You turn to face Grist, who’s crossing his arms. This doesn’t bode well. You’ve learned to smell a reprimand a mile away, but you’ve been so tired and scatterbrained you can’t even remember what you did. You can feel an icy chill go over your face, and you wonder if the part of it that isn’t obscured by your helm is as ghost-white as you think.

Redmore sighs.

> “Before I turn you lose, Caskett, I understand you had shared some concerns about certain details about this mission with everyone on your way down to Harvestfall.”

Your stomach churns. Oh. That.

“Y-yes, sir. I did.”

> “It’s only natural for you to be skeptical. You’re an Arbites adept, after all. The circumstances were certainly not regular, and though they were extenuating, I was not very forthcoming with you Troopers. Let me be clear though: Outbursts like that are not helpful to anyone; Insubordination aside, it’s just plain bad for morale.”

This isn’t exactly the chewing-out you’d get from Abbot Hastings, but somehow this feels much worse. You hang your head.

“I apologize, sir. It will not happen again.”

> “See that it doesn’t. In order for our unit to operate effectively, all of us have to be on the same page. In the rare instances where we aren’t, and information is not freely shared between us, you must have faith that there is some advantage to it. If at any point your guts are telling you that something is wrong with my direction, or the direction of any of your Arbitrators, you come straight to ME. I may tell you to shut your mouth and do your job, but more often than not, I’ll have an answer for you.”

You look back up, nodding.

“Understood, sir.”

Redmore nods.

> “Good deal. All that said, is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

> “Actually, I was wondering about [Write your query!]”
> “I think I’ve caught up with you all, but thank you anyways.”

>>5424482
> “Actually, I was wondering about the fact that if the shuttle wasn't from the mechanicus ship then would it be possible that the shuttle came from this ship?"

>>5424512
+1

>>5424482
>actually Sir, I was wondering if it would be possible to requisition Marker, the dog that helped us so on Harvestfall, and if not if it would be possible to requisition a Cybermastiff, I found Marker to be quite helpful in the execution of my Duty
I like the dog, and I'm sad you bastards left him behind
Three slight things, could we use the Stub Casing to determine the Weapon (in general or specific, plus if it actually corresponds with the round we found or didn't find in him, we really should have looked better at the angle of entry it would have told us the height of the shooter)? Sister of Battle When (loved the reference to lewd books being written about them)? And what's with all the MILFs after us?, you'd think we were Blessed Saint Shö-Tā with how they've all been sniffing around us
Oh, and we should probably have looked into the Governor's kid especially if there's no mother mentioned

Also I have a theory on the particulars of how we found the body
>be me, Assassin
>Find a server with the closest body type to me
>It's a young shy girl (so probably skinny and short with medium to long hair)
>Either interrogate her for entry points or (if I've already got a map and Intel breakdown) just kill her and dump her body
Now the dumpsite of the Well is an oddity, it points to being Convenient over being planned because of how public and how the body would be discovered fairly soon which tells us that either the Assassin was in a Rush (which implies a time constraint we haven't necessarily seen, or is however long the Exfil shuttle had to stay) or the Servant was never in a better place to be killed and hidden
>Put on her uniform that hopefully fits you well enough to not be noticed
>Get into the Estate without being seen/noticed
So either hop a fence of a place during a guerrilla war that's probably being heavily protected or be let in by a guard that's inattentive or purposefully ignoring you
>Sneak up a oddly reinforced lattice towards a man's office
The lattice is odd, but the fact his back is to the window is doubly so because it implies the Assassin was waiting in his office, hid behind the door and then shot him between the eyes before he could make a noise also the fact that nobody heard a loud ass Stub gun go off implies either a Silencer or the room is Soundproofed
>Then try to open the safe, hear him coming and:
leave the secret door open to lure him into the room while hiding yourself
Or
hide behind the door to wait until he enters the close it behind him before you shoot (which could account for the marks we found)
But both of these options imply the Assassin knew his routine and when he wouldn't be in his office because if they were just hanging from the lattice someone probably would have seen them
>search the Governor, leave no fingerprints but then leave traces of attempted entry on the Safe and steal several very conspicuous files from his cabinet and leave behind your Brass
Part 1, I'm sorry

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>>5425021
God dammit it's 5am for me and I'm probably speaking out of my ass BUT

We should have investigated the files more, the missing ones imply a weekly meeting that soured also I forgot to mention that we should have looked at his prior appointment, the knowledge that the office was empty implies an extreme certainty that it was empty so either a spotter is required (and then why not just have a sniper) or a different partner that's somehow making sure that the Governor is busy and out of his office
>So you dump the cartridge into the fire but not the files
Implying that the brass is useless somehow but the files have something important
>Spend less than five minutes searching the body and (possibly Re-) Trying the safe before hopping back out and repeating the same way you got in but in reverse before making your way to the shuttle and leaving

This all raises some questions like: How did the Assassin know their way in and get past security? How did the Assassin know the Governor's timings? How did the Assassin know exactly what files needed to be stolen but not know that there was no "smoking gun" in the safe? (even if it was the nearby world that was probably extorting Harvestfall for Something in return for covering them for the manpower tithe the letters aren't enough to point a definite finger unless the Governor's kid is being held hostage for another unknown reason), and finally what did they THINK was in the safe that required a face to face hit instead of a Nailbomb or a sniper?
>Pic related, not the Shooter

You’re pretty exhausted, but a few things come to mind that have been bothering you.

“Actually, I was wondering about the stub casing.”

> “The one recovered at the crime scene.”

“Yes. Could we determine the exact type of firearm using its dimensions?”

Redmore shrugs.

> “Thing about stub-rounds and the guns that shoot them is they’re not very standardized. Unlike your guardsman’s lasgun or a heavy bolter, the mechanics and caliber can greatly vary from system to system. Your Ius Autopistol would confound even a forge-world tech-priest if you took it far enough away from this system.”

“Oh. Damn.”

> “Don’t give up hope so quickly. I think Charles still has the spent shell, if the Inquisitor didn’t pilfer it. You could ask her for it and show it to a few tech-priests. One of them might have some idea.”

You nod, wishing you had thought to ask Sabine.

“Another thing… Some of the documents we found implied the Governor had a son. Would we be able to locate him?”

> “Charles mentioned that. She thinks he’s in a Ecchlesiarchal school of some kind, likely not a full-fledged Schola. As sorry as I feel for the young lad, there’s really nothing we can do, so let’s leave him be. If the boy was being used for leverage, then he’s safe now, isn’t he?”

“Alright…”

You think for a moment. If he’s got no other family, then he’ll probably be going to a real Schola sometime soon.

“Oh! Uhm- Would it be possible to requisition a tracking dog from Harvestfall before we leave orbit? The one we used in our investigation was quite helpful.”

Redmore tilts his head at you.

> “A dog? Was it a cyber-mastiff?”

“Uh, no- just a regular dog.”

> “That’d be a question for Weiss, but I wouldn’t count on it. My advice is don’t get too attached to your four-legged friends. Cybernetic or otherwise. It’s a rough world.”

You sigh. He’s probably right.

> “Anything else, Caskett?”

> “Just one thing.

You look around to make sure nobody’s listening. The other people in the hangar seem absorbed enough in their own work. You lean in.

“Do you think that the shuttle the killer used could have come from this ship? It’s on record docking with another ship, the Breadth of Charity, but it could have come from any ship, including this one.”

Grist snorts, shaking his head. Redmore is more contained, but he has a wry smile.

> “Trooper… When did the killer leave the planet?”

“Uhh… 1325-ish, yesterday?”

> “When did you arrive on the planet?”

“Around… 1645.”

> “And when did the Inquisitor arrive?”

“Uhhm… later on in the evening, sometime.”

The two men look at you, as though they’re waiting for you to say something.

“I don’t follow, sir.”

> “I won’t give you an order while we’re on liberty, but you might want to get some sleep.”

Redmore and Grist walk away, chuckling.

What’s so funny? You comb over the timeline and realize with a flush that the Inquisitor, having arrived hours after you did, probably did not dispatch the killer’s craft from her voidship. You sigh, feeling a little foolish. At least Redmore doesn’t hate your guts for questioning his judgement.

You could probably hit the bunks and sleep the whole way to Icarus, but you also doubt that free time for Arbites is a common occurrence. The ship hasn’t entered warpspace yet, or even taxied out of orbit.

> Ask Charles for the casing and get something to eat. Discuss investigation with Charles, Flayer, and Cobbler.
> Ask Weiss about requisitioning Marker.
> Snoop.
> Go to sleep. [SKIP TO ICARUS]

>>5425586
>> Ask Weiss about requisitioning Marker.
Acquire canid. Rest later.

>>5425586
>Ask Charles for the casing and get something to eat. Discuss investigation with Charles, Flayer, and Cobbler.
The chemical makeup of whatever the propellent was (or even the makeup of the Brass) can help track down wherever it was produced, even if it was any of fifty thousand forgeworlds, I'm betting we could prove that Icarus recieved a shipment of similar rounds or even natively produced the munitions also was there any information about the bullet (or lack of it)

We should also see if Sabine can help us out with the scientific points required

>>5425609
Bugger, Ditto, wish for Canid

You think about Marker. He wasn’t even a cyber-mastiff, but he did a good job, didn’t he? Having a dog like that would have been helpful on your first patrol with Cobbler. Redmore did advise against it, but he also said it was up to Weiss.

You exit the hangar, walking down the long corridors of the strike cruiser’s interior, wondering where Weiss might’ve went. You approach a hunchback tech-priest inching along the hallway in the same direction you’re going.

“Pardon me, but I need to ask the Inquisitor something. Do you know where she is?”

> “INQUISITOR WEISS CURRENTLY DEBRIEFING WITH ACOLYTE. NO AUDIENCE PERMITTED AT THIS TIME.”

He continues walking down the hallway at a very small pace, but you figure she’s just in the bridge or somewhere around there. Stepping into an elevator with COMMAND written in Low Gothic on it, you say “Bridge” out loud, but the elevator doesn’t move. Just when you’re about to get out, a group of three officers pile in, pushing you to the back.

> “NOBODY thought to hail me when her Aquila docked? You frakkin’ imbeciles!”

> “Sir, her ship isn’t a standard Aquila, her craft’s identification serial is all warped!”

> “Oh, so what you’re saying is it’s DISTINCT FROM ALL THE OTHER SERIALS?! If the Bridge Commissar doesn’t put one between your eyes I swear to the Emperor I’ll throw you out of an airlock!”

If they’ve noticed you, they haven’t said anything. One of the officers puts a small tablet into a slot on the elevator panel and the doors close. When they open, the three pile out and make a right, trying to walk calmly and run urgently at the same time.

You exit the elevator and look right just in time to see them enter into a large room with broad windows and loud consoles. It’s the bridge! Only problem is a huge door closes down on it, cutting you off. Even worse, two Naval Security Armsmen stand at guard, lasguns in hand.

> Talk your way in.
> Find another way in.

>>5425635
> Talk your way in.
Better to be denied acces and not get shot than to force yourself in and get shot.

>>5425635
>Talk your way in
Are we going to get Ara Ara'd by the Inquisitor in return for a puppy?

You approach the armsmen, who watch you walk from the elevator door all the way to their post. You stand in front of them, waiting for one of them to ask what your business on the bridge is. They just stare. After a pained silence you open your mouth.

“I need to-“

> “No unauthorized parties on the bridge.”

You sigh.

“I need to speak with the Inquisitor about something, we had just conducted a joint investigation on Harvestfall and there was a-“

> “Our orders are very clear. Nobody that doesn’t belong on the Bridge gets in. Sorry, Arbitrator.”

The other one squints.

> “Actually, how did you even get up here? The command level is supposed to be restricted, too.”

Oh, shit. You begin stammering about mistaking the command level for the crew quarters, even though that contradicts your stated intention of trying to talk to the Inquisitor. The armsmen frown, not finding your explanation satisfactory, and look like they’re about to do something when they immediately straighten their postures and look straight forward.

You turn around. A smaller door to the right opens, and out steps Inquisitor Weiss, who frowns when she sees you.

> “What on Terra are you doing up here?”

The armsmen are now stammering, barking over each other about how they had no idea you were up here and were also in the midst of removing you. You decide to wait until they stop talking to explain yourself, which finally happens when Weiss puts her finger to her lips.

> “Thank you. Now, one at a time, starting with you. What are you doing up here?”

“I was looking for you. I have a request.”

> “I see. Were you not paying attention when I said that I would be busy keeping my apprentice abreast of my activities on Harvestfall?”

“No- I mean, I was, but- it’s a little unorthodox.”

> “That does seem to be a recurring theme in your unit. All right, out with it. What do you want?”

You stand up straight and open your mouth. Words fail you. Actually, this will probably sound ridiculous to her. You’ve come this far, though!

“The dog we were using in our investigation… His name is Marker, he’s kept at a facility near the Planetary Governor’s home called Briskwood Station, I think. He was a great asset, and I’d like to use him again for future investigations, so I wanted to ask you if we could take him.”

Weiss blinks.

> “Why didn’t you take him up with us when we were leaving the planet?”

“Well, uh, he’s not really my dog, so I didn’t feel good about it.”

> “Right. Well, he’s not mine either.”

“Could we hail the station over the vox and ask them?”

> “And then send a courier down to collect him while we spend another hour in orbit?”

“Uh-“

> “I’m sorry, Trooper, but if you’ll pardon my verbiage, you’ve missed the mark on this one.”

You huff.

“I understand, ma’am.”

Weiss sighs.

> “You Arbites have plenty of cyber-mastiffs back on Icarus, surely. I understand they’re not as… charismatic as regular canids, but a hive city isn’t the optimal environment for one, anyway. Think about the narrow, claustrophobic roads and alleys versus the wide-open fields on Harvestfall. He’s much better off there, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose that’s true.”

> “Good. Now, I’ve got to tell the bridge to begin transit and then finish up with my apprentice, so run along, and try not to go into any restricted areas from here on out, okay? These armsmen shouldn’t be gabbing away with arbitrators when they’ve got a job to do!”

She walks past the armsmen, the bridge door opening. Stepping through, the door closes behind her, but not before she turns around and says,
> “Please escort him back down to the main level, okay boys?”

The hydraulics press the door shut, leaving you alone with two aggravated-looking armsmen. Despite your insistence that you are perfectly capable of walking to the elevator yourself, they seem to prefer lifting you by your armpits, throwing you into the elevator. They give you one last ugly look before they press a tablet into the slot on the elevator, exiting before the doors close. By the time you’ve stood back up, the doors open, and you’re back where you had boarded on the main level.

Well, that was a bust.

> Ask Charles for the casing and get something to eat. Discuss investigation with Charles, Flayer, and Cobbler.
> Snoop.
> Go to sleep. [SKIP TO ICARUS]

>>5425832
> Ask Charles for the casing and get something to eat. Discuss investigation with Charles, Flayer, and Cobbler.
I figured that would be the answer, but I still wanted to give it a shot

>>5425832
>> Ask Charles for the casing and get something to eat. Discuss investigation with Charles, Flayer, and Cobbler.

Remembering that Redmore said that recovering Marker was not likely, you try to think back on his other advice: Asking a bunch of tech-priests about the stub casing. Charles has the casing, according to him, and last you saw Charles, she was headed for the mess hall with Flayer and Cobbler.

You look up and down the primary corridor of the voidship, stumped. Each direction looks exactly identical- metal floors and walls giving way to intersections framed within stone arches, galvanic lighting interspersed with torches hung on the walls. Falling back on old methods, you approach a group of armsmen marching in your direction to ask for help.

