//------------------------------// // Chapter Five // Story: Compliance // by Mal Masque //------------------------------// Chapter Five “So… this is Merodi food?” Devon said, picking at a plate of some mess of squiggly, dough-ey things adorned in a red paste and decorated in tiny leaves. He had been jabbing his fork at the thing on his plate for several minutes since sitting down at the table. “Well, it’s food from Equis Vitis, called spaghetti,” Amber explained, pushing a round roll of bread across her plate with a hoof. “It’s from a country called Bitaly, which apparently has a lot of parallels in most Earths.” She pushed the plate down and popped the roll into the air, biting a piece of it just as it came down. “Iff rully goof.” Devon stared apprehensively at the ‘spaghetti’ and continued cautiously poking it with his utensil. Yamira watched the exchange between hardened Guardsman and foreign food with her usual poise, silently praising the Captain for following protocol and remaining properly suspicious. The restaurant that Amber had Ruttiger drop them off at was a more publicly recognized place than whatever Cage had been prompting before he vanished into an apparent portal of smoke. The pony had called it ‘a biz-cas fancy-fun dining place’, which left both Yamira and Devon perplexed. Even when arriving at a place that had the apparent ego to be named the ‘Pasta Palace’, the questions just kept piling up. Not only was it not a castle befitting the name of Palace, but rather a one-story building with the facade of a castle, with painted white bricks on the exterior and a plaster crown over the entrance. The metal table they had been seated at was on the outside patio, by request of the pony staff who “politely” requested that two heavily armed diplomats and their flesh-adorned automaton do so to avoid potentially disturbing the other customers. Devon had the sensible idea to tell the staff where they could shove their attitudes, but Amber had de-escalated things with profuse apologies and an offer to pay for the broken window. Yamira drummed her fingers on the tabletop, shifting her gaze between Bell, standing idly by as it beeped and hummed its usual synthetic tunes, and Devon, still unsure whether or not his offered meal was indeed something edible. Amber had already received her order of a bowl of leaves and small vegetables, a salad she called it, while Yamira had yet to receive hers. She had naturally objected to receiving food, insisting on utilizing her military rations for their intended purpose, but the yellow pony was nothing if not persistent. “How do I get this to frakking work?” Devon grumbled. He had been struggling with his food, spearing the squiggly things with his fork only for them to break apart and spatter on his place. The Armageddonite was getting frustrated, a rare look Yamira saw on the usually lax and aloof Guardsman. He scooped under the mess with his fork, in an effort to shovel it into his mouth, only for it to limply slide off and back onto the plate. He growled and stabbed his fork into the table, making little more than a dent. “FRAK! Might as well use my hands, I’m starving at this point!” “Table manners, please!” Amber urged. “Did they not teach you how to use utensils growing up?” “Growing up, I had to learn how to find radioactive lakes for drinking water and how to take the head off a scrounger thirty clicks away for supper,” Devon replied. “Though I suppose you lot would probably just call them ‘really frakking big rats’.” Amber made a face and recoiled from her plate. “You’ve eaten rats?” Amber asked. “That’s absolutely disgusting.” Devon shrugged. “I’ve had worse.” The exchange subsided as Cage again attempted to stab at the plate, only to break it apart even further. He growled and slammed his hands onto the table. “Emperor’s drawers, this food will be the end of me yet!” “Here, let me show ya how it’s done, Cap.” All heads turned abruptly in surprise at a spontaneous arrival of their prior escort currently using Devon’s fork to twirl up the spaghetti like a rotating cog. Cage seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, smoke trailing off his body and the four cigarettes currently alight in his mouth. He slowly wound up the noodles around the prongs of the fork, holding them aloft in a spool with a smirk on his face. “Voila, how to teach military dudes how to eat spaghetti.” Cage then proceeded to stick the fork in his mouth with a very satisfied grin on his face. It took him the second bite from Devon’s plate to realize that Yamira was giving a very irate glare. “What?” Yamira grabbed Cage’s collar and yanked him over the table, causing the cutlery to