StarDestroyer.Net BBS

In which the Dozen begin their daily excercises:

OPERATION ONE
Target: St. Dylan's Vengeance
Chapter 1

"Are you humming?"

Sheppard looked up from his delicate wirework to see Domini staring at him, head tilted. "Yeah, so?" he said defensively.

"I didn't know Marcus Sheppard hummed," the Obliterator said with a shrug as he bent back over the payload. Although unable to work with his original pair of arms due to the gun barrels and blades sprouting from them, Domini had had a slender pair of manipulator arms installed just below his main pair. The two arms folded and stored themselves in armor compartments when not in use. Right now they were past elbow-deep in the circuits of the bomb the pair was assembling.

"I hum when I'm in a good mood. Like when I get to flex my tactical mind. Or blow up something really big. You know what I mean."

Domini stopped working entirely and looked at Sheppard. "You like him," he said flatly.

"He's better than Gratz. That's not saying much, but he's a whole lot better," Sheppard said openly. "I mean, look around. He's giving us free reign to build whatever explosives we want without having him or his buddy looking over our shoulders. I like that."

"So you're saying that if he trusts us, you'll trust him back?"

"More a case of stay off my back and I'll stay off yours."

"Ah."

At that moment, a soft beeping interrupted the two marines. "That's my cue," Sheppard said.

"What?"

"Cyran wants the crew assembled at 0200 hours. I want us both to get some sleep and it's 1700 now. I'll catch four and spell you at 2100. You get four, wake up at one and we'll polish up."

"Polish up."

Sheppard drew himself up. "Dammit Domini, we are still Iron Warriors and we will hold ourselves to the standards set down by Perturabo himself at our founding. The others might feel tempted to slack off but not us!" He clenched a fist. "We can still show them all why the Iron Warriors are feared across the Imperium!"

Domini nodded.

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No sewing machine. Seth grunted in annoyance. Back to the old-fashioned method, then. There was cloth, at least. What irritated him more was the amount of time he'd need to devote to the project. Between that and the time Cyran would no doubt have him kept busy with drills and plans, he'd be lucky to get his full four hours of sleep.

He smirked beneath his helmet. Sleep was a luxury, not a privilege. He could do with a little less if it meant proving himself to the others.

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Jadeite's hearts thudded in his chest as he rushed down the corridor. Cyran was going to have his head for sure. Way to go airhead, he thought to himself. The boss gives you one order and you blow it. And he certainly wouldn't accept Jadeite's excuse of a wrong turn into a dead-end hall – even though it was true. On that thought, he finally reached the bridge door and burst through it.

The other marines were already lined up, a fearsome – if motley – display. Cyran stood near the head of the line and his helmet swung around to zero in on Jadeite like an anti-aircraft battery being brought to bear on a renegade fighter.

"You!" he boomed without hesitation as he pointed at the errant marine. "Down and give me twenty! Now!" Jadeite didn't dare disobey. He threw himself to the deck and began pumping. Twenty pushups was barely a warm-up for a marine, but his face still burned with humiliation as he heard Cyran walk the line. "Let this man be a lesson to you all," he said. "I am your captain. I do not simply ask for, or expect your obedience. I demand it. You will obey my orders to the letter, with all due haste and diligence expected from men of your stature. Down and twenty more!" he snapped as Jadeite completed his push-ups. As he again dropped to the deck, Cyran continued.

"However, I am not so stupid as to believe respect is not a two-way street. I will give each and every one of you the same treatment and dignity I would expect of my own commanding officer. I will respect your individual talents and specializations and I will do my best to keep your tasks within them. Fail because of circumstances and I will be lenient. Fail because of sloth, or worse, because of intent, and your punishment will be severe."

He whirled as Jadeite began to rise and planted a foot in the man's back, driving him back down to the floor. "Another twenty you whoreson bastard!" he screamed. "Your first order, your single order and you fail to complete it! That goes beyond simple accident, beyond simple mistake, and beyond simple stupidity! Your failure is an insult to me and an insult to the men of this group who did not fail along with you!" The furious barrage of invective continued as Jadeite struggled against Cyran's pressing weight. Finally the pinning foot was lifted and he rose just in time to see Cyran draw a slender laspistol and point it at the ceiling. "Now," he said calmly. "These corridors make for an excellent running track. I've already marked where to turn. You are going to run my track and you are going to run as if the hounds of hell themselves are at your heels because I will be pacing you every step of the way. Anyone who fails to match my pace I will shoot in the leg. This laspistol is toned down, so the shots will be more painful than disabling, but if I shoot you, it will hurt. And you will run faster. Now run!" he said as he fired the gun into the ceiling. "Ten laps! Run!" They ran.