“Excuse me- where can I find the mess hall?”

The head of the group stops walking, his unit stopping in perfect sync with him.

> “Which one?”

You blank at first, but then you wonder how Charles and company would have located it themselves.

“The closest one to here!”

The armsman points at the stretch of corridor behind him.

> “Down that-a-way, about four hundred yards and make a right.”

You nod and thank them before heading in that direction, making the 3 minute walk carefully to avoid walking past it.

As it turns out, the mess hall is too big to be missed, its entryway taking up a whole quadrant of one of those stone archway intersections, and opening up into a gigantic room that makes the cantina back in the Hall of Justice look like the mess back at Schola. There’s three levels of rows and columns of tables, each filled with ship hands, armsmen, and other assorted passengers. The titanic dimensions of the mess hall, the fact that it looks almost packed to capacity, and the knowledge that this just one among many messes starts to give you an uncomfortable perspective on the scale of the ship.

Unlike the scale of Hive City Icarus, which is impressive in its own right, the strike cruiser Terminatio Vigilantia gives you an uncanny discomfort. At least with the hive city, which is several times bigger than this ship, the size could be attributed to the several distinct interests in Icarus, whether that be the Navy favoring its strategic location on the frontier, the Mechanicus using it as a springboard to further parts unknown in their Quest for Knowledge, or more simply, the natural tendency of humans to clump together.

This Strike Cruiser and all of its moving parts, by contrast, march to the tune of a single drummer: Veronika Weiss. All these hundreds of thousands of people on board working in tandem at the direction of one woman. There are larger vessels than these, of course, and some Admirals have been known to command multiple ships at once, but even they are accountable to their Lord Admirals, Lord High Admirals, and the Council of Terra. Who then, if anybody, does Inquisitor Weiss answer to? Your stomach turns.

Nearly forgetting your purpose, you straighten yourself out and start scanning the vast hall for the smooth domes of Arbites helms. There are two levels suspended above you that obscure the crowd, but somehow you doubt Charles would have the patience to climb another level before eating, and after a few more moments of scanning, you’re proven right. Right at the far right corner, you see a long table with three familiar helms at the end, and begin walking over.

Flayer’s the first to notice you, and he makes a space on the wooden bench between himself and Charles, patting it with a grin. Bastard. You sit down between the two, with Cobbler on the other side, giving you a nod.

> “Janus! I was sure you went to bed!”

Charles wraps an arm around you and squeezes you against her for a moment before she returns to inhaling some minced protein and carb grains from a bowl. Flayer has a similar bowl while Cobbler seems to just have a slab of carb with a few small bites out of it.

“Hey, Charles. Cobbler. Flayer.”

Charles scoffs with a mouthful of food, elbowing you.

> “I cholw you Januph- Caw me Fiowa.”

Cobbler grunts.

> “Shouldn’t be encouraging them to ignore decorum. Bad enough that they don’t use our rank when referring to us.”

> “Owww, ffop! Awbifrayor if fohw fywwabulf! Iff a mouwffuw.”

> “Speaking of mouthfuls, you ought to swallow your food before talking, Fiona.”

Charles blinks and swallows the rest of her food without chewing.

> “Ah-! So it’s okay for YOU to call me Fiona, huh?”

> “We’re the same rank, so yes. They can call each other Janus and Pious and Ulbryn and Quentis all they like, but as long as they’re troopers they shouldn’t call us Quentin and Fiona. It’s disrespectful.”

Flayer’s eyes widen.

> “Your first name is Quentin?! Uh- Sir?”

Charles nods, laughing.

> “Redmore had a bit of fun picking you out! Me and Grist were praying he’d pair the two of you up! Quentin and Quentis!”

Cobbler shakes his head, taking a bite out of his carb.

> “Lots of names in the Imperium. Some of them sound alike. Not very significant.”

Flayer shrugs.

> “Well, I prefer ‘Flayer’ anyway.”

“Sounds a little grim, doesn’t it?”

> “It certainly does, CASKETT, but it rolls off the tongue better and is therefore easier to communicate, particularly over vox.”

A servitor pushing a hot cart with the diced protein and carb grains hobbles behind you. You turn around and ask for a bowl. The servitor ignores you. Flayer grabs a bowl from the cart and uses it to scoop carb grains first and then protein out of the trays.

“Thanks.”

You start to eat, chewing your food in between speaking.

“Anyway, Charles, I wanted to ask you- do you still have that spent shell from the Planetary Governor’s office?”

Charles nods.
> “Mhm! I also have the torn cloth, for all the good that’ll do us now.”

Charles reaches into her greatcoat and pulls out a small burlap bag, placing it on the table.

> “These little bags are specially designed to prevent contamination to evidence, even though we don’t have a snowball’s chance in the Warp of finding the guy through his fingerprints. Still a good habit to have!”

“I was actually hoping to show it to some tech-priests and see if we can get the make and pattern of the stubber.”

Cobbler scratches his scruffy chin.
> “Of course, tracking down any specific stubber’s a long-shot, but odds are the gun the killer used was made in this sector, so it’s definitely not hopeless.”

Charles slides the bag over to you, nudging your arm.
> “Just don’t lose it, eh, Trooper?”

You put the bag in your greatcoat, feeling the metal cylinder inside. Besides the Breadth of Charity, you realize that this is the only artefact that could get you closer to the killer.

“What’s our next move gonna be, chasing the killer I mean?”

Cobbler shrugs.
> “That’s up to Inspector Redmore, I suppose. I don’t know anything about the case besides what I overheard between you troopers, but I think that voidship’s promising. If it’s even docked at Icarus, that is.”

Charles nods.
> “We’ve still yet to debrief, and then we’ll all be up to speed. If I know Redmore, he’s not gonna let this go, even if his words contradict that.”

“Has he said anything to that effect?”

> “Well, part of the deal with the Inquisitor-“

> “Fiona!”

Charles jumps at Cobbler snapping and sighs with a smile.
> “Right, right- can’t say anything about that at the moment. We can still talk about the case, of course! Who do you think DID it?”

Flayer speaks up.
> “It’s not about who the killer is- it’s about who sent him.”

You all look at Flayer.

> “The methodical nature of the crime suggests premeditation that goes beyond just a simple knowledge of the layout of the governor’s estate. That safe is the biggest indicator that the killer had prior knowledge that surpassed even the governor’s closest subordinates. He didn’t just have help, he had a step-by-step plan.”

Charles nods.
> “I agree! At first I thought it was the rebels, but that was probably the intended impression. Not to mention the Arvus. How many individuals do you know with a ship?”

You gulp, looking around the Vigilantia’s mess hall.

“So whoever did it has access to considerable resources.”

Flayer groans, slamming his fist in the table.
> “To what end, though, does somebody deliberately prolong a conflict on an agri-world? Who could possibly want this?”

> Who could? [Post your theories! Doesn’t have to be spot-on!]

>>5428049
>It's Icarus, they're getting paid by Harvestfall's government (and probably getting paid under the table by any number of nobles to protect specific locations or act as bodyguards) not to mention the prestige and long term benefits for helping pay another world's tithes and having them in debt to you
>Not to mention they're the only ones nearby that have the right level of training for the Assassin, because it's definitely not Inquistorial level wetwork or a Peasant's killer
Sorry, thought I posted this earlier

>>5428049
To what end? Well, we simply have to follow the money, as it were. The new facts have turned our vision of our culprit upside down, from someone close to the rebels taking out the PG to end the war to someone who knew of the rebel leaders meeting with him or had access to his messages and wanted the war to go on.
All the ministers that lost land to the rebels, which we though could have wanted vengeance for the PG not pushing back the rebels? Now they're a lot less suspicious, because their motives don't fit, for example.

Our new suspect is also most likely whoever was handing Imperial Guard grade weapons to the rebels.
>HIGH PRIORITY UPDATE
>REBELS HAVE LASGUNS AND HEAVY STUBBERS. HOW????
Remember. So a suspect with a lot of intel, access to Guard stockpiles or stolen equipment. Obviously sampling the rebel's new toys would maybe provide us some very interesting answers.

But why go through all of that trouble? Why start and fuel a rebellion, then keep it from succeeding? That last part excludes emotional reasons, like a pirate or official wanting to help the people. So really the best bet is that the rebellion causes problems to Harvestfall, and perhaps more importantly to Icarus, and our culprit benefits from that.

In the end, our culprit can't be just anybody, but someone with a lot of pull, and a vested interest in Harvestfall and Icarus becoming unstable. It still leaves us plenty of profiles, from Icarus leadership wishing for Harvestfall to fail so they can renege on the tithe to someone wishing to exploit the Icarus food shortages for profit, like for example selling contraband rations to people. Or perhaps a more nefarious force trying to destabilize the subsector, or create a smokescreen to implant themselves on Icarus while the rioters take all the attention away. The enemies of mankind are devious after all.

One thing's for sure, the rebels are being used as tools by that same person, but I trust they've covered their tracks; But them having to kill the PG is a security breach, a probably half-baked plan, as seen by the fact that their agent failed to retrieve the sensitive messages from the safe. If there's a way to unravel this conspiracy, it goes though this assassin.

Interestingly, our former PG seemed to have a lot of ties to the Ecclesiarchy, with a special ring, a fancy copy of the Lectitio Divinatus, and a private line to a cardinal.

A cardinal from Icarus. A cardinal that advised him against so much as listening to the rebels' demands, even the most harmless. I believe we should maybe ask a few questions to that cardinal. By we I mean Inquisitor Weiss, and us acting under her authority. Because I'm not going to mess with the frackin Ecclesiarchy without serious backing, no siree!

“It’s got to be somebody on Icarus, right? If the purpose of the murder was to prolong the war, then somebody’s obviously benefitting from it. But who could possibly benefit from a famine?! It’s nonsensical!”

> “Dohn be fo fure, Januph-“

Charles gulps her food down after a look from Cobbler.

> “The intention of the murderer might have been to prolong the war, but that doesn’t mean the famine is the end-all-be-all of the act. There’s an ancient Terran proverb: In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.”

You try to think over Charles’s words, wondering who could possibly profit during this crisis.

“Oh-! There are those rations-forgers. Though, I doubt they’d have the means to even think of killing the Planetary Governor, let alone actually pull it off.”

Flayer nods.

> “The gangers are exploiting the crisis, but they’re definitely not pulling any strings. Their opportunism might yet be another intended effect. They’re certainly not smuggling weapons to the rebels.”

“You think that’s related?”

> “It has to be- assuming the rebels didn’t just intercept the PDF supply line… Their better equipment spells a longer war for Harvestfall. It’s the same end as murdering the Governor right before a summit.”

“Throne… Then whoever put our killer up to it really does have considerable resources.”

Cobbler grunts,
> “They could certainly afford better assassins than the one they sent. You found that casing in the fireplace, right? Even a child knows that fire can’t melt metal.”

Charles hems,
> “Maybe they sent a simple man who wouldn’t be able to fully comprehend the consequences of his actions?”

Cobbler snorts,
> “Or maybe somebody whose expendability was greater than his skillset.”

You frown, rocking back and forth in your seat, trying to think some more.

“The wealthier residents of Icarus are probably better sheltered from the effects of a food shortage… maybe somebody there? Are there any competitors to Harvestfall where food production is concerned?”

Flayer shakes his head.

> “Doubt it very much. If they could grow their own food on Icarus you can bet they wouldn’t send men to cover Harvestfall’s tithe.”

“Maybe the tithe is the key- somebody in the upper government wants to renege the pledge.”

> “Maybe… We might be overcomplicating it, though. It’s hard to imagine somebody ON Icarus deliberately sabotaging their own food supply, but maybe our assumption the killer and his patron are FROM Icarus is what’s holding us back.”

Charles laughs.

> “You’d better HOPE they’re from Icarus, else we’re never gonna catch them!”

Flayer shakes his head again.

> “No, I mean- we’re assuming this is some kind of political maneuver, when it might just be destructive. We’re on the edge of the Imperium out here, aren’t we? The killer could be acting in the interests of xenos, or even-“

Cobbler slams his hand down on the table, standing up.

> “That’s enough, trooper. Save it for the debrief.”

A disembodied voice drowns out the boisterous tumult of the mess hall.

> “ALL HANDS: PREPARE FOR JUMP.”

A quiet falls over the room as the lights flicker and the metallic creaking of the ship’s hull fills the silence. You hold onto the table, even though it is not secured and you would much prefer to get under it.

Flayer stands.

> “Damn it. I didn’t think we’d be going in so soon.”

The room lurches and Flayer and Cobbler stumble, but they don’t lose their footing. The lights flicker again before returning to full brightness.

> “JUMP SUCCESSFUL. ESTIMATED WARPSPACE TRAVEL TIME: FOUR HOURS.”

The announcement seems to put everybody to ease, except you. The patrons of the mess-hall resume eating and talking, and the volume starts picking up again. Their cavalier attitude confounds you, it’s like they don’t even care that in this very moment, they are sailing through the Warp.

Flayer seems to notice your discomfort, perhaps because you’re still clutching the table.

> “You alright, Janus? You look like you’re afraid the floor might fall out from under you.”

“I’m fine. I just- ate too fast.”

Cobbler gives you a knowing look.

> “You’ll get used to it, Trooper. Hopefully sooner rather than later if you plan to get any sleep.”

Flayer yawns.

> “I definitely need some rest! I’m going to those quarters I was promised.”

Cobbler nods.
> “All of our quarters are on Deck 12. I asked a servitor in the washroom earlier.”

Cobbler and Flayer depart, leaving you and Charles. Not feeling hungry anymore, you still feel like it’s only polite to wait for her to finish her food up before exiting the mess hall. As she’s eating, she returns your thoughtfulness by swallowing before speaking.

> “So, Janus- You’re afraid of the warp, yeah?”

“I- Well…”

> “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a perfectly rational fear to have. Granted, you’d be lousy in the navy, but- lots of people feel discomfort during warp travel.”

“I understand we’re protected by the Gellar Field, but… I’ve read about whole squadrons never reappearing after they jump. Truth be told, I was a little nervous about space-travel in general, the only thing protecting you from the void being a metal box with walls that are only inches-thick. The Warp, though… It’s not a void, is it?”

Charles shrugs.

> “I don’t quite know, myself. You’d be better off in the void unprotected, that’s for sure.”

“Were you afraid? When you first started out, I mean.”

She smiles, downing the rest of her bowl.

> “I was more afraid of catching a stub in my mouth. The one spot where our helmets don’t protect us. Imagine one flying through your teeth and out the back of your neck!”

You snort, shaking your head.

“Thank you, there’s something else for me to worry about.”

She laughs and stands up.

> “C’mon, let’s go.”

As you walk through the intersection, Charles gives you a nudge.

> “You didn’t have to wait up on my account, you know! We’ve only got a precious few hours of liberty left, how are you planning on spending it?”

> “Actually, I’m pretty tired. I should get some rest before I’m back on duty.” [GO TO YOUR QUARTERS. SKIP TO ICARUS]
> “Well, I’m wide awake now. I think I’ll explore the ship.” [SNOOP AROUND. RISK PUNITIVE ACTION.]

… Charles stops walking and turns towards you, a light smile on her face.

> “You know, if the Warp is worrying you so much that you can’t sleep, you could come with me to my quarters. I find that good company puts the troubled mind at ease.”