rattle and the smoker to drop his fork. “Talk, witch-man,” Yamira growled. Cage just pointed to himself for affirmation, Yamira responded by shaking him about. “How did you bend reality to your whims with a mere cloud of smoke?” “... Oh, the portal thing I did for the bail?” Cage asked. “Right, my bad. I saw an old co-worker from a thing back in Earth Stand and panicked. But it’s all good.” He raised both his hands and smiled. “The car did not get stolen.” “I said how, you blathering fool,” Yamira snarled, shaking him again. “Not why.” Cage glanced over at Amber, who seemed uncertain how to proceed without upsetting anyone further, and then to Devon, who was currently attempting to mimic Cage’s original spaghetti magic. “Oh, I get it,” Cage slowly nodded. “You don’t know about the deal with people from my universe. Ambs, did you get pizza-face, Cap and Tau Lady - still working on the name - the Guidebooks?” Amber opened her mouth to give her answer, then closed it with the shrinking of her pupils. Her head dropped onto the table with a thunk, and Cage just shook his head. “Right. If you let go of me, I can give some kind of explanation.” Yamira huffed and released her grip, sending Cage stumbling back a bit. “Then explain,” Yamira ordered. “And stop giving me ridiculous nicknames.” “Explain only, got it.” Cage said, lighting himself another cigarette. “Okay, so here’s the deal: Earth Stand, the universe I came from, has this weird phenomenon where people get magic ghost spirits that are manifestations of a person’s will, or some complicated crap I don’t know the specifics of.” He spat a spent cigarette into an ashtray, leaving three of four. “These magic ghost spirit thingies are called Stands, and they give people like me all kinds of cool powers and crap. Mine gives me smoke-based powers.” He paused to take a drag, then blew a cloud overhead. “Oh, and you can’t see them unless you have one. Make sense, Commissar Crispy?” Yamira shook her head and made a face. “Not in the slightest.” Yamira bluntly said. “Magical ghost spirits?” She scoffed and sat back down in her chair. “Sounds too much like daemonic influence and possession.” Cage just shrugged and sat down in the other vacant chair next to Amber. The pony’s head was still firmly planted on the table. “Perfect. First xenos, then humans who sympathise with xenos, then bloody Dark Eldar ships flying freely without being shot down, now heretics allowing themselves to be influenced by the wiles of daemons. Almost laughable how backwards this whole society is. Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?” No response. “Captain?” Again, no response. “CAPTAIN!” Yamira glared towards Devon, who had finally mastered the art of spaghetti spooling and was now halfway through his meal, with several strands still hanging from his lips. He looked up, eyes wide, uncertain of why he was in the spotlight. “... This food is the best I have eaten since I graduated the schola.” Devon muttered through a mouthful. Yamira groaned and turned away from the table, cupping her cheek in her gloved hand. The sparkling glamour of Merodi Universalis had blinded him, but Yamira could still see the repugnantness of these outsiders and their bewitching wiles. They were worse than the Water Caste and their tongues of silver, at least they were blatant about their brazen beliefs in the so-called ‘Greater Good’. Yamira saw the Merodi as despicable nobles in the Hive Spires, ones who would use the affairs of others to advance their station while pretending to offer themselves as confidants and allies, all while looking for somewhere to slide in the knife. They would not get the opportunity to put that knife into the Imperium, not while she still proudly bore the golden aquilla on her breast. While she half-heartedly gazed out onto the streets across from the restaurant, she took notice of the things around her. An astute lesson she learned quickly under the command of the Astra Militarum was to oversee every battlefield with utmost scrutiny and precision. Leave no place unseen, you never know what can be immediately converted into a barricade for a firefight or an open area that can be made into the perfect gunner’s nest. She found herself staring at a bench right across the way, which seemed to be occupied by two suited men, one who was not tall and one who was not short. Yamira wasn’t sure as to why, but the two men seemed to be interesting to her. Possibly because they were a better distraction than the apparent conversation that Cage, Amber and Devon were having about food or some such nonsense. Yamira simply watched the two men and their bench, unaware that they seemed to be watching