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Ghornal clenched his teeth as the pain in his legs spiked again. "By all that's holy and unholy, move your slow ass!" Cyran bellowed from behind him. "You're the slowest soldier in this entire outfit! Even Domini's making better time than you, and he's twice your weight! My grandmother could run this course faster than you and she's been dead since before the exile! Now by Chaos, move!" The laspistol barked and Ghornal felt the skin on his legs sizzle as Cyran shot him yet again. His breath came heavy in his lungs and his leg muscles felt like they were on fire. He blocked out Cyran's recriminations and forced himself to run faster. His armor rubbed against his legs, red-hot where Cyran had been shooting him, and would have brought tears to the eyes of any lesser man. He tasted blood and knew he'd cut his own gums. He let it distract him, savoring it and letting the pain fade away. Cyran shot him again. This couldn't be over soon enough.

---------------------------------

Ghornal threw himself across the finish marker and skidded to a halt. Cyran felt disgust well up inside. He was barely even winded from the marathon, having slowed himself to pace the other marine. A quick glance told him that none of the others had encountered any major problems and he scowled behind his helmet. "Up," he said to Ghornal as he sheathed the laspistol. To his credit, the World Eater immediately sprang to his feet and stood ramrod straight. "Scalk!"

"Aye, brother-captain!"

"Take them on another lap."

"Yes sir!" he shouted as he turned to face the others, already beginning to move towards the entryway. "Move, you knaves!" he bellowed. "Move!" Within moments, the group was gone, leaving Cyran and Ghornal alone.

Cyran removed his helmet so that he could glare at his subordinate. "I demand an explanation for that piss-poor performance," he said acidly.

Ghornal removed his own helmet and Cyran noted that he was sweating profusely and actually gasping for breath. "My apologies, brother-captain," he said. "Allow me to show you." He dropped to a knee, set the helmet aside and reached for his leg armor. The metal where Cyran's laspistol had found its mark had now cooled and was safe to the touch, but he had fired it so much that as the metal had cooled off, it had adhered itself to the skin on Ghornal's legs. Cyran ignored the sickening tearing noises that reached his ears at the World Eater pulled at his armor and cast aside the relevant pieces. "This is the problem," he finally said, gesturing to his legs.

Cyran looked and even he found his eyebrow rising in surprise. The femoris muscles on Ghornal's legs were huge, swollen out of proportion. They twitched in time with the marine's twin heartbeats. Although Ghornal had torn much of his own skin off removing his armor, Cyran noted that what was left was translucent, barely managing to cover the expanded mass of Ghornal's legs. "When we become what we are," Ghornal said, "we are modified in every conceivable way. The mind, the skeleton, the nerves, even the muscles. But something went wrong when they implanted these. They grew like mad, twisting and wrapping around my tendons and bones until they couldn't be removed. They're an agony to run with because they overheat so quickly and the way they attach to my joints."

"No wonder you were cited for a lack of kills," Cyran replied. Given the World Eaters' preferred method of engagement by charging recklessly into an opponent's ranks, a poor runner would lag noticeably. "Why weren't you killed to have your organs harvested?"

"Oh, believe me, they tried," Ghornal said with a fanged grin as he replaced his armor panels. "But I make up for my lack of speed by being the best close-quarters fighter in the Legion. Not even Kharn could beat me on a good day," he bragged.

"Is that so?" Cyran asked as he slowly drew his chainsword. "Show me."

Ghornal drew his axe and thumbed it on. "As you wish, brother-captain," he said. Then he was on Cyran in an instant, chainaxe roaring like a banshee. Cyran barely deflected the attack, parrying the blow to his left and sidestepping but before he could maneuver himself into position for a riposte Ghornal was spinning to deliver a horizontal blow and he had to bring his chainsword up to block. The two weapons sparked against each other, but Ghornal kicked out and drove Cyran back a step, then came at him with a full-on assault from the chainaxe that left Cyran hard-pressed to simply defend himself, let alone attack. Ghornal quickly pinned him to the wall and stood easy, axe loosely held pointing at Cyran's throat.

"I see your point," Cyran said calmly.

"What treachery is this?!" a new voice interrupted. Both men turned to see that Scalk at the others had returned during their fight. "Not yet a day out of port and already an attempt made on our captain's life?"