> “Uhm- Sure.” [GO TO CHARLES’S QUARTERS. WHAT THE FUCK?!]

>>5431513
Hmm, Ara Ara? Or No?
>Actually, I’m pretty tired. I should get some rest before I’m back on duty.” [GO TO YOUR QUARTERS. SKIP TO ICARUS]

>>5431513
> “Uhm- Sure.” [GO TO CHARLES’S QUARTERS. WHAT THE FUCK?!]
It's probably gonna be non lewd.

Waiting on a tiebreaker!

>>5432577
Fuck it I'm changing my vote to go to Charles' Quarters

“Uhm- Sure.”

Charles’s smile grows, and she puts her arm around your shoulders, walking you into an open elevator.

> “Deck 12.”

The elevator beeps and the door closes. Charles leans her back against the metal wall, but leaves her arm draped over your shoulder. When the door opens again, she grips you and gently pushes you out ahead of her. You walk down the much narrower corridor together, lots of smaller, more personal-sized doors on either wall beside you. Charles stops an officer walking in the other direction.

> “Pardon me, but the Inquisitor said-“

> “The Arbitrators get officer’s quarters, yes. Blocks XIV-XXIV are all still vacant and we’ve been instructed to board you there. You may have any of the two you like.”

He looks at Charles’s arm around you and quirks an eyebrow.

> “Or- just one, perhaps. You’ll find them if you keep walking.”

He continues walking to the elevator that you exited and boards. Charles looks at the number on the doors next to you and tugs you along.

> “We’re not too far from twenty-four!”

Each door passes by you, its numerals counting down until you both veer a sharp left. An access panel blinks red around its single button, but when Charles presses it, the light turns into an amber yellow and the door slides open.

For a moment, the luxury of the room you enter takes your mind off of the extreme gravity of the situation you find yourself in. The lights in the room are galvanic, a warm orange glow not unlike candle and torchlight. One such light hangs over a wooden desk, a stack of parchment in a bin right next to a quill and ink vial. A smaller door on the other side of the room seems to lead to a personal bathroom, toilet, sink and shower all visible through the crack in the door. In the very middle of the back wall, of course, there was the bed. It was about 3 feet across and six foot long, about a foot thick. It’s the kind of mattress you’d expect the Lords of Terra to sleep on, or at least, the slain Planetary Governor of Harvestfall.

> “My word! Is that a shower? I should have joined the Navy!”

Charles takes her helmet off and sets it down on the desk, leaning back and letting her greatcoat slide off her, leaving it crumpled on the floor. Gingerly, she reaches around her back, unclipping the strap on her pauldron, then doing the same with the straps for her carapace armor. Where it takes you several minutes to loosen and unlatch the many binds for your armor, she seems able to instantly relieve herself of her armor. As though she had been doing it every day for several standard years.

She lifts her leg onto the chair and leans down to get at the last bit of armor, her carapace greaves. Before she removes it, she turns to look at you, causing you to jump in surprise. You didn’t mean to, but with a twinge of embarrassment you realize that you have been standing, gawking at her removing her armor, all while still fully geared. Despite your guilt, or perhaps because of it, she grins.

> “Beg your pardon, I keep forgetting you haven’t even been with us a week. Do you need any help getting out of that armor?”

You clear your throat uncomfortably, sliding out of your greatcoat.

> “I’ve got it…”
> “Actually, could you get the straps in the back…?"

>>5432957
> “Actually, could you get the straps in the back…?"
She probably just fucking with is (you know then not litteral part)

>>5432957
> “Actually, could you get the straps in the back…?"
Oh dear Saint Shö-Tā, please protect us in our time of need and protect our purity against the predations of others

“Actually, could you get the straps in the back?”

You pop your pauldron off easy enough, arm-braces and gauntlets coming off next as Charles walks behind you and starts pulling at your armor. Her hands, now not gloved, delicately pull the straps apart. Whenever her knuckles brush against your back, you stifle a shudder, feeling goosebumps climb all the way up to your neck. Soon enough, all the pieces are piled around your feet, and you turn to face Charles, who snorts.

> “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

You blink. She reaches for your head and takes your helm with both hands, lifting it off of you. You worry about this being the first time she’s seen you without your helmet, but you remember she actually saw quite a bit of your bare head on Equine and on the Lord’s Carbine. Even still, her expression softens, and she beams at you. You find it incredibly difficult to keep eye contact, but you do so, trying to remember to breathe also. She takes the helmet and puts it on the desk, next to hers.

When she turns to face you, you can see her whole figure, both of your bodies now only covered with bodyglove. Her shoulders are broad, almost the exact width of her hips. Her waist curves slightly inward between them, the ridges on her abdomen visible beneath the thin, tight-clinging fabric. The curve of her chest, no longer obscured by her breastplate, seems almost constricted by the otherwise form-fitting garment. It’s difficult to tell whether there’s more breast than the bodyglove could accommodate or if the tight fabric is simply preventing them from hanging as low as they could. Either way, they could easily-

> “Janus.”

“I wasn’t-!”

> “Relax! I was just going to ask if you wanted to shower.”

“Uhm.”

> “If not, I’ll just hop in, but you can go first if you want.”

“Oh.”

> Take shower.
> Wait until you have a clean bodyglove to change into.

File: Spoiler Image (6 KB, 500x500)

6 KB PNG

>>5432984
Your actions do not reflect the stated desires of your prayers, apostate.

>>5433029
>Wait until you have a clean bodyglove to change into.
> “Janus.”

“I wasn’t-!”
Attaboy.

“I’m alright. I’ll wait until I have another bodyglove to change into.”

> “Suit yourself! I’m going in!”

Charles walks past the bathroom door and shuts it behind her. After a few moments, you can hear running water splash down onto enamel. Heaving a sigh, you sit on the bed and lay back, your heart practically pounding out of your chest. Why did you even come up here? What are you afraid of?

You recall a summer’s evening on Equine, four years ago. You, Bellus Sycamore, and Ernst Gross were cleaning and testing weapons at the small-arms range behind a nearby chapel. If memory serves you right, which it usually does, you had a hot-shot lasgun, Bellus had a bolter-pistol, and Ernst was the one actually wiping the grime from the weapons. You all talked about nothing in particular as you worked until you heard a despaired cry, followed by violent sobbing.

Through one of the small back doors, a man in preacher’s robes bounded, his fearful expression making it seem as though he was running from his own death. A strange sight to behold on Equine indeed, until you saw his pursuer. A massive figure clawing at the edge of the door, pushing off against it to gain some speed.
Only when it escaped the long shadow of the chapel, three-fourths of the distance to its quarry, did you realize what it was: A massive woman, whose stature and speed was undoubtedly exaggerated by the power armor surrounding her form. She caught up to the fleeing preacher in short order, grabbing his arm and arresting his flight. He tried to wriggle away at first, but in one swift motion, she snapped his humerus in twain. Still sobbing, he was dragged all the way back to the chapel, through the door, his broken arm fluttering behind him like a tassel.

Ernst shook his head, snorting.
> “Throne! I’d hate to be that guy!”

“He was afraid. Wonder if they’re gonna kill him.”

Bellus nodded, aiming his bolter-pistol at a target and firing, the exhaust from the bolt’s propellant blowing his hair back.

> “Heard he had frakked one of the worker girls.”

> “No way! They don’t kill you for that! … DO they?”

“What’s frakking?”

Ernst and Bellus looked at you, then at each other, giggling. You frowned and took aim with your hot-shot, blowing the head off of a dummy 45 yards away. When you looked back, Bellus and Ernst were huddled up close to you, looking around to make sure nobody was near.

And then, in a hushed tone, Bellus whispered,
> “Frakking’s what you do to a girl to make a baby.”

You blinked.
“A baby? But- what is it?”

Ernst and Bellus snickered some more, their voices getting even quieter.
> “Where do you think they come from, Janus?”

You realized in that moment you never really thought about where you had come from. Aside from the few impressions of your life before Schola, your earliest memory was waking up in a dark room a few years ago, Drill Abbot Hastings and scary-looking people that you later learned were from something called the Mechanicus surrounding you.

“Why is that bad, though? Aren’t we supposed to make more babies so that the Imperium has lots of workers and soldiers?”

Bellus shrugged,
> “It’s supposed to feel good. It feels so good that if a preacher does it, they might stop loving the Emperor and start loving the girl too much.”

Ernst added,
> “It DOES feel good! I frakked with a girl on our last training expedition!”

> “You’re lying! There aren’t any girls on Equine II! There’s not ANYONE up there, except when we’re there!”

> “There is too!”

“But- what is it exactly, how do you do it?”

Bellus and Ernst started cackling, leaning even closer, their voices even more hushed. As soon as Bellus opened his mouth to answer, a scream echoed out of the open door of the chapel, belonging to the same voice as the fleeing preacher. It was as blood-curdling and pained as it was final. You remember your heart dropped into your stomach, but not so much as when the woman came back outside to check on the three of you. You were sure she was aware of what you all were talking about, even though she just told you all to load your equipment up and return to the schola proper.

You did manage to learn what “frakking” was later, after Bellus had told Kaia, another one of your peers, about what happened. As he explained the precise mechanics, all you could picture was the preacher’s ruined arm flailing behind him, all you could hear was his horrified, frightened screams.

The door to the bathroom swings open, and you sit up with a start. Steam pours out of the room before Charles does, wringing her hair with a towel, her bodyglove forgone for more basic garments protecting her groin and her chest.

> “Aaaah! That feels MUCH better! I know you’re stuck with your clothes, but maybe you ought to shower when we get out of warpspace.”

“Maybe.”

She hops on the bed beside you. Despite its lavish dimensions, the bed does not seem big enough to fit the two of you side-by-side. As Charles scoots back to lay her damp hair on the pillow, you remain seated on the foot of the bed. You both remain in your respective positions for a long, awkward moment. You imagine Charles’s eyes boring into the back of your head, wondering if they’re burning with expectations that you are sure to dash. It suddenly occurs to you that she might have trouble sleeping with the lights still on, and you look around to find a switch or a button or a panel.

From behind, a small hand touches your shoulder. It startles you, but you project the shock inward, rather than leaping off of the bed.

> “Janus… Your breathing’s irregular. Are you still worried about the Warp? Or, is it something else, perhaps?”

You inhale, then exhale, trying hopelessly to correct your breathing.

> “It’s nothing.”
> “It’s the Warp.”
> “It’s women.”
> “It’s dying, or failing, or making things worse for everybody.”

>>5433176
> “It’s dying, or failing, or making things worse for everybody.”
>>5433171
Soritotas or Fem Arbiter?
I think it'd be neat for a prospective waifu to be a Sister fresh out of her own Schola
>>5433034
My prayers fall upon deaf ears

>>5433176
>“It’s dying, or failing, or making things worse for everybody.”

“It’s dying… or failing, or- or making things worse for everyone.”

Wow, your voice cracked. That’s pretty embarrassing.

“On Harvestfall, if- if we didn’t come up with anything, if we hadn’t found any leads- then- then Redmore would be in bigger trouble, right? I was the last person on board with leaving Icarus, I called us all traitors- Is that the caliber of person who’s fit to help you? To help those people?”

Charles scoots up to the end of the bed, sitting beside you. She’s slowly stroking your back.

“I don’t want to- If I can do my duty, th-then that’s fine, but if I- get in the way, and make things harder, then why am I here?!”

> “There, there…”

“Not just- not just for all of you, either. I want us to succeed, I do, but- I feel so incompetent! Whenever I’m out there, doing my duty, I don’t want… I don’t want to- The- the others, the people who aren’t guilty, if I- If-”

You can feel your cheeks stinging. Such failures of constitution were always dealt with by Abbot Hastings’s open palms. If he could see you right now you just know he’d drag you back to Equine and throw you in the Schola sub-cellar for a week.

“On- On the first day with Cobbler, I was- I was on my own, but I- I’m pretty shuh-sure I-I got someone killed…”

You wrench your eyes shut, but the beads of liquid still force their way through. Not even in control of your own faculties. What a sorry specimen of the Arbites. Charles’s back-stroking has turned into an arm around your shoulder, pulling your quivering form into her torso. You can imagine how irritated she must be, wasting these precious moments of liberty trying to console you like a weeping pup. Whatever reason she had brought you here, you are certain you have ruined it. Even a platonic venture would be soured by an emotional outburst like this. You hear her sigh breathily.

> “Janus… we are but imperfect instruments of the Emperor. Even when enforcing His perfect law, we cannot help our follies. To let such a fact of life inhibit your determination, that’s not just heretical- it's a tragedy.”

You blink back tears and look up at her from between her arms and her chest. She is looking down at you with a feint smile. You aren’t sure if it’s pity, or sorrow, or a mixture of the two that you see in her eyes.

> “We cannot help our errors, Emperor forgive us, not even the ones that hurt decent people. But to FACE those errors, to fully realize their magnitude and accept responsibility… that isn’t the mark of weakness, but COURAGE.”

She puts her fingers on your head, gently stroking your tangled hair.

> “And to keep on with your duty, to set out every day with the possibility that you may yet make more mistakes, you may hurt more people, but knowing that exacting the Emperor’s will is worth all that risk and more: That’s STRENGTH. That is the excellence of our cause. You will make a fine Arbitrator one day, Janus. You are already a fantastic Trooper, and I’m so grateful to the Emperor that you are with us.”

You can’t hold it back anymore. All of the shame and guilt and anxiety weighing down your gut suddenly bubbles up through your throat into an ugly yelp, followed by heavy sobbing. You bury your face back into Charles, who holds you even tighter.

It might be twenty minutes later, or it could have just been two. All you know is that you’ve continued crying, and Charles has decided that she’s had enough of consoling you on the edge of the bed.

Standing up, she doesn’t let go of her hold on you, and so you are lifted from the mattress. Instead of getting a better hold on you, or setting you down, she just falls backwards onto the bed, the mattress cushioning her weight and yours. Holding you close, she continues stroking your hair as your sobbing turns to weeping, turns to sniffling, turns to peace…

You open your eyes. The unsaturated green metal ceiling of the Officer’s quarters greets you, the still-on light hanging just out of the corner of your eye, making you wince. Sitting up, you yawn and stretch your back, a new group of sore muscles letting you know which areas of your body you exerted the day prior. Cracking your neck, you find yourself feeling rested and rejuvenated, an uncommon feeling that you associate with waking up on Sanguinala.

> “He’s awake! Rise and shine, trooper!”

All the events of yesterday suddenly come crashing back into your memory. Charles walks out of the bathroom, a clump of dermal foam still hanging on the edge of her mouth. You nearly jump out of bed, but instead grab the blanket to cover yourself. A pointless effort, you realize, once you see that you are still dressed in your bodyglove fatigues.

“Charles- Fiona! I- Are we back over Icarus?”

> “We’re out of the Warp, but we’re still travelling from the Mandeville Point. Probably another half-hour.”

You yawn again, cracking your neck before standing up.

“I suppose we’re all going to reconvene before then?”

> “You got it. Same hangar. Supposed to be on our way down there soon, but you might have some time to shower.”

“Not if I have to put my armor on by myself.”

Charles laughs. You smile. Without wasting another moment, you start to get back into your boots, lacing them up and then picking up the pieces of your carapace armor. With Charles’s help, it takes only five minutes. As she tightens the last strap on your back, she leans down and sniffs the back of your head before you put your helmet on.

> “Make sure you DO shower before the next time we share a bed, got it?”

“Uh- yeah. Got it.”

You both exit the quarters and make your way down the corridor to the elevator.