back. The sound of synthetic horns blaring immediately disrupted her focus, glancing around rapidly from the source of the noise. By the time she looked back at the bench, the two men seemed to have already left. A pity. It seemed that she wasn’t the only one to take note of the obnoxious horns, as both Cage and, surprisingly, Amber, moaned in exasperation. “Ugh, he’s back…” Cage grumbled, tossing his spent cigarettes away. “So my day can go from bad to worse….” Amber whined, massaging her temples with her hooves. Devon swallowed the last of his spaghetti with a slurp, slapping a red streak of sauce on his chin. “Who’s back?” he asked. “Some big shot with you people?” The horns continued blaring a raucous tune, an irksome sound that seemed to intentionally grate on the ears and drive those who dared listen into discomfort, a chorus played on hollowed-out bones and poorly-wrought metal arranged in all the wrong ways. It felt familiar to Yamira. Too familiar. “Worse, I think he’s one of yours.” Cage muttered. “I don’t mean Imperium, I mean one of those aliens that’s around here.” The horns sounded again, playing their ear-bleeding shrieks loud as can be. Ponies, humans and other denizens walking the street seemed to share their disdain for the music, pained looks on their faces as they hurried along on their walks and actively got out of the way. From the far end of the street, Yamira saw the source, a procession of people making their way along. It was some semblance of a parade, with humans playing long horn instruments that were affixed to their faces by eyeless masks, masked ponies tossing hooffulls of flower petals onto the ground, and more humans in robes with large metal helmets that concealed all but their mouths and ears, all chanting and singing a single mantra. “Come, make way, oh do make way!” They sang. “Zasraman the Great has come today!” They repeated their mantra with poor timing and rhythm. Following behind them were a team of multi-armed creatures, rolling a red carpet along the street and quickly rolling it back up when the end came. Yamira squinted a bit to see just what was walking on the carpet, and immediately felt her stomach lurch. A tall, gangly figure in gaudy clothing made from far too many colors in a myriad of checkers and stripes that practically burned the eyes on a casual glance. It wore pointed yellow boots that curled into a spiral, rolling out like a child’s party blower with every step on the ground, with tassels of purple and yellow fabric hanging from its gloved wrists trailing on the ground before sloping back into its back. What caught Yamira’s eye most was not the outfit, or the way that it walked to mimic some form of acrobatic dance, but the mask. The abhorrent smiling mask of red and silver, with teeth like needles that arched all the way up to the brow like a demented crescent moon, a pointed nose that protruded straight like an arrow, and ears, long ears like knives plastered on the side of its head. It was a repugnant creature that dared mimic the facsimile of human gait, worse than the Tau, the ponies, or the xenos sympathizing humans. “Is that a bloody Eldar?” Devon asked, rolling his head to the side. “Worse,” Yamira said, digging her fingers into the table. “A Harlequin.” Amber, Cage and Devon all turned to Yamira. Her face had gone cold and rigid, but her eye burned with an inferno of hatred unlike any other. “What is it doing in this City, so close to Holy Terra?” “An Expedition team encountered his Troupe while exploring the Webway,” Amber said, pulling herself up from her chair. “In exchange for safe passage and protection from less-than-friendlies, they asked for amnesty and that they gain a chance at joining the Merodi.” Amber sighed and looked away from the precession. “And they’ve been here ever since.” “And that fop has been a collective pain in everyone’s ass,” Cage moaned. The procession seemed to be slowing down, the music dying out, the petal tossers ceasing their throws, and the carpet rollers ending their duties. Unfortunately, this was right in front of the Pasta Palace. “Ah shit. Uh, Commissar? I’d suggest… not doing anything right now.” Yamira’s world was already red the instant the Harlequin stepped off the carpet and onto the sidewalk. Before she could leap off her chair, draw her sword, and chop the Xenos into tiny little flamboyant pieces, something held her back. Not a metaphysical something held on by emotional and mental obligations, but a physical something was holding onto her shoulders and keeping her in place. She couldn’t see what, but she could feel the pressure of human hands pressing down on her and keeping her firmly glued to her