//------------------------------// // Fanta is available in hundreds of flavors, including "Mushroom," "Red Tangerine," "Lychee Soursop," and "Banana Fermented Milk" // Story: I Blame You, Too // by Whitestrake //------------------------------// $%$%$% Taylor's POV $%$%$% “So, Burned Man, how may I serve you?” The Medic purred, slowly sliding a brush into her pistol's barrel, and began cleaning the weapon with practiced ease. The unicorn always found a way to unnerve me; her natural mannerisms only worsened matters. She wasn't actually attracted to me, or at least I didn't think she was. “We've got five recruits needing a physical, as well as psychic examinations for the oldest male,” I replied, ignoring the innuendo she held suspended in her magic's aura. In response to my obvious resistance, she increased the brush's pace, though kept as innocent a face as she could. Blast residue wasn't difficult to clean from an automatic, let alone on a gun of such quality materials. “I trust you to be on your best behavior; I know how you get when you work around humans.” “As if I would allow personal curiosities to color my judgment.” She tried to act indignant, but she was as happy to go cutting on a man or woman as she was blue, and she was very azure. She was always a little more than eager to look after me, and in more ways than could be considered professional. “You should know me better than that, boss.” “Sunny, do your job. The fate of the kingdom may well rest in these recruits' hands, and, by extension, your hooves.” I needn't say more. A familiar flash shot through her eyes, the very same seen within those of warriors and kings on the eve of battle. The Medic may have had her peculiarities, but she was fiercely loyal, and better than just about everyone I have ever met when it came to close combat. Dahl and his retinue were in good hands if she was in charge. “I'll send the first one in. Her name is Delphine, and she is incredibly xenophobic.” “Taylor, you did say full physical, right?” Sunny Smiles, doctor who lost her medical license after a malpractice suit or two dozen, was still Sunny Smiles, the Medic, and she would always be too eager to work. $%$%$%$%$%$%$% Sister Delphine did not enjoy her current situation in the least. She sat, naked, on some exam room cot while a xenos examined her like she was some sort of experiment. The cyclops looked in distaste as the blue pony forced her to remove her eye patch, only to focus on the bit of skull blown from the side of her head and the dark, empty socket. Most of the tests were complete, and only medical history remained. In the corner, Martellus's servo-skull hovered dutifully, ready to translate anything that needed to be said. “Yes, Miss Delphine, how long ago did you lose your arm?” As if she had the right to that information, but it was the Emperor's will that the Sister cooperate. “Twenty years standard,” was the only reply given. The Hospitaller scowled as the Medic moved onto the next item on her list. “How did you lose your eye?” The Sororitas scowled and gave her an honest answer: she lost it when a traitor guardsman got a lucky shot on her face with a laspistol. No, there were no secondary infections; no, she was not in pain; no, she did not want a new eye. “And how many children have you had?” “Zero.” Completely true; Delphine had barely had time to relax since she joined the Order of Serenity, let alone reproduce. “Am I done?” “Of course, now please send in the next patient.” $%$%$%$%$%$% Oleg barely fit on the cot, but the Medic didn't really seem to mind. He couldn't see why Skully had been so reluctant to speak to her. The giant of a man relaxed as he calmly rattled off his previous surgeries, injuries, and venereal diseases. It was all pretty standard stuff, right down to the old turn your head and cough. Really, the pony must have been passionate about her job. “Alright, sir, how long have you been smoking?” Lho sticks were unheard of on this planet, so it made sense that the Medic was unable to determine how long he had been a user by looking at him. “A little under fifteen years, give or take.” Actually, Oleg could have gone for a smoke right then, just to get his mind off having his balls felt up by an alien. “Roughly how often would you say you are injured in the field?” That was a tough question, to be honest. He usually walked away with a bullet or las wound, made two, but there were plenty of times he came out unscathed or riddled with holes. Bone injuries were rampant, and a part of daily life for him. “Once or twice a mission, nothing too serious.” Oleg watched the Medic scribble something on a pad of paper, then look at him and smile. “Good enough for me; next!” $%$%$% Amos's POV $%$%$% Turns out Alexander had Martellus run a scan of him and filled out the forms himself, meaning the two were not seeing the doc, and bumped me to the front. Dahl would be right behind me, because apparently psykers require special care during this process. The Medic, looked me over, confused about a detail or two in my answers. “Are you sure you're fifty?” She asked, glancing back to her... thing that looked like a dataslate made of wood. She obviously wasn't convinced, but I've aged well, or at least well enough not to require juvenat treatments to maintain my appearance. For a savage, I've managed to keep my youth better than most Imperial nobles. “Positive. If you'll give me a week or so, I can show you my documents.” I actually couldn't. One of the reasons the Imperium didn't like my planet was most of us were illiterate and we lacked machines capable of keeping records. Yeah, the Ecclesiarchy did a decent job, but most of them couldn't even pronounce our names properly. “So, Doc, we about done here?” “You're probably the healthiest one I've seen today.” The Medic smiled at me, and not in a good way. Ever seen a guy in the Penal Legions smile? Yeah, it was a bit like that, only more sinister because she was a psyker who had Skully nervous. Her eyes became half-lidded as she looked at me. “Now, do come back if you ever need anything.” “Yeah, I'll do that.” No I wouldn't, not in a hundred centuries. “And please tell Reglan Dahl and the Burned Man to come here.” The Burned Man? Did she mean Skully, or Taylor, as Martellus said his name was. Probably so, given the fact he was almost certainly in charge of the whole show. “Can do.” $%$%$% Taylor's POV $%$%$% Dahl sat in a chair in the back office, the one we used for examining humans who exhibited mutations that granted unique abilities. The psyker condition was one such ailment, and we had facilities to accommodate such individuals. The inquisitor strapped his helmet to his seat's headrest and relaxed, as instructed. This was a rare occurrence, so only one member of the Inquisition was ever needed per Temple to receive our... unique guests. I served as the Canterlot Temple's metric for determining psionic ability. “Now, please raise all mental defenses you may have, so the Burned Man can attempt to destroy them.” The Medic was wearing her combat armor, which was coincidentally the only suit attuned to block out my specific psychic signature. This was a safety measure included after an incident three years ago, which is a long story I'd rater not go into. Suffice to say, I couldn't affect her, so she was clear to chop up anything that needed chopping. When Dahl tensed, I knew he was nearly ready. The barest hints of ozone filtered through my armor's chem-sensors, and thermals registered a noticeable drop in temperature in the area immediately surrounding his head. Frost had barely begun to collect on his helmet when the Medic strapped him fully into his chair, a sign enough Warp-energy was in the air for me to work against him at his full strength. I focused my power into something that would resemble a sliver or knife, were able to physically manifest. With no tact, warning, or hesitation, I stabbed into the mind of Reglan Dahl.