Arriving at the hangar, you see Redmore and the rest of the unit gathered next to a Valkyrie. As you get closer, you can see it’s the same Valkyrie that lifted you from Icarus and shuttled you down to Harvestfall. There’s even the same pilot, leaning against the craft with a lho-stick burning in his mouth.

Redmore says,
> “Charles, Caskett. Right on time. We’ll be in Icarian orbit soon, and I don’t want to waste a second in getting back down there.”

Groves and Flayer give you a look. You return it with a steely gaze. Groves folds. Flayer grins.

Redmore continues,
> “A lot’s happened in our brief sabbatical from the Hive. Having just reached vox range of Icarus, I’ve re-established communications with the Arbites Hall of Justice, and it doesn’t look too good for them. Even the Inquisition’s presence is finding itself spread thin, which is bad news for the whole planet, but good news for us. A little bit more bad news, and I’m sure you’re all sick of it by now, but due to the disparate locations of certain emergencies, this unit will have to split into two, just for the time being.”

Charles and Grist groan. Cobbler’s silent, but he crosses his arms.

> “Yeah, yeah, I know. Our wonderful hostess, Inquisitor Weiss, has been asked by the Icarian Planetary Governor to follow up on our wayward killer by investigating the Orbital Spire, with which the perpetrator’s absconding voidship is currently docked. Weiss, in her opinion, has better ways to spend her time than chasing a Governor’s assassin, so she has graciously asked us to step in on her behalf.”

Flayer exclaims,
> “That’s perfect! What choice is there, we should ALL be going to the Orbital Spire!”

Redmore sighs,
> “I couldn’t agree more, Trooper. Unfortunately, it seems that while we were gone, a riot broke out in the Hall of Justice’s Penal Transfer Levels. Besides the first two low-security floors, every level beneath has failed containment, all the way down to the underhive.”

Groves gasps,
> “There’s a PRISON in the Hall of Justice?”

Redmore replies,
> “There’s a whole lot of everything in the Hall of Justice. The whole building stretches from the ground level of the planet all the way up to the upper hive. Every floor beneath level 3 is the Penal Transfer section, where criminals awaiting transfer to a Penal World are kept locked up. Apparently, they’d all prefer to stay put on Icarus.”

You remember you couldn’t see the top of the Hall of Justice when you arrived there, and even though the smog was so thick there were only 3 stories above you that were visible, it’s still a little surprising to hear that the structure is that tall.

> “Me and Grist will be heading the Orbital Spire assignment. No offense to you, Charles, but Grist was a little aggravated that he didn’t get to head the investigation on Harvestfall.”

Charles shrugs,
> “Should’ve been him in the first place!”

> “That leaves you and Cobbler to help with quelling the riot. Crowd control and enforcement are your specialties, so you’ll both be welcome help down there. Or you can just get drunk in the Cantina, but I better not hear about it.”

Cobbler and Charles nod at each other.

> “Now, the part where we all get a little creative freedom is how we split up the neophytes. I think two to each team is a fair split, so even though the prison doesn’t sound like fun-“

Ulbryn interrupts,
> “I want the prison!”

Redmore sighs,
> “Even though the prison riot doesn’t sound like fun, ONE of you will have to suck it up.”

All eyes are on you. What the hell? You didn’t even say anything!

Orbital Spire: The hunt continues! The Breadth of Charity is docked in Icarus’s Orbital Spire, perhaps with the murderer still on board! Join Redmore and Grist as you close in!

Prison Riot: Beneath the Hall of Justice, a prison riot brews! Join Charles and Cobbler- and the rest of the Arbites- in containing it before it bubbles up into the respectable levels of the Hall!

>>5434169
>Orbital Spire
I'd rather finish this, although a Riot sounds like great fun

>>5434169
"Greetings, fellow Arbites, how goes the investi...BY THE EMPEROR !"
That was...something, to read.


And, uh,
>Orbital Spire
I guess? Janus will want to see this through, and while riot busting would give us plenty pf opportunities to stress test the new maul, he may not yet be ready for this kind of melee. And despite the Schola training, I don't see a 15 year old fighting off a grapple by a hardened career criminal.

>>5434169
>Orbital Spire
We already experienced doing crowd control and it was nerveracking.

>>5434169
>Orbital Spire

>>5433327
>>5433575

Goddamit turn our boy into a man not a wimp.
>>5434169

>Prison Riot
Crack some skulls, also were did thoses goons we copped go?

“If it’s all the same to everyone, I’d like to go with Red-“

Groves interjects,
> “I want the Spire, sir!”

Flayer looks at Groves and then you, and then stammers,
> “Wait, I- I should go to the Spire, I’ve been the one keeping up with all of the leads!”

Groves shoves Flayer.
> “You?! Who knew about the voidship manifest?!

Cobbler grabs Groves. Flayer takes this as an opportunity to retaliate, but as he winds his fist back Grist grabs his arm.

Redmore groans,
> “Not on the Emperor-damned Inquisitor’s ship. Control yourselves!”

You bite your tongue and look at Redmore. He doesn’t look angry, though he’s looking at Cobbler and Flayer. You hope he heard you speak up when you did.

Then, Charles says,
> “Flayer, don’t you want to watch my back?”

Charles is smiling at Flayer. He looks at her and then looks a little ashamed, relaxing his arm.

He says,
> “Right. Uh, I’ll go with the riot, then.”

You feel a surge of envy. You feel like if you looked at Charles, she’d see it in your eyes, so you just look at the Valkyrie.

Redmore claps his hands together.

> “Right, well now that’s settled! Caskett, Groves, you’re on the Spire team! This Valkyrie will take the Riot team back to the HOJ. Me and the Spire team will be catching a ride on Weiss’s Aquila on her way to the Upper Hive. Should be in Orbit any minute.”

You look out of the hangar, past the void shield. You can’t see anything except for open space, but you wouldn’t see Icarus looking out of the side of the ship anyway.

> “Charles, before we go, why don’t you refresh me and Grist on the particulars of the case?”

Redmore pulls Charles and Grist aside, leaving Cobbler with the four of you. Flayer has a dissatisfied look on his face while Ulbryn is grinning ear to ear. You recall that Flayer was upset at Ulbryn for something down on Harvestfall, but he’s probably just burned at missing out on following up the case. You can’t bring yourself to feel sorry for him for petty reasons.

> “I can’t WAIT! I wanted to use this thing the whole time on that backwater planet but never got the chance!”

Ulbryn bellows excitedly as he swings his maul at the air, practicing one-handed drills.

Flayer groans,
> “Cobbler, sir. We won’t be injuring any prisoners beyond what’s necessary, right?”

Cobbler shrugs,
> “That’s not the plan, though it might be necessary to injure them permanently, if they’re as rowdy as Redmore’s saying. If we go low enough, you’ll be trading your mace for your autopistol, got it?”

Ulbryn laughs,
> “These can be lethal too, you know! The highest setting is outrageous!”

Ulbryn turns the notch on his maul to the highest setting. You can hear the crackling of the electricity ripping across it’s metallic surface. The sound reminds you of something and you approach Cobbler.

> “Sir, remember those criminals we captured on our first day?”

> “I do.”

> “Well, are they still being held in the prison? Are they in danger?”

Cobbler scoffs,
> “Only danger that matters down there is for your fellow Arbites, Caskett. Though… That woman and the man you shot, they’re likely held on the still-secure low-security levels. That piece of filth we wrangled in the ‘Hab proper is definitely in the high-sec levels, though. Unless he was being interrogated when the riot broke out, he’s either leading the charge with other reprobates or already dead. Hope it’s the former, I want to kill him myself.”

“If he’s dead and they haven’t interrogated him yet, we might’ve lost a lead…”

Cobbler shrugs again.
> “Happens a lot. Can’t win them all. You seem more interested in your current project anyway.”

“I really meant to follow up on it after we finished training, but-“

> “I didn’t mean anything by it, Trooper. Those vermin were peddling forged rations, the Governor of the agri-world in the sector got murdered. Same issue when you think about it, you’re just a couple rungs higher on the ladder.”

You nod. Redmore, Grist and Charles return.

> “All right, load up. If we need anything from the Riot team, we’ll hail the HOJ. If you need anything from us, hail the Orbital Spire Customs Office, that’s mostly staffed by Arbitrators anyway.”

Redmore and Grist walk across the hangar towards the Aquila, you and Groves in tow. The Valkyrie with its pilot present disembarks as soon as possible and you watch it fly out of the hangar and bank left towards the unseen Hive world. After a minute or so, you see Weiss’s pilot hobble over to the craft, opening the cabin without a word. Redmore takes this as an invitation to wait for Weiss in one of the luxurious leather chairs, which you and Grist and Groves piggyback on happily. Sitting down in a chair, you take your helmet off and hold it in your lap. Groves and Grist do the same, with Redmore keeping his on.

Looking through the cabin window, your view of the hangar access is at an awkward angle, but you can just make out Weiss’s familiar shape as she enters the hangar, walking towards the craft.

“Weiss is coming.”

> “About time!”
Groves says, leaning back in his seat.

After a moment, the iconic clacking of Weiss’s heeled boots is audible, and the craft leans slightly as she mounts the steps, climbing in.

> “Good, you’re already here. I am needed at once in the Icarian Governor’s estate and was hoping that stopping at the Orbital Spire on the way down would be our only delay.”

> “We aim to please, Inquisitor.”
Redmore says, staying seated.

> “Your aim is true, Inspector. Pilot, start her up.”

> “We’re leaving already? I understood your apprentice was to ride with us.”

> “He will be taking his personal craft instead. New developments have engineered a detour even worse than dropping you off at the Spire, but addressing such roadblocks by proxy is one of the benefits of having an acolyte. Not dissimilar to arranging half of your unit to respond to the riot, hmm?”

Redmore nods, nudging Grist beside him.
> “Subordinates do come in handy now and again, yes.”

The cabin door closes and you can feel the craft lift off of the hangar floor. As Weiss sits down in her co-pilot chair, you can see the blanket of space turn through the viewscreen, Icarus rolling into view. It feels like it’s been a long while since you’ve been there, but you remember with some angst it’s been less than 24 hours.

Rather than dipping the nose of the craft down towards the dull gray sprawl of rockcrete and adamantium below, the Aquila turns towards the monolith of the same material jutting out past the atmosphere, straight into a cluster of voidships that cling to it along its further length. Even knowing the impressive diameter required to dock multiple voidships and process their leviathan cargos, at this distance it looks nothing more than a thin grey needle that would absolutely be invisible to you if not for the local star shining right on it.

The illusion of its miniscule width slowly but surely is undone the closer your craft jets towards it. As Weiss’s pilot opens vox communications with an unseen party inside, he rolls the ship sideways and takes you into the structure’s shadow, which you can see stretching across the diameter of the Hive City and even further beyond, the shadow piercing into the barren landscape of Icarus.

Even closer, the seemingly-smooth monolith acquires fidelity, little holes and extremities, lights blinking on and around each. One of those holes is the Aquila’s destination, and the pilot gently maneuvers inside it, the craft swallowed up.

Weiss turns around in her seat, leaning forward.

> “Here we are. As happy as I am to drop you all off here, you’ll understand that my work prevents me from picking you up. Transport back to the hive will be your own responsibility, but I doubt you will be wanting for passage in a place like this.”

The craft touches down. All Arbites stand. Redmore nods gratefully at Weiss.

> “Your assistance was as appreciated as it was needed, Inquisitor. Somehow, we will find a way to pay the great debt we owe you.”

Weiss nods. Pressing a button on the dashboard, the cabin door opens, and you all disembark to yet another hangar. Unlike every other hangar you’ve been in, this one is much smaller, and completely devoid of life, save for present company.

As you all walk towards the small door at the back of the hangar, Redmore starts talking.
> “We ought head to the Port Authority to get pertinent information on the Breadth of Charity. Depending on the type of vessel and purpose of voyage, it could be on a deck miles above us or beneath us. The information the Navy provided us was not very exhaustive.”

Groves offers,
> “Actually sir, the ship was said to be a Carrack-class voidship, so it’s likely to be on a standard cargo-transfer deck if it was hauling food, or a deck near customs if not.”

Redmore nods.
> “We’ll know for sure soon enough. Then again, Customs would likely have a record of all persons that disembarked to head down to the planet. Instead of all of us going back and forth between the two, let’s gather the information simultaneously and reconvene on the deck where the Breadth of Charity is docked.”

Grist says,
> “What deck is that, sir?”

Redmore replies,
> “I don’t know, but if you can’t figure it out from either Customs or the Port Authority, then this venture was a waste of time.”

You exit the Hangar and come to a rounded hallway that likely forms a complete ring inside the Spire. A servitor down the hallway stands idly, but other than that, it’s just as vacant in here as in the hangar. Fortunately, there are plenty of elevators on the inner wall of the circle.

> “Grist, you take customs. I’ll take the Port Authority. Troopers, pick your poison.”

> Go to the Port Authority with Redmore.
> Go to Customs with Grist.

>>5440592
> Go to Customs with Grist.
How's 40k and anti smuggling operations?

>>5440592
>> Go to Customs with Grist.
Having a list will give us something to mull over while we go down or up to the right deck, at least. Can't remember if we ever operated with Grist before. The small riot on Janus's first day with the alleyway and the girl was with Redmore, I think?
Also, welcome back QM!

You figure that information on the passengers of the voidship is more important than information on the voidship itself.

“I’ll go with Grist to customs.”

Grist nods. Groves seems pleased with your choice since he doesn’t open his mouth. Grist pushes the button on one of the elevators and after a short time the doors open. There doesn’t seem to be a control panel on the inside, so Grist says “Customs,” and a bell rings over the vox-speakers in the ceiling. You feel heavier as the elevator shoots upwards. Before long, the doors open to a crowded and lively observation deck, arched windows lining the outer wall and giving you a glimpse of all the voidships lingering around the spire, some connected to the structure and others waiting nearby. A large queue seems to wrap around the circular corridor, all leading up to a kiosk with the now-familiar Arbites emblem, as well as a shield-shaped crest with wings and an arrow pointed down. Servitors, cyber-mastiffs, and of course, Arbitrators are seen patrolling around them. Grist exits the elevator with a purpose in his stride, and you do your best to match it, following him as he skips the long queue of Imperial Citizenry and Naval officers straight to the kiosk access.

The kiosk stands out from the inner wall, a break from the row of elevators in the back serving as a repository for cabinets and drawers, undoubtedly stuffed full of records. The Arbitrators staffed here seem less physically fit, reminding you of the Administratum adepts that manned the food queues from yesterday.

An elderly Arbitrator who seems to have traded her helm for a beret walks away from her post to greet you, leaving an angry-looking merchant on the other side of the counter, waiting to be served.

> “Salutations, Arbitrators. Are you here to relieve Canid Team HN-37?”

> “No such luck, ma’am. Me and this Trooper here are following up on an investigation from Harvestfall.”

The woman shakes her head.

> “Ahh, poor fools have been working around the clock since that riot broke out planetside. Oh, well. How can I help you, Arbitrator…?”

> “Grist. Trooper here’s Caskett. We have reason to believe an assassin passed through customs here. Perp travelled on a ship called The Breadth of Charity.”

The woman hems and walks into the back room. Grist follows her, and you follow grist.

> “Arbitrator Yellen, charmed. I processed quite a few crewmates from that ship a couple hours ago. Forgive me for the inexact timing, but I’ve been awake for nineteen hours or fourteen or twenty.”