seat as the Harlequin drew ever nearer. Amber pleaded to some unknown deity that the Harlequin would not approach them, but as Yamira was wont to learn, prayers often go unheeded and are often ignored. Unless they are prayers to the God-Emperor of Mankind, which are the only prayers that are even worthy of being spoken. The Harlequin raised his pointed hands over his head and danced his way over to the gathered tables, stepping one foot in front of the other. “Come, make way, oh do make way!” The Harlequin proclaimed. The warbling sound of its voice made Yamira cringe to her very core, the distorted facsimile of the human tongue making her own curl up in disgust. “Zasraman the Great has come today!” He stopped before the table, one foot raised overhead as it slowly curled back up, staring at the table. “What’s this, what do we have here?” He brought his foot down with a clack, planting his hands on his slender hips. “New visitors from the mon’keigh, I fear?” “It speaks in rhyme,” Yamira muttered, unable to take her eyes off of the Eldar’s horrendous outfit. It was like something had consumed a rainbow and vomited all over his clothes. “Of all the bloody luck.” “Is there something wrong with the way I speak?” Zasraman asked, placing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Well, I expect nothing less from the Imperium’s dogs, I think.” “What the frakk did you call us, you…” Devon growled, starting to rise from his chair. Immediately a hoof was jammed into his mouth and he sat back down, with Amber putting on a massive smile that was fake as it was clearly straining on the pony’s face. “Hello again, Zasraman,” she said. Devon gave off a few muffled protests, but Amber held him in place. Quite strong for such a little pony. “I see you’ve returned from one of your…” she cleared her throat. “Excursions?” “Ah, yes, and what a wonderful trip it was, Ms. Dust,” Zasraman clapped his hands and bowed. Yamira had forgotten how tall Eldar were, often standing at near equals in height with the Astartes, if not shorter. It did not help that Yamira felt the Harlequin staring down his long nose at her the entire time. “Daten City was a dominion of such misery and travesty, if I do say so, I must.” “So you felt right at home then, Clownie?” Cage asked, puffing two new lit cigarettes. “Shame you decided to come back.” Zasraman tilted his masked head to the side and shuffled over to Cage’s side, barely shifting his feet as he kept himself bowed a full length. “And miss more darling shows with an audience so delightful?” Zasraman said, hissing through the faux teeth on his mask. “Why Cage, sincerely slothful Cage,” in a blur of motion, one of the cigarettes was gone from Cage’s lips, and betwixt Zasraman’s pointed fingers. “Why would I ever consider an aspect so frightful?” Yamira was surprised to see Cage react so swiftly to the slight, snatching his sunglasses off his face and immediately glaring down the Harlequin, despite the clear two-foot height difference. “Nobody touches my smokes,” he growled. Zasraman stared at Cage with unblinking eyes, the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. A faint snap followed, and two halves fell to the floor. “Oops.” The weights immediately left Yamira’s shoulders as Cage raised his fists and smoke congealed around him, and Zasraman’s hand went to one of two wicked swords on his hip. Amber’s eyes went wide as Devon vigorously pumped his hands in excitement. Yamira wanted to join the Captain in revelry, but again, she felt restrained. “YOU’RE DEAD, BOZO! CIGARETTE-” “Mr. Cage Jameson.” Yamira spoke up, her voice cutting through the tension like a bullet. She slowly stood from her seat, arms crossed behind her back, while Cage and Zasraman were frozen in mid-combat prep. All eyes had fallen upon her, even the pedestrians and the restaurant staff watched the Commissar stare down the smoking Stand User and the devilish Eldar. “Were you and Amber Dust not just informing me that this Harlequin’s troupe was granted amnesty for some assistance prior to your society?” Amber and Cage traded gazes before returning to Yamira. “As satisfying ast it would be to see you attempt to pummel this Xenos for insulting your honor, jeopardizing such a clear alliance would look bad on your record, would it not?” “Well, uh…” Cage’s eyes darted around, dull brown irises flittering to look at something other than Zasraman or the half-faced Commissar. He dropped his fists and stepped back, the smoke around him drifting off into nothingness. “Fine, whatever. I got plenty more smokes anyway.” He emptied an entire carton into his hand and walked off elsewhere to prove his point. Zasraman laughed, a