"Stand down chaplain," Cyran said as he sheathed his weapon. "It was a friendly exercise, not an assassination attempt." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gulgamesh quietly sheathing his lightning claws and suppressed a grin. "Ghornal, get your helmet on and rejoin the others."

"Yes sir."

"Line up!" Cyran barked. They complied rapidly as he slipped his helmet back on and activated it. Only then did he grin. He had to admit it to himself, he enjoyed this job. "On my mark, you kiss that deck and start pushing until you hit my magic number!" he boomed. "Last one to finish makes us all dinner! GO!"

Well, it seems that the Brother-Captain Cyran is a dilligent leader. Have to feel sorry for Ghornal though; you know, except for the ungodly combat skills, of course. It's almost as Angron himself was around. Except it's Angron with no arms, one leg and a terrible head-cold.

How the hell did you know about my complete ineptitude at running, you sick mind-reading freak?!


Besides, you know, from the times I mentioned it in Off-topic threads.


I actually had another idea to explain the lack of kills, that Ghornal is possessed of a vestigial sense of honor and pride that demands that his foes at least be worth killing, and not merely defenseless sheep if at all possible. But this certainly works too.

Freaking Tzeentch mindreaders

Jesus, if you can't even keep up with me you'd need a damn good explanation ..... and it looks like you have one ...... sucks to be you

But who got back first? Who? WHO!?

*razzs Ford* clearly not you. My vote is the one with the jet pack heh

Lindar wrote:*razzs Ford* clearly not you. My vote is the one with the jet pack heh

I AM the one with the jetpack!

Ford Prefect wrote:

Lindar wrote:*razzs Ford* clearly not you. My vote is the one with the jet pack heh

I AM the one with the jetpack!

*hmphs* well fine then... i guess maybe you...

my bet is that the sorcerer or the chaplin cheated (or was that Adapted to the challenge)

**BUMP**
Where's the next chapter?

LadyTevar wrote:**BUMP**
Where's the next chapter?

Working on it.

In which Seth teaches how to be a Dark Angel and Sheppard blows something up:

Chapter 2

"My greetings to you, Captain Garrenheim. I am brother-captain Jerris of the Dark Angels chapter."

"Shorter," Seth said.

Cyran cleared his throat. "My greetings, Captain Garrenheim," he said again. "I am brother-captain-"

"Stop."

"What is it?"

"You're being too flowery."

Cyran blinked. "Flowery?"

Seth sighed. "Too verbose. Too loquacious. You're used to dealing with superiors who want to be larger than life, daemons who demand to have their egos stroked, and a general mindset that encourages over-the-top behavior."

"Well then," Cyran ground out. "How, pray tell, do I correct this?"

"Speak shortly. Turn yourself in a little more. Cut your words a little more sharply as if you're afraid you might say too much. Try to act as if you've lived in the most paranoid and secretive atmosphere for most of your life. Picture it." He waited. "Now, try again."

Cyran took a breath. "Captain Garrenheim. I am brother-captain Jerris of the Dark Angels. I must speak with you immediately."

"Perfect," Seth said with a nod. "Always police your words, even your actions. Let me see you walk."

Cyran shrugged and walked from one end of the room to the other. Seth again shook his head. "Too exaggerated. Shorten your steps and keep your arms closer too your sides. Bow your head a little bit. Remember, paranoia."

Cyran took a breath and turned in on himself, trying to picture having spent his entire life housed in a closed-in asteroid, surrounded by the most secretive marines imaginable. When next he moved, he held his upper body virtually motionless, his step so fluid he did not bounce at all.

Seth clapped his hands once. "Yes, perfect," he said. Turning to a nearby crate, he retrieved a series of roughly-woven habits. "I had to rush the job on these," he explained, "but they'll still pass for Dark Angel robes. Put them on." Cyran and Talen did so without difficulty, but Typhonis had to leave his hood down because of the bat-like ears that rose from the crest of his helmet.

"You'll never pass for a Dark Angel like that," Cyran said.

"He will if we cut those ears off."

Typhonis' hands flew to his helmet. "Touch my armor and die," he spat.

Cyran eased closer, drawing a power knife. "We can weld them back on later," he said.

Typhonis backed off. "Nobody has dared desecrate the armor of a Night Lord in ten millennia."

"Talen, help me," Cyran said. The Alpha Legionnaire began to close in, arms out to grapple the Night Lord.

"You guys are kidding!"