Yellen grips one of the handles on the file cabinet. Pulling it out, the entire front of the cabinet slides out, each drawer apparently connected. Instead of files, a limbless servitor pops up from the top, a large box with a slot in it where its entrails used to be.

Yellen smiles,
> “We had to process everything manually until about 10 years ago, when the Mechanicus upgraded our data system, Emperor bless them.”

Standing on her toes, Yellen addresses the servitor.

> “Arrival manifest, please. Breadth of Charity.”

The servitor spasms for a moment as a mechanical quill unfolds from its chest cavity. Mechanical whirring emanates from its bowels as a length of parchment begins rolling out of its slot, the quill beginning to fill in the parchment with breakneck efficiency. Despite the miniscule size of the print, the sheet is nearly black with lettering, and rather than making page breaks, the sheet continuously rolls out of the slot. You and Grist look at each other worriedly as the top of the scroll touches the floor, and then piles on top of itself with no end in sight.

> “Uh. Maybe our parameters were a little too broad.”

> “Nonsense, dear. There actually wasn’t very many incoming crew from the ship.”

Finally, the whirring stops, and from the servitor’s groin, a large rod deposits horizontally underneath the slot. It begins rolling backwards, catching the parchment and pulling it back up off the floor until the whole document is wrapped tight around it. The servitor’s head jerks and tilts downwards, its lips parting just enough to drip hot wax on the end of the parchment, sealing it. With some kind of low-pitched groan, it lays its head back, returning to its idle state.

Yellen picks up the scroll and presses her ring into it, impressing the same shield crest you saw over the kiosk into the wax.

> “That’ll be the crew’s names, roles, and time and date of entry. I’m sure your quarry is in there somewhere!”

She hands the scroll to Grist, who hands it to you. The parchment is quite thin, but the scroll is about as thick as the leather grip on your power maul.

> “Anything else I can help you with?”

> “Are there any cogitators we can use to look at this?”

> “Well… We’ve only got the one for this department, but there might be some on the Administratum’s level. I’m sure if you explained your purpose they would be happy to lend you one.”

“Did you happen to remember where the Charity was docked? Uh- Ma’am?”

> “LXIV in the Standard Cargo Transfer section, dearie. With food deliveries they process them and send them on their way as fast as possible, but lucky you they’re waiting on a weapons shipment for the battle on Harvestfall!”

> “Thank you for your help, Arbitrator.”

> “Any time! Stay safe, and remember the Emperor protects!”

You leave the kiosk with Grist, walking back beside the queue on the way to the elevators.

> “Well… I’m not sure how helpful this scroll will be, even if the killer’s name is certainly on it.”

“It does seem like a lot, but it’ll probably come in handy later, when we have more information.”

> “Think we should head up to Standard Cargo, or look for a cogitator to get an idea of what’s on that scroll?”

> Go to Standard Cargo, reconvene with Redmore and Groves.
> Go to the Administratum office, ask to use a cogitator.

>>5440727
Couldn't find anything in the lore about it, but fortunately modern ports of entry are sufficiently grimdark for inspiration!

>>5440731
He was with Cobbler! Redmore and Grist have so far evaded babysitting Janus, so I'm glad we ended up going with them here!"

Also, thank you! I realize updates have been inconsistent lately, had a funeral last weekend so there's my excuse.

>>5441602
> Go to the Administratum office, ask to use a cogitator.
Oh boy

>>5441602
>Go to the Administratum office, ask to use a cogitator.

>>5441602
Okay, had some time to think about this, basically we need to run a search on the scroll for anyone that matches the description of the dead girl or is using a fake identity

You look down at the scroll you’re carrying.

“Let’s take a look at this. Redmore’s probably expecting more than just handing him a scroll.”

Grist nods. Stepping back into the lift, he says,
> “Administratum,”
And the doors close. You feel the cabin shoot up, a little extra weight applied to your legs as the elevator hums up through the long shaft. When the doors open, the room is no less crowded than the Customs level, but eerily, it’s much more quiet. The only hushed voices you hear are easily drowned out by the beeping and whirring of mechanical cogitators.

Stepping out of the elevator, instead of a queue filled with all walks of Imperial life waiting impatiently to be processed, you see the room is divided with tiny brick walls, no larger than five feet high, each shaped like a square prism housing its own Administratum adept. Each are connected, forming a matrix that curves around the inner wall. You gasp lightly as you look up and see that the ceiling is a glass dome, Icarus’s moon peeking through along with the rest of space. So the Administratum office is at the top of the spire.

Grist wastes no time and walks to find a reception desk. It’s easy enough, there’s only one desk attached to the inner wall. You decide to let him handle the talking, continuing to stare up through the ceiling at the cosmos. You’ve seen this view plenty of times before, but never standing in a structure founded on solid ground. There are probably thousands of orbital spires all across the Imperium, many multiples of them on just one forge world or hive world. You imagine all the years and all the people that had to work together to build just this one of thousands. Unlike the uncanny feeling you had in the Strike Cruiser, this unimaginable scale invigorates you with a pride in your humanity. Next to the Emperor, the minds of your brothers and sisters are weak, their bodies frail, their lives short. Nevertheless, with enough time and faith, even they can complete monumental feats worthy of His excellence.

Grist approaches you, an Adept at his side.

> “Good news, Trooper, plenty of idle cogitators that Adept Crum says we can use.”

> “Right this way, Arbitrators.”

The adept walks you to an empty prism, where sitting upon a desk next to a half-spent candle and some quills and parchment is a cogitator that seems to be built into the wall.

Crum holds his hand out to you.
> “May I?”

You give him the scroll. He presses a button on the console and the screen lights up. He keys in a long command and executes it before you can read all of it, and you hear the machine humming as a two-pronged mechanical limb unfolds from the back. The adept places the knob on the end of the scroll into the prongs, which clutch around them and pull the scroll into some compartment behind the screen, which shortly begins scrolling blocks and blocks of yellow text downwards.
On the middle of the console, stuck between the Gothic characters, is an orbuculum with a screen of its own. Rather than read it, the Adept puts his hand on it and rolls it upwards, which stops the screen from rolling down the text, and sends it escalating up, until you can see much bigger lettering at the top.

BREADTH OF CHARITY ARRIVALS ROSTER
ARTISAN LAMBDA ALEPH ORBITAL SPIRE

> “There you go. You can manipulate this orb to scroll up or down the list. If you’re looking for something specific, press the Directive type in tandem with the “F” type. That will open up a prompt where you can type what you’re looking for, such as a name or a time.”

> “Thank you, Adept.”

> “If you need any assistance, I’ll be back at my post. Upon closing the parse instance, the cogitator will return the scroll, still sealed! Quite clever, these tech-priests, no?”

Crum leaves you and Grist alone in the prism. You take the orb on the console and begin going down. While the text on screen is far more legible than the tiny print on the parchment, the sheer number of entries presents its own obstacle. What’s more, true to the Customs Arbitrators word, the only information provided for the innumerable arriving personnel is really their names, role on the ship, and the time of their arrival.

You hear Grist click his tongue beside you.

> “Well, I didn’t expect it to jump out at us, but…”

“We don’t have much to go on, no.”

> Give up, go reconvene with Redmore and Groves.
> Not so fast! There MUST be a way to isolate the killer with the provided information!

>>5444109
>Not so fast! There MUST be a way to isolate the killer with the provided information!

>>5444109
>> Not so fast! There MUST be a way to isolate the killer with the provided information!
Hmm. Not sure what the arrival time could bring us unfortunately. Not like we have a name either. There may be one trick, though. Check for weird role postings, and check for shuttle pilots, specifically for the class and variant we identified. Our assassin probably wasn't alone in the transport. If they were, then this will be quicker. If not, track down the pilot, because they for sure are in on it. Then it's only a matter of obtaining information.
Also:
>Directive type in tandem with the “F” type
>control+F
Well played, QM.

>>5444145
Ditto

File: arrivals.png (30 KB, 323x274)

30 KB PNG

“Although… We might still be able to narrow it down!”

You scroll through the list, keeping your eye on the “Role” column. Lots of Officers, plenty of Enginseers, a tiny clump of Bridge Staff, but nothing stands out yet.

> “How? We don’t even have the guy’s name. Maybe Inspector Redmore and Groves will have something that we can cross-reference.”

“If the ship is shuttling grain and guns between here and Harvestfall, then each member of crew probably has a function to aid in that task.”

> “Uh-huh…”

“So unless the Breadth has an unusually relaxed standard with liberty, I doubt there’d be enough free time for, say, Rosh Penin the Cargo Overseer to jump on an Arvus and be gone for six hours.”

> “Throne, you might be right! See if there’s any non-crew passengers on that list!”

You push Direct+F and type in ‘PASSENGER.’ No results. ‘TRANSIENT’ and ‘N/A’ also bring back nothing.

> “… Try “Guest?”

“Maybe we should ask the adept if there’s a Directive to exclude data.”

> “Good idea.”
Grist exits the prism. You find a group of Cargo Transfer Crew and remember that the Breadth used Halo Barges to haul cargo.

Grist returns momentarily.
> “It’s Direct+J.”

You push the types and a new prompt comes up. Typing in “Officer” causes the screen to freeze for a moment before returning with a marginally smaller document, completely devoid of entries with the “officer” role.

You repeat the process with “Captain,” “Enginseer,” “Astropath,” “Armsman,” and “Cargo.” The list incrementally reduces, until you’re left with 250 or so entries.

> “Well, it’s still a lot, but we’re a lot closer!”

Grist leans in towards the screen, patting your shoulder. The remaining roles seem to just be occupations you didn’t think of. “Ordinance Technician,” “Etherical Tech-Priest,” “Steward.” You quickly exclude those entries as well, until only a handful remain on screen.

Grist and you exchange looks.

> It can only be the…

>>5444339
Salome Jupiter.
The only non arbitrator female on the ship. Otherwise we may have to start looking inhouse.

>>5444339
Hmm, the two chiefs are out, too high profile. Same for the Congregator, the wiki has them as a high-profile tech-priest, doesn't fit. I suppose we're excluding the arbitrators. I have no clue about the Infernus peeps.
Leaves Auspex, Security and Confessor.

So an Auspex is mostly a scanner, so someone on the bridge who takes care of that? Not sure they could just up and leave. The guy from security probably wouldn't fit into the girl's uniform.
But the confessor... I'll admit I have a feeling the Ecclesiarchy has a hand in all of this, ever since we found those letters in the safe. It'd be easy to switch a confessor and for them to justify business, especially with papers from a high-ranked figure from Icarus. You don't question a priest, but a security officer or scanner handler would raise eyebrows. It's a shame we don't have more info, like if any are recent hires.

I'm going to stick to these three and see if Redmore and Groves have something.

Grist looks at the 11 names.

> “Well, we can eliminate all bridge staff and heads.”

“I didn’t know there were Arbitrators on the ship. You don’t think…?”

> “Actually, that’s pretty standard. When Arbitrators travel, they usually do so as passengers on whatever ship happens to be flying to their destination. Arbitrators assigned to voidships is also common, particularly with mercantile vessels. We can still keep their names, might be useful to talk to them, see if they saw anything awry."

You nod, a little relieved that Grist declined to make fun of you for implicating another squad of Arbitrators.

"Then that just leaves... Salome Jupiter, Gerard Tiber, and Cesar Watanabe. Auspex, Security, and Confessor."

> "How about that? We went from a hundred-thousand down to just three. Redmore oughtn't complain now. Let's get down to the docking bay and see if he's waiting for us."

You close the instance on the cogitator screen and the machine whirs as its metal limb returns the scroll to you, unsealed. For a moment, you consider jotting down the new names before realizing that Grist's memory training must far exceed yours. Taking the scroll, you both exit the prism and return to the elevators next to the reception desk. Upon asking the adept where the Breadth of Charity is docked, Grist commands the elevator to take you to level I-98. You feel comparatively lighter as the cabin shoots down the spire, travelling for mere moments before weight returns to your legs and the doors open.

Rather than an enclosed hallway, the doors open to a large circular hangar that far exceeds even the service hangar that you entered the spire in. The ceiling is several hundred feet above your head, and rather than a perfect circular inner wall, there's a large bulge in the structure to the right of where you exited that seems to cut off halfway up to the ceiling. Along that wall, larger freight elevators stand idle, crates and personnel sitting inside, waiting for transport to the planet below.

Outside the mouth of the hangar, rather than open space, you see a sprawl of cathedral architecture along with signal lights and a modest compliment of light guns. It's the Breadth of Charity, its own gigantic cargo transfer port attached to the Spire, like the maw of a leviathan mechanical beast embracing the mouth of an even larger behemoth. You do see stars and black in little lines around the edge of the opening of the hangar, but you also see people freely walking between spire and voidship, the void-shields of both obviously comfortably overlapping.

There's plenty of people around, but you're used to the pandemonium of stellar structures by now. You scan the familiar crowd of tech-priests, armsmen, and cargo personnel for the iconic shape of the Arbites helms. Grist pulls you from your gazing, to your embarassment, to a few feet to the left of the elevator, where Redmore and Cobbler are waiting next to a vox module.

> "Grist. Caskett. Tell me you had better luck than us."

> "Can't say for sure, sir. I can report that thanks to me, Caskett, and a helpful fellow Arbitrator and Administratum Adept, we've got three Persons of Interest out of the Arrivals Manifest."

You see Redmore's mouth curl into a beaming grin. Unlike his usual smirk, it makes you feel proud and helpful rather than the pending victim of a joke.

Groves nods as well.
> "Thank the Emperor! All we've determined visiting the Port Authority was that the Breadth has been bouncing between Icarus and Harvestfall ad nauseam since the start of the conflict!"

> "Go ahead then, Arbitrator. Who are the lucky three?"

Grist opens his mouth, but then jabs you with his elbow.

"Against countless names, the three that stood out to us were Salome Jupiter, Auspex. Gerard Tiber, Security, and Cesar Watanabe, Confessor."

Redmore nods, saying,
> "A scanner-jockey. Plenty of those in supply on any ship. "Security?" Vestigial at best, next to a compliment of armsmen, Inquisition, and Arbitrators. And finally a Confessor. Hmmm. Strange pick."

Redmore frowns a moment and brings his fingers to his chin, pinching it. You expect to hear why these three are terrible leads, but instead, he smiles.

> "I think I follow your thinking. If each of those people registered with customs, then they most certainly used the transit station at the base of the spire to return to the hive. Each will have their own trail of breadcrumbs for us to devour!"

> "The only problem, sir, is-"

> "Yes, Grist, I know. An excellent training opportunity if our unit was at full strength, but as it is now, a terrible inconvenience. Obviously, the case takes precedent over unit cohesion and training."

Redmore and Grist look between you and Groves. You feel an uneasy twinge, knowing what they are about to say before they even open their mouths.

> "Three leads and four Arbites. It isn't ideal, but given you Trooper's lack of experience, it's better to pair you together and send you after one of them, while me and Groves take the other two."

You and Groves exchange equally dissatisfied glances. Trepidation at the prospect of working together may be the one thing you two agree on for the entire venture.

> "Well... What do you think, sir? Who's the least dangerous option to send our newbies after?"

Grist's comment adds insult to injury. Why should danger be a factor in your assignment now? It certainly wasn't a factor during your training at Schola!

> Volunteer to chase Jupiter.
> Volunteer to chase Tiber.
> Volunteer to chase Watanabe.
> Ask Groves who you two should chase.