weird sound like some sort of chittering beast. “Kweah hah hah hah hah! Such a sight has left me feeling so gay and jovial!” he pantomimed wiping a tear from his false eye. “To think that one of the Imperium’s leading troopers could be so cordial. I must know the why and how such a vicious primitive form oft so defiant,” He thumbed the base of his pointed masked chin. “To render this half-faced she-human so compliant?” “Don’t take my blase demeanor as cordiality, Xenos,” Yamira replied curtly, glaring Zasraman down. Her dead eye rolled a bit as she craned her head up to look at the garishly dressed alien. “I hold more hatred for your kind than any in this outsider’s paradise. Were it not for the laws that bind me, and to the same extent, you, I would personally see you burned for the witch-xenos you are and parade your still-burning carcass through the streets of my home world for all to see and relish.” Zasraman stared at Yamira, unmoving and unblinking. Not that she could tell, what with that horrendous smiling mask concealing no doubt an equally disgusting face underneath. “... You seem familiar, like a face, or in this case half, is one of yore.” Zasraman said, stroking his chin. “Tell me, mon’keigh, have we met before?” Yamira furrowed her brow and grit her teeth, shown clearly through the holes in her cheek. Before she had a chance to retort, two very panicked female voices came from down the street, shouting Zasraman’s name. Barrelling along, two women with obscenely bright red skin ran up to the table, panting and heaving. Both were dressed in matching tan pantsuits and well-kept black shoes, and had piercing yellow eyes. One had a mess of wild green hair that trailed down to her back, while the other had blue hair tied off in a ponytail and sporting sharp spectacles. “There you are,” The blue-haired woman panted. “Zasraman, PLEASE stop running off like that!” “This is getting a tad bit irksome, sir.” The green-haired woman added. “You’re running my sister and I ragged!” Zasraman rolled his hips about and leaned his head back. A dramatic sigh escaped through his mask as he lurched forward. “I love you darling, dear sisters, even if you must continuously kill my mood.” Zasraman said. “But, very well.” He turned back to the table and gave a flourishing bow. “Farewell, mon’keigh and pony! Do enjoy your food!” The Harlequin rapidly danced off, leaving the stunned precession and the two red-skinned women behind. They both sighed while the one with glasses tossed a handful of credits onto the table with the casualness of throwing trash aside. “Here, to pay for your cigarettes and the meal,” she said. “Come, Scanty, we’d best follow our ward before he adds to the already growing pile of paperwork.” The other woman nodded, running her fingers through her green hair. “Yes, of course, dear Kneesocks.” Scanty said. “Although, after this one is finished, we will need a new support leg for Fastner’s desk.” The two siblings walked off, talking amongst themselves, while the procession of masked men and ponies followed meekly behind. It was a solid five minutes before anyone at the table decided to speak up. “... Okay, who the frakk were those two?” Devon asked, pointing to where the two red women once stood. “Scanty and Kneesocks Daemon, two semi-prominent members of Relations.” Amber explained. “They’re businesswomen from Earth Datenshi, a world prominent in the supernatural and faithful magic. I’ve spoken to them rarely, but they’re… interesting sisters.” Yamira rubbed her undamaged side with an exasperated sigh. “Their surnames are Daemon?” she said. She sighed once more into her palm. “I need to rest, this day has been trying enough.” Amber nodded and collected the scraps of money on the table to give to the restaurant, leaving Devon, Yamira, and Bell at the table alone. Devon stood up from his chair and sat down in the vacant one next to the Commissar. “That was… a surprising way you handled that situation, Lady Commissar.” Devon said, giving a faint smile. “I would have just taken my lasgun and blown a hole through that Xenos’ chest just for stepping close, if I had it with me.” “I would have too, and I would have been glad to do it.” Yamira confessed. “After what the Eldar did to my homeworld, my blade would find its way through the heart of every one of their repugnant race and I would eat them off the still-sizzling metal like a skewer.” Devon scooted back in his seat, images in his mind of Yamira standing over Zasraman’s corpse, bleeding profusely with pieces of his alien heart wedged between her teeth, making his stomach churn. “Delightful notions, my Lady,” Devon said, trying to get the greenness of his face