uplifting Primer but, if she were under a watchmaster and not a foreign officer she'd have already been disciplined."

The sergeant thought about this. He thought he had it bad just cause he almost was strangled to death by a tree as a kid but compared to her he might as well be one of those noble pounces sipping amaresc as they fucked their sister. He should be a little nicer to her...

"Wait. If you never take off that mask that means you never had food the normal way right."

The krieger nods. "The rebreather extracts nutrtion from rations and delivers it along with oxygen, digesting food is unnecessary."


"Misty... you know Agotha isn't here, if you want to try eating the freezecream normally no one has to see you." The sergeant said, hand gripping the blanket. "I can duck under this for a few minutes so I can't see you."

The krieger looked at her freezecream and then back to her nco. "...Really?"

The sergeant lied down, lifting the blanket overhead. "Let me know when you are done."

"But sir." The grenadier protested. "This is unnecessary."

"We aren't in duty till we recover." The sergeant's retort was muffled slightly from the raggedy blankets. "If you want to see new things you might as well do it now."

The sergeant waits as he hears a buckle unclaps. He was curious what his newest squadmate looked like but he knew it was a bad idea. While Misty still seems primarily made of crazy, even he wasn't dim enough to not notice she had a weird complex about her bare skin. This was probbably the only way she'd try new things.

The crunch of dried ice cream was heard, as well as some sniffing.

"Oi, are you alright up there." The sergeant asked, head still covered by the blanket.

"Yeah, its just, unit's tongue is displaying oddities." The grenadier said, with the mask discarded he could even hear her sniff, her voice, freed from voxlike rasp of the rebreather, was almost melodic.

"Well let me know when I can take this stupid blanket off." The Catachan said.

"Sure thing sir." The krieger said. "Just... give unit a few minutes."
~~~~
Elysia Three Tear stabbed the dummy, the bayonet sinking deep into the flesh of dead ork. The girl grinning triumphantly, white stripe decorating the 8 year old child's helmet as she turned to her instructor.

"Did you observe Uncle Commissar sir?" The girl pointed excitedly at the blade, lodged all the way to the handle inside the orks leg. "I got it all the way in. That's exceeded personal best."

Commissar Unterbrechan put down his dataslate, hobbling toward the ork on a gnarled cane, a powerfield generator hidden in the handle of the curved metal staff as he leaned down to admire the wound. "Very sufficient." The injured man rasped, face unevern from long healed burns. "Several centimeters deeper then your previous record."

Elysia beamed as the commissar nodded. "Now then Elysia. Pull the blade out." The commissar croaked, a small bit of phlegm spitting out of the warhero's wounded larynx as the child stared at the blade worriedly.

"Acknowledged Uncle Commissar sir." The child griped the blade, the adult weapon's handle dwarfing the child's hands as she did her best to tug the blade out, the red slicked blade impassive to the child's struggles.

"Seems we have ways to go before you get the 645" The commissar says as Elysia pouts, pulling the blade out and handing it to the young girl. "Now run along to your parents, rations are soon."

The girl nods running off as the man chuckles looking at his dataslate, swiping through the pages to its pages, the words "Amore Et Krieg" flickering on the slate's screen.

"Who knew a idle tale from my Schola days would cause all this?" The Commissar muttered as he slipped the slate into his greatcoat.

Elysia wandered under the feudal world's dense forestscape, the half krieger scrubbing her mother's old bayonet. While she certainly was sufficient in injuring the ork currently she needed to work on prying the blade out of the ork bone, it would be inefficient if the ork's healing closed the wound before she could recover the blade. Training would have to be increased.

She peaked into the mess tent, her father grimacing at a bowl of synthetic noodles as if the meal personally offended him, which seemed to be his default expression.

Elysia waved at her father, the greying sergeant's lips curling into a smile. "Parental unit, Elysia managed to exceed current record of lethal insertion! I got it all the way in a Nob corpse." Elysia bragged as she ran up to her dad, the elderly devil lifting his daughter in a metallic black arm.

"I knew you had it in you." Richand said smiling. "But can you do me a favor and drop the fancy talk, I get enough of that talk from your mother."

"Unit speaks well within the Primer's recommended grammatical parameters. " Misty huffed, the grenadier flicking her husband, the red lenses of her rebreather staring at Elysia, a hand awkwardly patting her child's head. "Section 2 Chapter 3 of the Uplifting Primer states that upon achieving a certain milestones it is effective to reward such behavior as appropriate to the regiment. As such Unit awards Whiteshield Elysia 3, with one head pat." The krieger said, gloved hand mussing up her daughter's head. "Furthermore unit states for record that aforementioned whiteshield is a 'good girl' and she is 'very proud of her'." The krieger looked at her husband who nods, Elysia's mother relaxing very slightly as she sat down with her rations.

"Did you see dad?" Elysia said, stars sparkling in her eyes. "I got a headpat! All by myself!"

The sergeant sighed. "What is with kriegers and..." the sergeant muttered before remembering his family's presence. "Yes sugar I saw. Daddy's very proud of you."
Elysia smiled as she sat in front of her father, a bowl of rations in front of her as her mother slipped her mask off, the krieger's face almost unhealthily pale hidden it was from the sunlight under the grenadier's skull rebreather. The only time Elysia say her moms face was during meals, which her dad assured her was 'progress'... though Elysia never was told to what. Must be boring adult stuff.

"Hey dad." the Whiteshield peered up at her father. "Did you REALLY know Thudd? Like really really?"

Richand scowls, swallowing a mass of slightly wormish noodles. "Course I knew him why do you keep asking that?"

Elysia frowned. "Well Treant Junior says Thudd isn't real, he's just a story like Sanguinius."

Richand put out his lho. "First of all Sanguninius is real and don't you dare say otherwise in front of any space marine if you actually like having teeth. Second you tell Junior that if he doesn't stop calling me a liar I'll show him just how Armoured he is with my boot up his..." Richand coughed, noticing his wife's stares. "I mean... yes Thudd is real. He works with this Inquisitor alongside some of his regiment. He even sends us astropath messages some times.And didn't he give you that nice present for your birthday?"

Elysia frowned. "It was just a crayon drawing of rainbow with a little I stamped on the corner."

The sergeant nodded. "Yup that stamped I is a official inquisitor Rosetta, that Rainbow is more official then this regiment."

Elysia shrugged. "I don't know I mean, it seems a little childish. A ogryn who isn't afraid of tunnels who teams up with orks to defeat a daemon. Wasn't those just bedtime stories?"

"Thudd is existent." Misty said enjoying a bite of corpse starch. "But if unit was unpleased with declassified missions then light out debriefing can cease."

Elysia shook her head. "No wait... I mean, that would not be necessary. Debriefings are sufficient in tactical guidance." Elysia nodded as Misty smiled.

"If unit insists." Misty said, strapping her rebreather back on. "Now come, unit must begin shooting drill. " The krieger walked off to the shooting range, Elysia toddling after her.

"Unit is aware that marksmen practice was optimal in Misty acquiring her paramour?"

Elysia tilted her head. "How did shooting well help you meet dad?"

"Well one day unit discovered a misplaced dataslate..."