>>5449873
> Volunteer to chase Tiber.
We're looking for a shooter after all, although I would have figured they'd have a female name

>>5449924
+1

"We can go after Tiber."

Redmore, Grist and Groves look at you. Groves quickly says,
> "B-But Watanabe's probably the safest option! He's a Confessor, probably hasn't even seen combat!"

You shoot a look back at Groves. You can see Redmore mulling it over in his head. Before he can reach a final decision, you know you have to sway him, so you say,
"I don't think we should physically intimidate a member of the Ecclesiarchy, just being troopers."

Redmore continues ruminating. When he concludes, he nods at you.

> "Ecclesiarchy's a little too delicate for you Troopers yet. Grist, go after the Auspex. I've got a soft touch, I'll track down the Confessor. You boys, fetch me Tiber."

Groves bites his tongue. You nod gratefully.

> "The transit network ought to have Tiber's destination. From there, you'll have to be keen to sniff him out. When you get him, bring him back to the Hall of Justice. The transit has a couple stops in the same district. Try and get off on a level above three, eh?"

> "But sir, I really think that-"

> "Dismissed, Troopers. Grist, before you go, I want to show you these cargo containers bound for a 'Fab..."

Redmore and Grist walk towards a loading deck, leaving you and a visibly chuffed Groves behind. When they're out of earshot, Groves shoves you.

> "You idiot! Watanabe's clearly the perpetrator! We could've gotten him ourselves and got the credit!"

You give Groves a recipricating nudge, shaking your head.

"We're looking for a shooter, shit-for-brains! How many Ecclesiarchal adepts do you know that can shoot a gun?"

> "Drill Abbot Hastings could! He ought to have shot you for being such frakhead!"

You shrug.

"Shouldn't be concerned with credit anyways. If Watanabe really is the killer, then you should be glad the most experienced Arbites is going after him."

> "Sure, Caskett. That's why you were so insistent on the Security man, 'cause you think he's unimportant."

You shake your head and walk towards the elevator. Groves follows along.

> "So what is it with Tiber? What about him in particular has so piqued Judge Janus's forensic wits?"

"For one, next to the armsmen and arbitrators on board, his role as 'security' seems a little vague! Redmore was right, there's little need for 'security' on a ship full of naval troopers!"

> "Maybe he's security aboard the grain haulers!"

"Then why was he the only one? Why weren't there six or seven other to fill the other ships? Hell, why not a couple dozen so that there's more than one security official per Halo barge??"

> "You're just speculating! We're gonna follow this guy all the way to his hab block and find out he was sitting in a chair staring at a bunch of monitors the whole voyage!"

You both step into the elevator. The doors close after you say,
"Transit. I don't know why you're so sold on Watanabe."

> "Hello?! That letter threatening the murder victim was from an ECCLESIARCHAL official!"

"Just be glad we're not going after the auspex. That's who he was gonna stick us with if I hadn't spoken up."

> "Oh, THANK YOU, Trooper, for selflessly roping us into a wild forkbill chase. Grist can go wrangle the hapless auspex and Redmore can go get the real killer. We had a chance to prove ourselves and you squandered it."

"Even if he's not the real killer, simply returning him to the HOJ for questioning will be proof enough that we can handle ourselves. Double marks if we can do it without battering him first."

> "I'm not ULBRYN. Odds are this guy's an overweight PDF deserter who can't even fit into the Governor's window, let alone the cockpit of an Arvus. You'll see he's not the killer the moment you lay your eyes on him."

"Now look who's speculating."

The elevator doors open. You immediately feel the heat of midday waft against you as genuine Icarian atmosphere sucks all of the sweet, recycled air out of the elevator cabin. Stepping out into an even bigger room than the Breadth's hangar, the ceiling is at least seven stories above your head, held up by massive iron pillars, intricately decorated with Mechanicus and Naval symbology etched into the metal.

The transit station has the crowd and noise levels of anywhere else in the Hive proper, the blaring of the crowd and the omnipresent, bone-vibrating hum of the massive maglev cars competing to decimate the very fabric of your eardrums. At first, the chaos of the platform makes you feel as though you'll be searching for a needle in an unprocessed carb bale, but you fall back on a tried and true method: ask an attendant at a counter. There are plenty of booths with Administratum adepts, but they all seem to be ticket stations. What's more, the queues are astronomical. You find yourself hoping that Tiber hasn't even boarded his car yet as you walk past the impatient travellers to the front of the line.

> "Hello, Arbitrator. Unless it's official business, you'll have to wait in line like everyone else."

An Adept with tired eyes looks down at you from her window, her gray hairs and wrinkled face a lot less cheerful than the other older women you've seen today.

"I am on official business, ma'am."

The adept rolls her eyes.

> "How irregular. Where are you going? I'll print your tickets quickly and return to the waiting public."

"A person of interest in a case we're investigating used this station. I need to find out where he's going, and whether he's left yet."

Closing her eyes, the administratum official exhales slowly.

> "Of course. That will take some time. I will return in fifteen minutes."

The woman presses a button on the inside of her booth, and shutters close off the opening. A cluster of groans erupts from the front of the queue, travelling back in a series of indignant expletitives that will likely cover the mile-and-a-half length of the line. All eyes are on you and Groves, who begins tugging on your pauldron.

> "Maybe we ought to come back when she's done."

You walk to a platform just as a maglev pulls out, the noise of its galvanic engines reaching a screaming pitch as it roars out of the station, speeding towards the hive city in the distance.

When the noise disappates, you hear Groves groan.

> "I bet your shock maul to my servo-skull that Tiber isn't the perp."

"You don't have a servo-skull, Groves."

> "Yeah, I do. I requested it from the armory at the Hall of Justice. I ordered it to drop off candles in my dorm, but we left so suddenly for Harvestfall I couldn't call it back."

"Maybe I'll just request one when we get back, then."

> "You could. But if you need another familiar, like a cyber-mastiff, they might not let you have both."

You click your tongue.

> "You're on."
> "Shut up, Groves."

>>5451747
>"Shut up, Groves."
No betting.

>>5451889
Ditto, want doggo

"Shut up, Groves."

> "Heh, not as confident as you thought, then."

As you wait, you see a large crowd file onto the platform opposite of you. Many of them have changed out of their functional uniforms into regular civillian clothes, the quality of which seems distributed from ragged coats and leather shoes to humble but respectable casual garb. Anything too opulent would be a strange sight in the transit station. Captains and Admirals and other high-ranking officials would likely forgo riding among the riff-raff and take an Aquila or even a Valkyrie. Without realizing why, you find it a little odd that you don't see any children or families here.

> "It's open again."

You're torn from your thoughts by Groves pointing at the ticket booth, the shutters reopened, the adept waiting patiently with a servo-skull floating beside her.

Walking back, you can feel the line of people staring daggers into the back of your helmet as you approach the counter. The administratum adept's eyes aren't any more charitable as she looks down at you and Groves. The servo-skull has a vox receiver and phone sticking out of the top and bottom of its cranium.

> "There you two are. Very clearly, please speak into the vox the name of the person you are after."

You lean forward.

"Gerard Tiber."

The single red light in the servo-skull's right eye socket blinks. After a moment, it stops and the receiver crackles.

> "GERARD TIBER. DEPARTURE 1304 HOURS. 7TH MARKET DISTRICT, LEVEL 6. ONE-WAY."

The adept begins scrawling something with her quill-augmented hand.

"So he left ten minutes ago."

Frustration tenses your body before the adept reaches over the counter to hand you two tickets. Groves takes them before you can raise your arm.

> "There. Two tickets to the 7th Market District on Level 6. Satisfied?"

You look down at the tickets in Groves's hand. On top of all the technical information about the line and time of departure, you see in giant red print, PRIORITY PASSENGER.

"Thank you, you've been a great help."

> "I'm humbled at your praise. Please move out of the way of the next passenger."

You and Groves shuffle away from the indignant queue, walking over to Platform 6a, where the Sixth line will take you to your destination in 10 minutes. A partition funnels the crowd into a single-file queue, which you quickly skip when the ticket taker sees the red text on your ticket.

A maglev train pulls into the platform, steam hissing from the hydraulic doors as they open. Before any other passengers board, the ticket taker ushers you into the rearmost car, which looks more like a furnished dining room than a passenger car. Expecting other privileged passengers to join you, the doors close preemptively, and you watch through the window as the common folk board on ostensibly less decorated cars by the dozens. Groves takes a seat on one of the furnished benches that remind you of the Inquisitor's aquila, laying back with a satisfied grin.

> "I can't deny that our lot in life comes with perks every now and again."

"They probably didn't have any other priority passengers on this line at the moment. I wouldn't get too comfortable being pampered."

> "Between this and the Inquisitor's ship, I'm pampered enough for the next decade. Did you know the officer's deck on the strike cruiser had a sauna? I literally felt all of the fatigue my muscles incurred melt away."

"Well, unless you plan on interferring with Inquisitors once you become an Arbitrator, don't get too used to it."

> "You're so BORING, Janus! I bet you only ate and slept the whole time aboard the voidship! Be honest, did you do anything else?"

"N-No."

> "See? Lighten up! I'm not saying I feel ENTITLED to this sort of treatment, but all the more reason to enjoy it when our job puts us in this position, no?"

You remain quiet, and before long you hear a low hum and feel the car move. The platform outside begins retreating back, and as the train accelerates, the dark interior of the transit station suddenly turns into the green sky of the Icarian wilds in the blink of an eye. Outside the window, the barren wastes jet past you at a breakneck speed, tiny details blurring across the window at a velocity that would outpace a bolt. Even at the incredible speed the train is going, the Orbital Spire is so massive that its frame hardly recedes the further away from it you travel.

"Throne... It's huge."

> "The spire? You bet it is. Orbital Spires are so massive, actually, that the adamantium support structure ought to collapse under its own weight."

From your point of view, the massive metal tower stretches up into the smog, its higher levels not visible to you.

"Then how...?"

> "Simple! The Spire stretches so far into space that the center of mass lies beyond the point of geosynchronous orbit. The centrifugal force of Icarus's planetary rotation is what's keeping it up, not the foundation or any part of the structure."

"That's amazing... How did they figure that out? How long did it take for us to recognize that law of the world and apply it?"

> "I'd assume the Mechanicus discovered it. I read about it in a scroll on orbital installations. Didn't you ever read about orbital structures?"

"I was more interested in conscious philosophy."

> "Ah. Part of me wishes I was raised on a Forge World, but then again all those implants scare me. That guy on the Mechanicus ship, the Rune Priest? He didn't have very many. Maybe I could've been a rune priest."

"I definitely wouldn't let you bless my shock-maul."

> "Whatever you say!"

You feel the car tilt and then your view of the Orbital Spire transitions into a view of the skyline of the hive city. Just as the Orbital Spire was impossibly massive in height, the hive city is impossibly massive in breadth, its skyline occupying the entire horizon, nearly every building you can make out ascending through the smog. A couple kilometers out from the edge of the hive, the rail begins ascending, and the maglev eventually rises several hundred feet off the ground. Just as instantaneously as it changed from station to wasteland, the view outside the window changes from wasteland to city. The speed of the train is much more apparent, and even though you can’t discern much of the dark, blurry shapes that pass by you, you finally feel like you’ve returned to Icarus.

Groves sits up in his seat.

> “I’ve got a question. When we arrive in the Market District, where on Terra do we go from there? It’s not like these tickets have passenger’s addresses on them. What are we going to do to figure out Tiber’s next move?”

“Uh…”

> “We can ask around at the station.”
> “We can go to the local Censor and see if he’s a resident of the district.”
> “We can find an Arbites kiosk or a Constabulary Precinct and see if he’s a known criminal.”

>>5454132
> “We can go to the local Censor and see if he’s a resident of the district.”
Know criminals wouldn't do this good of a job.

>>5454132
>> “We can go to the local Censor and see if he’s a resident of the district.”
>>5454159
And this is 40k, so there's no way we can get info from people, there'd be too much movement. Also, Arbites. And if he isn't a local resident, that tells us something important too, because why wouldn't he go home? Hive world Districts contain most of what one needs, though the name of this one maybe means it is an exception. He could have just gone to splurge on something with his pay from this trip or the last few. Or went to make a report to someone...

>>5454159
Ditto

“We can go to the local Censor and see if he’s a resident of the district.”

Groves frowns and thinks for a moment.

> “What if he’s not? We’d be back to square one.”

“If he’s not, then that’s another clue at least. Why would he go straight here if this wasn’t his home?”

The train hums as it pulls into another station, slowing down enough that you can make out the buildings and the faces of the crowd.

> “Maybe he’s spending his hard-earned blood money on something nice at the market.”

The doors open, and you and Groves disembark, stepping onto the platform. Behind the partition for passengers waiting to board a group of old men wait to board dressed in bright fabrics adorned with gold trinkets. They give you and Groves ghastly stares when they see you come out of the car.

The transit station for the 7th Market District is not quite as crowded as the one at the base of the Orbital Spire, but there’s still plenty of people. Unlike the Orbital Spire, or anywhere else you’ve been on Icarus for that matter, the crowd seems much more affluent than what you’re used to. Rather than fold out of your way, they get within almost two feet with you as they shuffle past, hardly giving you a second glance.
The entire platform is covered by a canopy held up by pillars of stone. When you and Groves get out from under its cover, you see something you’ve never seen before: The Icarian atmosphere. The smog is just a feint tinge of green over a dark blue sky. You even feel the sun beating down on your greatcoat, though your helm seems to be better insulated. The transit plaza lays at a convergence of several roads, each of them lined with merchant stands sitting in front of storefronts with signage advertising their wares. There’s clothing shops, taverns with music, and even an exchange shop that promises Throne-to-Obol conversions at a fair rate. All shops, save for the vacant butcheries and empty vegetable stands are being patronized by a large crowd of well-to-do citizenry. It’s almost like Almond Tree’s Market quadrant, except with less toxic air and more sunlight.

> “On to the Censor. You think he’s a part-time clerk at that hat shop?”

“Shut up, Groves. We just need to find an Administratum building.”

> “Maybe we should ask him.”

Groves points at a man sitting on a small tower in the middle of the road. He’s got a vox-caster sat beside his little chair on the top. You recognize his uniform as the same as the constables that were in Almond Tree. He looks lethargic, and as you approach, he sits up straight in his chair when he spots you.

> “A-Afternoon, Arbitrators!”

“Hello, Constable. We’re looking for the Censor for this District. Could you point us in his direction?”

> “Oh. Of course.”

He stands up in his chair and points behind you, at a structure that towers over the commercial buildings. It seems to be attached to the transit station.

“Thank you.”

> “Uh-huh.”

The constable slumps back down into his chair when you two turn around, walking back towards the Transit plaza. As you get closer, you see banners with the crest of Icarus hanging on either side of the many doors. When you see a door being entered and exited by people in Administratum robes, you decide to go in through that one. The interior reminds you of the giant cathedral where they administered rations, the marble floor and ornate interior decorations. Unlike an idling mass of Arbitrators, though, each Adept here is walking with a determined pace, only stopping to place papers into one of several file organizers hanging on the walls. A few feet above their heads, servo-skulls float with equal purpose, shuffling in and out of small holes in the ceiling and upper walls that seem to be designed for their exclusive use. You can’t decide which of the two seems more mechanical.

Like every Administratum building so far, this one also has a reception window, and you and Groves approach it. Another old woman looks up from her desk at you with disinterest equivalent to the Transit adept.

> “Good afternoon, Arbitrators. How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for the Market District Censor.”