"Typhonis, I am giving you a direct order. Now hold still!"

The Night Lord turned and ran.

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Kuja and Ghornal had just stepped into the corridor when a marine in a Dark Angels robe stampeded past them, yammering. A moment later, three more Dark Angels thundered past, one brandishing a knife and hollering, "you don't use them anyway!"

As they turned around the next corner and vanished, the World Eater turned to look at the sorcerer. "Did you see that?" he asked.

"No," Kuja said firmly.

"Neither did I."

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Gulgamesh was less able to deny realty when Typhonis slammed into him at full speed. The bigger marine knocked the smaller and lighter raptor to the deck before continuing without a look back. Flipping over to his hands and feet, he screeched at the departing form before being knocked flat a second time by trampling feet. Laying on the metal floor, he promised himself that from now on, he'd get around by crawling through the damned ductwork. Less chance of random stampedes that way.

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Scalk had nearly finished rededicating the ship's chapel, mostly thanks to Dalton helping him with most of the heavy work. He had just completed a rendition of the eight-pointed star on the altar cloth when the doors burst open and a robed Typhonis ran inside.

"What in the name-" Scalk had started to say when Cyran barged in and pointed to Typhonis.

"Scalk! Dalton! Grab him!" the captain bellowed. Scalk leapt up and grabbed his crozius, but Dalton was faster, dropping his scythe and launching himself at the errant marine. Typhonis tried to dodge the flying Death Guard, but his momentum carried him right into Dalton's flying tackle and was carried to the ground. Even then, he continued to thrash and had nearly wriggled out of the bigger man's grip when the crozius swung down and belted him on the back of the head with a sound much like that of a church bell tolling. Stunned, Typhonis fell back to the floor and Dalton, Seth, and Talen all piled on top of him. With the marine finally restrained Cyran dropped to a knee, switched on his power knife, and began the work of cutting through the ceramite of Typhonis' helmet.

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"Now that that little episode is over," Cyran said, ignoring Typhonis' muffled sobs, "what say we get back to our planning?"

"As ordered, brother-captain," Seth replied with a glance at Typhonis. The Night Lord was seated, clutching the severed bat ears in his lap and issuing the occasional sniff through his helmet. Talen shook his head in derision.

------------------------------------

"Fire in the hole!" Sheppard yelled, then raised the rifle to his shoulder and fired a burst of slugs into a steel can situated two hundred fifty feet away. It immediately erupted in a burst of flame so intense Sheppard's armor registered the heat and concussive wave of the blast even as far away as he was. Lowing the old-fashioned rifle, he noted the damage done.

"Impressive," Domini commented. "What was in it?"

"A mixture of promethium fuel and cerosite in a pressure valve," Sheppard replied. "Without oxygen, the cerosite stays inert. But disrupt it..." he gestured to the still-burning flame and grinned. "I call it Tobasco Sauce."

Domini snorted. "You and your code names. How many of these can we make?"

"We've got enough cerosite for six of them. Plant these next to the Dylan's plasma reactor, set off the big charge and ka-boom. The chain should take out the whole aft end."

Domini nodded. "Very effective. And I'd imagine a blast like that would reduce the structural integrity of what was left to nil."

"Ending the Dylan's career as anything but scrap metal," Sheppard confirmed.

"Then let's get back to work."

Excellent, mon! Keep them comin'!

btw we need some apparences of the non-chaos members....


(yes I'm still waiting for Cannoness Kendal, Mistress Tevar, and Sister Repentia Lindar...)

The Yosemite Bear wrote:btw we need some apparences of the non-chaos members....


(yes I'm still waiting for Cannoness Kendal, Mistress Tevar, and Sister Repentia Lindar...)

Patience, dear heart. Each in turn.

Given the way things are going, can the real reason(or at least the final straw) for Ghornal being condemned to death be that he once while deeply in his cups was heard to say "Tzeentch ain't so bad"?

consequences wrote:Given the way things are going, can the real reason(or at least the final straw) for Ghornal being condemned to death be that he once while deeply in his cups was heard to say "Tzeentch ain't so bad"?

You think they really would have let him live after such an incident? Even if he was severely inebriated at the time?

Captain Cyran wrote:

consequences wrote:Given the way things are going, can the real reason(or at least the final straw) for Ghornal being condemned to death be that he once while deeply in his cups was heard to say "Tzeentch ain't so bad"?

You think they really would have let him live after such an incident? Even if he was severely inebriated at the time?