to fade away. “Hold on, I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned your homeworld before.” Yamira shot her gaze to the ground, her good eye shut tightly. “Touchy subject, hmm? Permit me a guess?” Yamira said nothing. “Suppose not. T’ain’t my place to ask it, anyway. I’m just a Guardsman along for the ride.” “Piamen.” Yamira said, gaze still averted. “My homeworld is Piamen. That’s all I will say.” Yamira stood up and adjusted the brim of her hat. “Jameson and Dust will be returning momentarily. Hopefully there will be no more stops to prevent proper rest.” As Yamira walked off, Devon was left with little more than questions and an agape mouth. Yamira stared at the vacant bench across the way, trying to recall a vague memory of something that caught her attention earlier, and also desperately trying to forget even mentioning Piamen. ‘Attachment to such a past is folly,’ she thought. ‘Piamen has passed, focus on the now, Yamira. Even if the now surrounds you with the enemy.’ “301, 302… oh, 303! Here we are!” Amber chipperly said, pressing her hoof on the doorframe. It was identical as all the other blue and black doorways that lined the equally dull blue hallway that she, the Commissar, and her servitor companion had walked down for a while now, with the Captain having long been taken into Cage’s custody to find his own residency. After having their meal at the restaurant (which Yamira never even received in the commotion, but opted to remain silent on the matter, while her stomach protested in silence), Cage had driven them to the newly-constructed residential complex, a massive dome nearly the size of an Upper Hive, yet having nowhere near as much majesty. Hundreds of floors with thousands of rooms for visiting dignitaries from across the multiverse, and they simply named it the “Diplomat Dome”. Surprising that a nigh powerful society from beyond the boundaries of the Warp itself naming itself in a High Gothic phrase would be lacking in creativity. Amber tapped her hoof on a glossy black pad on the door’s left side. “This is a bio-lock scanner,” Amber explained. “I’m no big-brain sciencey type, but they’ve told me that you basically need to place your left hand flat on the screen, and then it takes a photograph of your hoof - wait, no, fingerprints. You don’t have hooves, I think.” Yamira refrained from rolling her eye, lest it roll straight out of its socket. “Anyway, once you do that, your hand will be a key to this lock and you can let yourself in and out whenever you please!” She turned up to Yamira, eyes sparkling and smile wide. “Go on, give it a shot!” Yamira stared at the black slab against the door frame, her own half-ghastly reflection staring back with disinterest. “Use my left hand, correct?” Yamira asked. Amber nodded, gesturing towards the pad with her head. “If you so insist.” Yamira held up her left hand and slowly began to remove the glove, hiding any traces of pain from the sensitive plucking of thread against her skin. It was worth it in the end to see the look of shock on Amber’s face as she saw the meaty, boney mess that was underneath. Like Yamira’s own face, the extent of her apparent burns was extreme, exposing flesh, nerve, sinew and bone in a single cadaverous mess. She slowly reached her hand towards the black pad, the cool pricking of artificial breeze of the building making even the lightest twitch of her vulnerable fingers send small jolts of pain up her arm. Just as the tip of bone on her forefinger was about to touch the pad, Amber wildly flailed her hooves and interjected. “I, uh, actually think that maybe using your right hand would be better!” The pony rapidly said. A ghost of a smile crossed Yamira’s face as she deftly slipped her glove back on. With far less flair with her left, she removed the glove on her right hand, exposing her soft white skin, undamaged by war and strife. Yamira placed her hand flat on the black pad, surprisingly warm to the touch compared to most cold machinery she had been exposed to. The pad hummed a blue glow for a few seconds, then turned a bright green. The door slid open into a single room complex, about as large as her usual quarters onboard the Penitent Oath, only with an iron-framed bed in lieu of a hammock, a vanity not emblazoned in gold, the Merodi’s mark on the back wall as opposed to the Imperial Aquila, and private indoor plumbing. Yamira stepped inside, with Bell immediately following behind her. The Servitor found an unoccupied corner of the room and plopped itself down on the ground, an escaping hiss from its exhaust indicated a rest state. It was minimalistic, but the quarters would serve her well for the duration of her