> “I’m afraid he isn’t taking visitors.”

> “We’ve had a meeting scheduled with him for two months.”

You look at Groves. He has a cocky grin on his face. Then you look at the receptionist. The receptionist does not look so happy.

> “What time was the meeting scheduled for?”

> “Twenty minutes ago, I’d reckon.”

> “I was not made aware of any meeting.”

> “Could you check?”

The receptionist defiantly sits up and turns in her chair towards a giant book to her left with hundreds of small tags of paper stuck between pages. She sighs and then turns back towards you two.

> “… Up the stairs. His is the third door on the left with the tome emblem.”

> “Thank you, ma’am!”

You and Groves proceed down the hallway.

“How’d you know that would work?”

> “I was hoping it wouldn’t, and we could go chase Watanabe.”

Rather than a separate stairwell, the hallway simply leads into a flight of stairs that ascend a story up. On the left, you see several doors with different emblems on them, deciding that the one with the large book and the quill is the “tome.”

You knock on the door thrice before entering. As you enter, you see a flesh-colored blur duck under the desk at the end of the room. Sitting at the desk, a sweaty, disheveled old man in a two-piece suit with tiny spectaces. He looks as though two Ogryns have squeezed their way into his office.

> “Arbitrators! H-H-How can I- What are you here to-“

> “We’re looking to see if a man named Gerard Tiber is a resident of this District.”
> “… What’s that under your desk?”

>>5458159
> “… What’s that under your desk?”
Curiosity may have killed the felined, but the God Emperor's Satisfaction brought it back

>>5458159
>> “We’re looking to see if a man named Gerard Tiber is a resident of this District.”
Not our job, and he's probably just fooling around with someone.
We can still throw in a snide remark, or act on this if he proves...uncooperative, but I hope this on the contrary means he'll give us what we ask to get us out of his office.
I do love entering negotiations being handed an ace up my sleeve by the other party!

>>5458159
>“We’re looking to see if a man named Gerard Tiber is a resident of this District.
if the man is relieving himself on the job we shouldn't bother him.

“We’re looking to see if a man named Gerard Tiber is a resident of this District.”

Groves nudges you and points at the desk. You shake your head. The man sitting at the desk looks between you and Groves very quickly and then sputters, trying to scoot his chair closer to his desk.

> “Is- is that all? You want to check the census?”

“Yes, for Gerard Tiber. Any pertinent information like address or occupation would also be appreciated.”

The Censor laughs and a relieved smile comes over his face. He wipes some sweat off of his brow, which could have possibly only been there due to being surprised by two Arbites.

> “I believe I can help you gentlemen, in that case. If you’d be so kind- open the servitor cabinet to the left there.”

Groves chides,
> “I think you ought to stand up and do it yourself.”

“Groves.”

You walk over to the left, where a large cabinet sits between bookshelves. There’s a hole in the upper right corner of the door with a rail snaking out of it and curving upwards. Upon opening the door, you see the pale dermis of a servitor, this one also just a torso, its left shoulderblade accompanying a second limb that attaches the servitor to the rail. It retained its arms, at least.

> “Yes, uhm- Please locate Gerard Tiber’s entry in the most recent Census.”

The servitor lifts its head, and you hear a mechanical whirring as it slides out of the cabinet and is carried upward by the rail, which curves back against the wall and coils up around the room. Perhaps your attention was more focused on the Censor, but you’ve only now realized that the apparently cramped office actually has columns and columns of bookshelves that stack up on each other for several stories. Before long, the Servitor has proceeded twenty feet up the rail before stopping, plucking a heavy tome from one of the shelves, and then coming back down. When the instrument is above the Censors desk, it opens the tome and begins thumbing through the pages until finally, somewhere a quarter way through, it stops, dropping the open book on the desk with a loud thud. The Censor yelps when the book hits the desk. Perhaps he was startled. The servitor returns to its cabinet, idling in place.

With an almost pained whine, the Censor puts on his spectacles and begins parsing through the entries on the page.

> “Ah- yes! Gerard Tiber, here he is.

You and Groves walk over to the desk to see for yourselves. The Censor scoots his chair even further into the desk.

> “What the hell, all it says is his name and age? We can’t do anything with this! What does 16-31 mean?”

The Censor clicks his tongue.

> “My dear Arbitrator, there are lots of people in the 7th Market district. The census organizes these people by their dwelling, each tome representing a Habitation Block. “16-31,” appearing right after his age, designates his apartment.”

“How recent is this record?”

> “The Census occurs every fifteen standard years on this level. Lucky you, our most recent was last year.”

“What block is this tome for?”

The Censor folds the book closed. The lettering on it is very large.

ICARUS ADEPTUS ADMINISTRATUM
7TH MARKET DISTRICT, LEVEL 6
MERCHANT’S AUSPICE HABITATION CENTRE

You and Groves look at each other. Despite his previous protests about following this particular thread, he’s grinning just as excitedly as you are.

“Where is Merchant’s Auspice?”

> “Every Habitation Block in this district is clumped together at the Northwestern corner. It’s a matter of convenience, for the workers, of course. There’s a tram at the Transit station that ferries the workers to the market plaza.”

You back away from the desk and turn towards the door. Groves follows you, offering a backhanded thanks to the Censor.

> “We appreciate the help, Censor, especially when you’re so busy.”

Exiting the Administratum building, you and Groves return to the covered transit platform. The trams, you find out, are smaller than the maglev trains, and rely on tracks rather than galvanic suspension. They are also wholly empty, probably because you’re in the middle of the workday, and you and Groves find yourselves no more cramped inside them than you did in the priority car on the maglev.

After a brief ride, you and Groves step out onto a less-manicured street surrounded by buildings that are much more brutalist and utilitarian than the charmingly furnished shops. In the distance, in huge Low Gothic, you see MERCHANT’S AUSPICE printed on the rockcrete wall. The interior of the Merchant’s Auspice Hab-Block is so well-lit and much cleaner than Almond Tree, that you don’t even realize that both buildings share identical architecture until you make it to the atrium at the center.

“Floor sixteen, room 31. I can’t believe we’re finally closing in on him. This seems too easy.”

> “Hey, now. We still aren’t certain he’s the murderer. You wanna just whack him when he answers the door?”

When the elevator doors open on floor 16, you still don’t have an answer for Groves.

> Knock, then interrogate.
> Knock, then arrest.
> Kick door in, interrogate.
> Kick door in, arrest.

>>5460110
> Knock, then interrogate.
and if no answer
> Kick door in, arrest.

>>5460779
Supporting. If he's out, we search the apartment, since we kinda have a warrant? At least we can say we do. Are warrants even a thing anymore? Or is it something the Arbites just don't care about?
If he's in and doesn't answer, he's breaking the law. Probably. We can stick him with something, especially if he tries to defend himself, which would make things much easier.
If he answers, we should still bring him back to the precinct, but it doesn't have to turn into an arrest if he cooperates. I'm worried that his apartment might get looted when we're gone, like it happened in the first thread, so we should have him lock the door and do some light searching. Word that the Arbites came for him will spread, and I'm worried about evidence disappearing. Hopefully anything incriminating was either immediately well hidden if he's meticulous or paranoid, or left out in the open because we were very, very quick in tracking him down. I'm proud of us! It took less than a day to go from a murder scene to a reconstruction to narrowing things down to a ship containing thousands, to three potential suspects! Now that's the kind of efficiency you don't see everyday in 40k!

>>5460779
Ditto

Stepped on by Weiss or handholding with Charles.

This is a question science cannot answer.

“Let’s give him a chance to answer. Unless he’s not compliant, we have no reason to batter him right away.”

> “This poor security official’s finally made it all the way home after a long journey through the void, and the first day of his return, he’s gonna be questioned for murder.”

“How many voidship crew do you know of that live separately from their ship?”

> “… I still think it’s not him.”

You circle the atrium until you see a big XXX over a hallway. XXXI, naturally, is the first door on the left, closest to the mouth of the corridor.

And it’s hanging wide open.

You and Groves exchange a worried look before you draw your autopistols. Upon closer inspection, the lock seems to have been shot through, splinters and fragments of metal flung as far as the door across the hall.

Wordlessly, Groves points at you, and then the door. He wants you to take point. You oblige, slowly inching into the apartment, your pistol trained at the one corner where someone could be hiding. Rapidly rounding the corner, you find nobody there.

The floor plan is exactly like Philosophy Major’s apartment, and like his was, the meager furniture and amenities are all wrecked. There’s blood on the floor and walls, but no sign of anyone else. You turn back toward the door.

“It’s clear, Groves.”

> “Don’t say it’s clear until you check the clos-“

An ear-piercing scream interrupts Groves as you feel something collide into you, a lightweight body that seems to have leapt onto your back and won’t let go. Instinctively, you clutch your autopistol like a vice, not wanting to repeat your mistake in the alley. Unfortunately, you feel something cold slide into your bicep where your carapace armor does not obscure. You drop your pistol before a jet of pain shoots up your arm and you groan in a mixture of frustration and discomfort.

> “TURN AROUND! I’LL SHOOT HER!”

> Turn around.
> Slam your back into the wall.
> Reach for your shock maul.

>>5465286
>Turn around.
We'll smugly say afterwards: Looks like I should 've taken that bet.

>>5465286
>Lightweight body
>High-pitched scream
That does fit our perp, let's not have Groves magdump them, please.
> Slam your back into the wall.
Then
> Reach for your shock maul.

Disorient them so they have less time to react, then just flick on the maul at 10-20% and send it back and up like a back-scratcher, it should be enough to stun them, and quite quick if we catch the legs or lower body. We need them alive.

>>5465286
>> Slam your back into the wall.

>>5465447
More like "I don't want Groves to shoot me in the back through this little shit"

Instead of fighting the weight on your back, you work with it, tilting your frame back and then straightening your legs out, slamming into the wall. You hear a pained grunt as the grip on your neck and shoulder goes limp, sliding off of you. Unholstering your shock maul, you turn the dial with your gimp hand, fighting both the pain in doing so and the urge to turn it up beyond 10% power.

Spinning around, you see the woman leaning against the wall, clutching her chest and staring up at you with a hateful, intentional gaze that does not suit her small body. For a moment, you think she’s had enough, but when she looks down at your dropped pistol, you give her a prod, the jolt causing her head to jerk up before slumping down.

“Guess I should’ve taken that bet, huh?”

You turn off your shock maul with a wince and holster it, bending down to pick up your autopistol to do the same. Groves still has his gun trained on the woman, who begins mumbling incoherently.

> “I’ll be damned. She got you pretty good, huh?”

Groves gestures at your arm. Upon looking at it yourself, you can see the implement is still in the wound, a shiv fashioned out of broken glass fixed to a resin handle with some unknown adhesive substance. You’ve been pretty squeamish about certain things these past few days, but a little foreign object lodged into your skin and muscle tissue isn’t anything too concerning. Even as you feel your tendons flex against it when you move your arm, you’re proud to say you’ve grown out of wound-nausea before your baby teeth fell out. You leave it in, knowing that removing stuck blades from stab-wounds is a good way to pass out from blood loss.

“Should be fine until we get to the HOJ clinic… Maybe there’s a medicae somewhere closer, though.”

> “You want me to cuff her?”

Groves points at the woman, who seems to be stirring.

You nod gratefully. Groves holsters his gun and reaches down, rolling her onto her stomach and binding her wrists with zip-cuffs.

> “Gerard Tiber, you’re under arrest for the suspected murder of Archibald Kor, and for assaulting an Arbites Adept with a deadly weapon.”

He lifts the woman up from the ground onto her knees, who spits up at him with an ugly scowl.

> “I’m NOT Gerard, you damnable swine!”

Groves recoils from the spit and looks ready to retaliate with the back of his gauntlet, but he stops himself when the woman begins sobbing.

> “Gerard is my- my- husband! Oh, Gerry, why’d you- Aaaaaah-! Swinehounds, you both! Rah-rotten, corrupt, dogs of the upper hive! You hah-HATE us! S’why you let- let- AAAHHH EMPEROR PROTECT ME!”

Groves frowns, looking like he’s ready to hit her again.

> “Why don’t we take her to an Arbites kiosk and let her calm down while we look around this shithole?”

> Interrogate her now, investigate the apartment later.
> Interrogate her later, investigate the apartment now.

>>5465551
> Interrogate her later, investigate the apartment now.
So we have food for interrogation

>>5465551
>> Interrogate her later, investigate the apartment now.
Nothing stopping us from making small talk.
>Attacking Arbites isn' t the smartest thing to do. But it's easy to see why you'd be wary of visitors. Tell us who they were, and I may be able to tell you why people are after you and your husband.

Hello cherished readers, the holidays are here and that's the only excuse I have for the spotty updates. I'll make it up to you with a Sanguinala special that starts on December 1st and will run in tandem with regular updates(Is that allowed?)!

“Good idea. There ought to be an Arbites kiosk on every fifth level. The ones at Almond Tree had a holding cell, so I bet they have those here, too.”

> “You sure you don’t want me to look around while you watch her?”

“She stabbed my arm, Groves, not my eyes. I’ll look, you keep her company.”

The woman spits at you, but the arc isn’t sufficient to reach even your boot. Groves hoists her to her feet.

> “NONE OF THAT, lady. This guy has a soft spot for women, but I have no such scruples!”

> “Cockless dogs, the both of you! You’ll both be dead of crotch-rot from all the people you rape! Child-frakkers! Perverts! The Emperor will damn you to a slimy bottomless pit and I’ll cackle with the rest of th-“

Groves walks her out of the apartment mid-curse. You try and keep your arm elevated as you look around, but the pain in moving it is starting to wear on you.

The apartment, like Philosophy Major’s, is a 15x15 square foot hovel with two smaller compartments in the back, a bathroom and a closet. You can’t tell whether all the garbage on the floor was there before or after the rest of the furniture got wrecked, but the debris definitely seems at least from nicer-quality wood and metal. The smell is much better, too.

A toppled-over drawer draws your attention first. The drawer lays face-down on the floor, which is annoying, because you find yourself having to lift it upright with one hand while holding your other hand over your head. You imagine you look like a fool, and the strain of lifting spurts some more blood from your wound, but once it’s upright, the drawers hang open for you to look inside. Nightgowns, undergarments, stockings. Nothing interesting in the top drawer. The middle drawer contains warmer clothing, a man’s and a woman’s sweater, some heavier stockings, and of course leather caps.

The bottom drawer stands out. It’s still clothes, but only three of the same brown-beige bodyglove fatigue, underneath which is chest armor. It’s not quite carapace-quality, but it’s certainly armor, you can feel the metal plates beneath the fabric.

A few feet from the drawer, you see clutter that likely was knocked from the drawer when it tipped over. A glass ashtray proves its quality by not being cracked, albeit turned over, its contents covering the rest of the articles. A face-down picture frame reveals a much younger, happier profile of the woman who stabbed you, clinging to a middling-attractive man with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Gerard Tiber? Probably. You forgo investigating the lamp and fabric, instead looking in the closet.

The woman was quite small, so you doubt there’d need to be much space to accommodate her, but even still, the closet is pretty empty, save for a red dress and a brown trench coat that lacks the animal-fur flair of your Arbites greatcoat. It also lacks a hole in it from a shiv through the upper-arm, so you reserve judgement. The coats hang from a rack that has a small box on the top. Taking the box, you shake the loose lid off of it to avoid straining your other arm, and some of the contents fall out, hitting the floor with a series of metal clinks. Most of the metal appears to be unspent stub-rounds, though a pendant lies on the ground face-down.