Well, they had to send someone to Abaddon, and the prior top three candidates had all just been decapitated by an inebriated, but still deadly, Ghornal after attempting to do just what you suggest.

Besides, its a History of the World Part 1 reference, how can you not go for that?

Bastards! Watch where you're stampeding!

*dies laughing* That was just too damn funny! The big bad NightLord crying over his batears! *roflol*

*skulks* HE BETTER get those Bat ears put back on after the mission....

In which a fight breaks out:


Chapter 3

Jadeite ducked under the sweep and lunged, only to have Ghornal duck left, jam his pugil stick into the noisemarine's gut, and knock him on his ass. Huffing, he rolled over and pulled himself to his feet. "Your turn," he said crossly as he tossed his own pugil stick over to Gulgamesh.

"Hey," Ghornal interrupted. "Did I say I was finished with you? Get back in the ring, kid."

The raptor looked at Jadeite, looked at Ghornal, looked back at Jadeite, and finally tossed the weighted staff back to the noisemarine. Jadeite sighed and resignedly stepped back into the chalk ring Ghornal had scrawled on the floor. The World Eater immediately came at him and he dodged left, the metal shafts of their pugil sticks clanging as Jadeite blocked Ghornal's swing. The World Eater immediately followed it up with a strike that stung Jadeite's kidney and then a bar smash that caught him on the elbow. Jadeite stumbled away with a curse and Ghornal shook his head. "Who the hell handled your close combat training, kid? You and me ought to go back and give him the beating of his life."

Jadeite ducked his head and came in low but Ghornal moved like lightning, dodging three blows before swinging his pugil stick into Jadeite's shoulder to unbalance him and then swiftly hooking it under his armpit and knocking him to the floor. Jadeite actively cursed this time and tried to knock Ghornal's legs out from under him but again the older warrior frustrated him by stepping out of the swing's radius and bringing his stick down on Jadeite's wrist. Although he managed to hang onto his own stick, Jadeite knew the fight was over and he rolled away. Ghornal let him go.

"All right, my turn," Gulgamesh said. Without reply, Jadeite sat up and tossed him the stick. The raptor looked even weirder out of his armor than he did in it, his entire body being a strange amalgam of hawk and human with arms and legs that ended in birdlike claws. Despite only coming up to Ghornal's shoulder blades, he took the pugil stick, stepped into the ring, and adopted a flank-forward stance like he was ready to fight. Ghornal idly spun his own weapon with one hand and beckoned Gulgamesh forward with the other. As the two faced off, the others present began to fill the air with catcalls. The raptor sprang, making a prodigious leap through the air and making a strike at Ghornal's head. The sticks clanged against each other as the World Eater blocked and Gulgamesh was suddenly past him. But the moment the spry warrior hit the ground, he was again springing back into Ghornal's face. Ghornal reacted too slowly this time, but still managed to strike Gulgamesh a glancing blow on the leg as he received a blow of his own to the forehead. Gulgamesh didn't land so well this time, the blow to his leg overbalancing him and the leg itself unable to support his weight for that crucial moment when he came down, so he was forced to turn his landing into an awkward forward roll that deposited him outside the ring's circumference. Hissing in annoyance, he tossed his stick away without looking to see where it would land.

The errant weapon flew towards Scalk, who nearly dropped his crozius as he reached out to grab it, but before it could get to him, the pugil stick halted in midair. At first, it might have seemed that the weapon had done so on its own, but on second inspection, one could see a wiry tendril of flesh that had wound itself around the midline of the stick and halted its wild course. The long tendril began to pull the stick away from Scalk's face and as they all watched, Kuja stepped out of the crowd as the tentacle connected to his right hip brought the pugil stick right to his hand. Wordlessly, the sorcerer stepped into the ring as a second tentacle unfurled at his left hip and he began passing the stick around his four limbs in a hypnotic fashion.

Ghornal grinned. "Bring it on, sorcerer."

Kuja didn't rush in the way the previous two had. Rather, he slowly walked forward, continually passing the stick from limb to limb seemingly at random. Ghornal actually took a step back as the watch how Kuja moved, gearing himself up for when they finally clashed. Suddenly, the sorcerer seemed to blur forwards and an instant later their pugil sticks came together in a rapid-fire series of clangs that ended with the two of them stepped back almost simultaneously. Before he could reengage, Ghornal felt something sting his cheek and saw the edge of Kuja's mouth jerk upwards into a smirk. "You smartass," he commented as he realized he'd just been tentacle-slapped. Then he closed the distance and began firing blows at the Thousand Son's midsection. Although Kuja blocked them all, he was clearly hard-pressed to do so. Then both of his tentacles shoved themselves into Ghornal's stomach and pushed him back a step, upsetting his balance and giving Kuja an opportunity to go on an offensive of his own. Ghornal kicked out but Kuja sidestepped it, sending the two into a whirling melee as they spun around each other and lash out at elbows, knees, and other vulnerable areas.