stay. She ran her fingers over the sheets of the bed, stark white and undisturbed, before settling her gaze back on the pony in the doorway, still maintaining her political smile. “This will serve me adequately,” she said. She walked back to the doorway, finding a mirroring black pad on the opposite side of the doorframe. “As have your services. I’ll be retiring now.” She moved to press her hand to the pad, but Amber interrupted. “Whew, that’s a relief!” Amber said, wiping her brow with her hoof. “I was worried you hated me for how the day went, what with that first reception on your ship, that stop at the Tau Outpost for Ambassador Windmind, the drive to the Relations Office, that meeting with Zasraman, but I’m glad it all turned out well in the end!” “Of course,” Yamira flatly said. She placed her hand on the pad, and the door immediately slid shut in Amber’s face. “Well, uh, okay!” Amber’s muffled voice came from the other side. “I’ll come by in the morning to give you and Cage a proper tour of Celestia City! It was… really nice meeting you!” Yamira stood by the doorway for five minutes, waiting to hear if the pony was still there. Satisfied at no further intrusions, Yamira sighed and removed her hat from her head, allowing a cascade of finely cut blonde hair to fall upon her shoulders. She tossed her hat onto the bed and sat down on a vacant chair. She looked over to Bell and spoke to the Servitor in High Gothic. “Bell, commence new entry in personal data-logs,” she said. Bell’s eyes lit up as a roll of parchment fed through the slots on its chassis, auto-quills primed and ready for recording. “COMPLIANCE?” it shrieked in its mechanical voice. Yamira ran her bare hand through her hair, working a few potential knots out of it before they could become troublesome. “By the compliance of Lady Commissar Yamira Kalov, of the Commissariat of the Astra Militarum, by the glory of the Imperium of Man and the will of the God Emperor of Mankind.” Bell beeped and planted the quill on the parchment. “COMPLIANCE ACCEPTED, COMMENCE ORATION.” Yamira slowly removed her boots, clearing her throat in commencement of her nightly rituals. “My newly assigned duties as diplomat representing the Astra Militarum and the Imperium of Man for the multiversal society, Merodi Universalis, have commenced. As expected, it is a backwards society that allows for heretics, mutants and xenos to roam freely, including Tau and accursed Eldar. In my meeting with two of the leaders of the Merodi, I was wrongfully assaulted by one Evening Sparkle for demanding satisfaction for having an alien setting foot on Holy Terra, and accosted by General Jack O’Neill in the process. This may be one of my greatest challenges yet, but I will not let the Commissariat down. The Emperor watches over me and these tribulations. As usual, I will conclude this oration with a silent prayer to the God-Emperor of Mankind, and rest for the remainder of the day. End entry.” “ORATION CONCLUDED.” Bell snipped off the final portion of the parchment with its pincers and began its filing. Yamira stood from the bed and knelt down on the floor, clasping both her hands tightly around an aquila necklace dangling from her neck. Her eye closed and her lips moved to utter silent words of faith to the Emperor. This was the most peaceful she ever felt in her day-to-day, where she could feel her spirit transcend her mortal form and be with the Emperor in the closest way she could, save for setting foot on Holy Terra itself. Though that may be a dream unattainable within her lifetime, Yamira was content at it being just this. That contentment was broken immediately by a knocking on her door. Yamira sighed and stood up from her kneeling. She walked over to the door and pressed her hand on the pad, opening it and revealing the last person she wanted to see for the remainder of the day. “Commissar Kalov!” cheered Ambassador Windmind. The Water Caste Tau female was standing in Yamira’s doorway, smiling just as sweetly as when she last saw her and making Yamira sick just by looking. “I did not know that we were neighbors! Joy of joys, this presents so many opportunities for bonding between our empires and ourselves! I’ll look forward to seeing you every day as we go about representing ourselves for the sake of multiversal unity and the Greater Good!” Yamira promptly closed the door in Windmind’s face and went back onto the bed, retrieving a can of nutrient paste from the confines of her jacket. She popped the lid off, dug two fingers into the grey goop inside, and started shovelling it into her mouth. Yamira Kalov had never considered herself a stress-eater, but now seemed an apt time to start.