Getting on your haunches, you remove the plastic bag containing the spent stub-round from your greatcoat pocket. You don’t even need to take it out of the bag for a closer look; It’s a perfect match. Your heart starts racing. You gather the stubs off the floor and put them back into the box. You pick the metal pendant up to throw it in before the other side of it makes your heart pick up enough that more blood squirts out of your shiv-wound.

It isn’t a mastercraft by any means. Your Arbites badge is obviously much more professionally fabricated. Hell, it looks like the inscription was etched with a knife. But you can read it all the same.

Custodire et Ministrare
ICARUS CONSTABULARY
1278th Precinct

Uh-oh.

You put it back into the box and stand up, holding the box in one hand and your elbow above your head in the other. Stomping out of the apartment, you walk into the Atrium and towards the elevators. You’re on floor sixteen, and you told Groves that there ought to be an Arbites kiosk every five floors, so you’re sure he went down one floor. When the elevator finally arrives, you find five men stuffed inside the small container. They all look at you. You notice they have primitive melee weapons like clubs and analog maces hanging from their hips. There are also a few guns.

One of them gives a wry grin.

> “Afternoon, Arbitrator. We were just-”

The one that spoke looks at the box in your hand that you had neglected to put the lid on. His eyes widen and he starts tapping the man behind him.

> Fight.
> Run.

>>5472931
>> Run.
Ah yes, discretion. The better part of valor. Ain't no way we're gonna beat multiple guys while down an arm. All we really need is a bullet and the pendant. So long as we got those in one of our hands we've got what we came for.

>>5472931
>Run.
Custodire et Ministrare
ICARUS CONSTABULARY
FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKK

You can see it perfectly, a straight line that begins on the leftmost ganger and travels rightwards horizontally across the rest of them. You could probably make it without spending a full magazine, and the recoil from your autopistol would do most of the movement for you, not that the recoil is so great that you can’t shoot accurately at this distance with one hand.

The only problem, of course, is that your autopistol is holstered for your gimp arm. You could risk dropping the red-hot evidence you just collected to try and reach for your pistol, but your judgement overpowers your instincts, and you turn tail and run. Your greatcoat flourishes as you turn into a full-on sprint, the urgency of the situation spraying blood out of your wound like red confetti, running along the curve of the atrium balcony.

There’s a few stubber discharges behind you, and you hear a stub whiz past your ear. Rationally, you’re aware the back of the head is the best place bar none to get shot, your Arbite helm even thicker than your carapace, but you still duck a little, not wanting to tempt fate.

Glancing across the atrium, you see that two of the goons have started running around the opposite side, clockwise. Obviously, they intend to cut you off at degree 180, but seeing their flanking maneuver makes you realize you don’t actually have a direction you’re running. The elevators would take too long to open, likely, and even if you could get in one quick enough without anyone joining you, you’re not sure you want five men emptying their magazines into a confined elevator space with you in it, even if they only have stubbers.

Your mind races back to Almond Tree- wasn’t there another means of exit there?

There was!

When you and Charles helped out Cobbler and Groves, you remember there were stairs on the periphery of the building, accessible by any hallway that wasn’t on the ground level. More stubs whizz past you as you make a hard right, ducking into a corridor and running down the hall. As you’re running, you see an old woman stepping out of her block. You grit your teeth, an annoying sense of civic duty starting to come to blows against your survival instinct.

> Run past the old lady.
> Get the lady to safety, continue running.

>>5473978
>Get the lady to safety, continue running.
Get out lady!

>>5474006
Ditto

>>5473978
>> Get the lady to safety, continue running.
Shame about the arm. If not for that, we could have just dropped the box and laid into them as they got out. Get into melee range so they can't aim for the obvious chin gap and let the maul take care of the rest.

You groan painfully as you skid to a halt, turning towards the woman, who only just notices your bloodied state when you’re right in front of her. She flinches back against her door, dropping a bag, cans rolling out of it. Leaning forward, you scream,
“GET BACK INSIDE! YOU’RE GONNA FUCKING DIE IF YOU COME OUT HERE!”

There’s no guilt over scaring her, no shame in abusing your uniform to spook a civilian, only a festering impatience as you watch her fumble with her keys to unlock her door. When a stub whizzes past you two, you jump in front of her, feeling a few light taps against the back of your carapace.

Finally, the old bag manages to open her door, scrambling inside as you hear the gangers behind you close in. You manage to force yourself to stay until you hear her lock click shut and then continue sprinting down the hall, but the gangers are close enough behind you that you can hear them mouth-breathing as they do their best to keep up with your pace. Just as you make it to the stairwell, a stub sails through your greatcoat into the small part of your back thigh that your carapace does not obscure. It stings, and your leg goes limp just when you place it on the first stair downward. Your heart sinks in the millisecond before the rest of your body does, tumbling down the rockcrete stairs.

You’ve fallen before, and you’re confident in your ability to do so without breaking your neck or back. The carapace armor protects your body from the corners of the stairs as you roll down them, but without the lid of the box, you can hear the bullets and the badge clink down the stairs along with you. Your rolling vision makes it hard to determine how much longer you have to go, but when your arm lands right on the shiv stuck in your bicep, a white-hot jet of pain immediately dulls the pain from your leg, prompting you to simultaneously curse Celestine for failing to protect you and begging Her to promptly end your tumble. In the years-long seconds your fall takes, you also hear the wretched cheering of your pursuers, their voices fighting each other to claim ownership of the stub that sent you barreling down.

Just as quick as it started, it ends. You’re on your back at the landing of the stairwell, halfway down to Level 15. Your arm is throbbing, you can feel your precious blood oozing out of your arm at a much faster rate, and the pain in your leg returns just fast enough to complement the absolute agony your arm is experiencing. Looking up the stairs, you see a few bullets that didn’t make it down with you, a streak of blood that likely occurred when you fell on the shiv, and of course, the five men grinning down at you.

> Curl into a ball.
> Scoot towards the second flight down.

>>5478549
>> Curl into a ball
And hide the fact we're pulling out our own gat. Blast the first dick who comes down.

>>5478583
Agreed. Let them celebrate, and use the curling u motion to both hide that we're reaching for the gun and orient ourselves to minimize the weak points. Being lower than them at east means we can protect our chin. Now it's just a matter of orienting ourselves the right way and making sure our joints aren't too exposed. Dare those fuckers to come down and finish you off.

As cathartic as it would be to just mag dump their general direction, Ii'd rather kill than scare off, it'll give us more breathing room to grab a bullet and find the badge. Don't think anyone is peeking outside their door with this shootout, so I'm hoping no one's grabbed it. Also hoping those stairs don't have a hole in the middle but a pillar. Honestly the bullets are more important, and we can probably figure the badge number since we have the guy's name, but still, it's misplacing evidence.

You curl into a ball, letting out a half-performative, half-genuine groan of miserable pain. Balling up narrows the gaps in your carapace armor and makes your body a smaller target. It’s the optimal strategy for when you’re wounded in an open area with hostile marksmen 100 meters away or more. The gangers are a lot closer than that, but you hope that the relative weakness of their weapons compensates for the shorter range. You can see them sideways(though your vision is spinning) through your visor at the top landing, leering down at you and shoving each other, arguing who gets to finish you off. Your bitchy moaning seems to have given them the impression that you are far more injured than you actually are, as all but two have holstered their stubbers.

By the grace of Celestine, you have landed gimp-arm-up, and to show that she forgives you for cursing her, your greatcoat is even draped over you, obscuring your good arm from the view of your would-be executioners. You try to disguise the shifting of your arm as writhing around in pain while you reach for your stubber under your greatcoat and writhe around in pain. Two of the bastards start descending the stairs towards you, you’re pretty sure one has a club and the other has a knife. The three on the stairs include one guy with a mace and the two pistoleers, whose bodies are mostly obscured by the two descending. This is going to be tricky. Shooting the goons heading toward you could give an opening for the gunners to return fire. Even with just two civilian-grade semi-automatic stubbers, the short distance might make them more likely to find another gap in your carapace.

Then again, as savage as these gangers are, you imagine they aren’t very disciplined. In all likelihood, they either don’t realize that they’re obscuring their only gunners from your line of sight, or don’t realize why that’s not terribly bad for you. Deliberately drawing the pistol at the two descending the steps might spook them to jump out of the way, giving you a clear shot at your priority targets. Your good hand finally manages to unlatch your autogun holster, and they seem none the wiser.

Taking a deep breath, you do your best to visualize the three gangers obscured by the two descending ones, who are about halfway down to you. In a swift, deliberate, and terribly painful motion, you swing your autogun out from under your greatcoat and point it at the two gangers. You see their beady eyes widen in shock and they both jump to hug the wall closest to them, revealing the three gangers at the top landing. It couldn’t have been more perfectly choreographed.

Rather than savor the top three ganger’s own bewildered expressions, you unload your autogun in a straight line; Vertical from your perspective, horizontal- and oncoming- to theirs. You aren’t sure whether you hit all of them, but you don’t see them at the top anymore, so you switch targets to the two gangers scrambling down at you on either side of the stairs. There’s enough left in your mag for the both of them, and their bodies smack on the rockcrete landing on both sides of you.

Gritting your teeth, you sit up, your wounded leg starting to hurt as you pull your torso upright, still holding your (almost dry) autopistol up towards the top landing, in case you only grazed one. Moments pass, and then more moments pass, and you find that your arm and leg don’t throb any less as time goes on, so you scoot over to the wall to help yourself to your feet.
By the red warp, you hurt. The superficial flesh-wound in your bicep has turned into a foreign-object bone impact. You’ve probably only got a few minutes until your blood loss actually becomes a problem, so with regulated breathing, you scan the floor for your lost evidence, spotting first the cardboard box, then an unspent bullet, then, to your elation, the badge, which is half-obscured by one of the felled ganger’s arms.
As you haunch down to pick it up, you hear a gunshot at the top of the stairs, and the instinctive flinch you do makes your leg sear in red-hot pain. You train your gun at the top of the stairs, just waiting for the bastard to peek his head over. Your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you see a silhouette peek over the landing, pointing a stubber down at you.

> “THRONE! Are you okay, Janus?!?!”

You’ll probably never be happier to see Groves for the rest of your life. You relax your autopistol arm, letting it hang as limp as your stabbed arm as you lean against the wall. Groves’s boots pound against the stairs as he runs down to you, stomping on the landing and looking you over.

> “Feth, you’re all banged up. I heard shooting above me in the atrium, and I figured only you could have managed to get yourself into trouble in the five minutes I was gone.”

“The- The badge, Groves.”

> “What badge? Did you drop yours? That’s a major infraction, Janus, you ought to be more- Oh, that one.”

Groves kneels down and picks up the badge underneath the dead ganger’s arm. He reads it for a second with wide eyes.

> “THESE GUYS WERE CONSTABLES?!”

You shake your head, which somehow still manages to make your arm and leg hurt.

“Found in- Tiber’s block.”

Grove’s eyes widen even further.

> “Ah, then all you’ve killed is four gangers. And here I thought I was valiant for gunning the last one down up there.”

You point down at an unspent stub, which Groves picks up.

> "I’ll bet this is the same caliber as our Harvestfall shell, eh?”

“I’m seeing spots, Groves.”

> “Oh, right. Come on then, let’s get you sewn together.”

Groves leans down, the universal Schola invitation to help take weight off your shot leg. To your utter dismay, you realize there isn’t any way to get out of here without either climbing or descending a flight of stairs. Thankfully, Groves thinks about it for a moment, and guides you towards the descending flight. Several incredibly painful steps later and you find yourself on even ground, the long corridor of the Level 15 blocks. The walk through it makes your sprint minutes earlier feel like a light jaunt. Your vision gets shaky along with your balance, and Groves repeatedly warns you up-front that if you pass out, he can’t carry you. You grit your teeth through it. You’re pretty messed up, but you’ve made it through worse on your own.

At some point, you realize you’re sitting in the Arbites kiosk on Level 15, only because you notice the woman who stabbed you sitting in the detainment cell. Your memory of this part is shaky, but you’re pretty sure her indignant tone had shifted to a more sympathetic and regretful one. She might have even called you a “poor lamb,” whatever in the warp that means. Your next memory is you and Groves hobbling through the Market District streets, and then sitting in the tram on your way back to the transit station. When you awake again, you’re sitting in a Maglev coach car, surrounded by civilians, Groves sitting beside you. By now, your arm and leg are bandaged up, which finally gives you the confidence to give in to your exhaustion, slumping back in the seat.

When your eyes open again, you’re staring up at a buttressed ceiling, white galvanic lights hanging from the arches. You try to sit up, but are pleasantly surprised to find that there are too many opiates in your bloodstream to do so. An Ordo Hospitaller doctor pokes her head into your line of sight, looking down at you with a perfectly neutral expression. You begin to hope you don’t have a stupid grin on your face, but your fatigue once again gets the better of you.

Your eyes open again. Rather than the dulled floaty sensation of drugs, your leg and arm ache, your arm much more so. You do manage to sit up this time, and find yourself in a small medbay. Through the window on the door, you see Arbitrators walking by, and assume that you’re somewhere in the Hall of Justice. You notice a servo-skull floating above you, which does a quick optical scan before floating up to a hole in the wall near the top.

“Wait!”

The servo-skull stops floating up and turns back towards you.

“Tell them to make sure Groves has the evidence!”

The skull turns back towards the hole and resumes floating upward. You pull a blanket off your chest and see your gimp arm sans shank, bandaged and bruised, but still quite attached to your torso. You think about shifting your wounded leg to see if they dug the stub out, but frankly that information could be less painfully acquired by asking whoever operated on you. Looking around, you find yourself completely alone in the room. That’s a shame, you’d like to know exactly how long you’ve been passed out.

> Get out of bed, look for someone who can tell you something useful.
> Stay put, wait for someone to come check on you.

>>5479596
>Get out of bed, look for someone who can tell you something useful.
Initiative.
Let's be honest. Not our proudest that curling.

You’re tired and hurting, but you’re also getting progressively worried about how long exactly you’ve been out. When you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and try to stand up, the aching pain at least reassures you it couldn’t have been that long. Forcing yourself onto your feet, you wobble for only a moment, grabbing the edge of the hospital bed to stabilize yourself. Not too bad, you take a gamble that you can walk without falling and win. The cold marble beneath your feet tenses your injured muscles, but after a day and a half of wearing that armor, you feel much spryer in just a hospital gown.

To your frustration, there isn’t so much as a servitor present. Damn! You should’ve interrogated that servo-skull when you had the chance, but there ought to be something helpful nearby. Grunting, you walk to the door and thank the Mechanicus that its opening mechanism is a panic bar, leaning your good arm into it and slipping out into the corridor.

The corridor is noisy with talking, which is encouraging, but you have to walk around the bend before you see anyone. A trio of Arbitrators stands near an elevator, their postures are relaxed, their tone casual. These are ideal candidates for friendly interrogation. Despite wearing a gown that doesn’t even cover your ass instead of your badass Arbite getup, you approach the three with a confidence that you just didn’t have on your first day. They obviously pick up on it, because you don’t even have to vocalize before they all turn their attention to you.

> Ask how long you’ve been out.
> Ask where Inspector Redmore and Trooper Groves are.
> Ask about the status of the prison riot.

>>5479624
>> Ask where Inspector Redmore and Trooper Groves are.
I mean they can more accurately tell us the other two options, so.