Outside the ring, Typhonis tapped Seth on the shoulder and whispered, "My power sword against yours says the berserker wins."

Seth considered for a moment and then nodded. "You're on."

Back inside the "arena" Ghornal and Kuja finally fell apart again, circling slowly this time. Whereas before the situation had been a game, some fun, a sort of "Who Can Knock Ghornal Down" contest, now the two combatants were deadly serious. Suddenly, there was real hate in the air and more than one observer belatedly remembered the animosity, even hatred between the Thousand Sons and the World Eaters.

Letting these two get in the ring together had been one hell of a bad idea.

They stepped together and the air was again filled with the sound of metal on metal. Kuja was a dirty fighter, using his tentacles to sting Ghornal on the inside of his joints or across his face, but Ghornal came back at him with cheap shots at the sorcerer's own face and other 'low' blows. Finally, the two just brought their pugil sticks forward and pushed as hard as they could, forcing each other apart once again. But Ghornal was the one to follow it up, smashing Kuja across the face and dropping him to the deck.

"Gotcha," he said with a grin.

"Pay up," Typhonis said triumphantly.

With a wordless cry of rage, the sorcerer dropped his stick and tackled Ghornal, who immediately let go of his own weapon and wrapped his arms around Kuja's midsection in an attempt to lift him off the ground. Before he could do so he lost his balance and the two went over. The distinct sound of large, meaty fists striking larger, meatier torsos now replaced the earlier clanging along with seven voices chanting that age-old chant…

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"

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It was the chanting that attracted Cyran to the scene. Rather than bursting into a run, he calmly walked to what he deduced to be the relevant door and opened it to see two marines rolling around on the floor and beating the snot out of each other. Rather than interrupting this impressive contest of martial prowess, he simply stepped into the room and waited to see how long it took before the group realized the boss was there.

In the end, it didn't take that long at all. Gulgamesh was the first to notice him and he urgently began elbowing Scalk in the ribs, who passed the message on to Dalton, who warned Jadeite, who alerted Seth, who notified Typhonis, who informed Talen. As everyone but the two entertainers stood there gawking at each other, Cyran gestured to the ring. Almost immediately the audience got the hint and went to pull Ghornal and Kuja apart. The two initially resisted, then that instinctual part of the brain that tells you, "hey bozo, your fight's over" kicked in and they subsided.

Cyran looked them over. Kuja's eye was already turning black. Ghornal's nose was weeping blood. Both looked a little unsteady on their feet. "So," he said calmly. "One week from now, we are going to be in a combat situation. So. Would someone like to tell me why two of my men are so intent on disabling each other's fighting capacity?"

Kuja and Ghornal glanced at each other, a glance that spoke a thousand insults, quips, apologies, jokes, and maybe even a couple physical blows, but mostly centered on the concept of "you first."

"I'm waiting," Cyran said.

"Just practice," they blurted almost simultaneously.

"Practice?"

"Pugil stick training," Ghornal explained.

"You look barehanded to me."

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Kuja's tentacles went to the discarded sticks and brought them back to their previous holders. "As I said, sir," Ghornal finished.

"Kitchen duty. Four hours. Now."

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This was how a World Eater and a Thousand Son ended up in the back room of the ship's mess peeling a mountain of potatoes that Kuja thought the Warp had just created for the express purpose of humiliating them while a daemon-thing wired to the counter passed out food to the other marines. Once the rest of the squad was gone and there was only one hour left on their sentence, Ghornal, for utterly no apparent reason at all (not the a World Eater usually needs one) stood up and shot the daemon-cafeteria register dead.

"Well?"

Kuja set down his peeler and retrieved one of his books from under the potato pile. "Well, I found out that if we take your chainaxe and douse it with blood, then apply a decent electrical current..."

Ewwww, I got tentacle slapped. I think Ghornal's going to have to flay the skin from that cheek before he can remove the ick factor.

So what does happen when you take a chainaxe, douse it in blood,and apply electrical current? And why was it necessary to go through that whole charade to keep the crew from knowing about it?