ARCANA (40K Perpetual Quest)

[ ] Devotion

...After an indeterminable amount of time, you retract your hand. "No," You say, reticent, some part of you unwilling to let go, an ugly, covetous part of you screaming of your mistake. Still, you had to move on: you had made your choice, time to live with it. "I can't. I..."

What was the word? The...gratitude one, the one you said when thanking others. It was on the tip of your tongue...

...Appreciate. That was the word. The fact that it took you a moment to remember it was, honestly, a bit depressing. "..Appreciate it," You muttered, head hung low, brim of your hood covering your tilted eyes, which closed, for a moment as you breathed in and out, continuing your show of acknowledgement. "I appreciate it. But I can't accept with good conscience."

The implied reason for this lingered in the air for a moment, before Father Eli placed the Laspistol back on the desk, sighing. "Alright. I cannot force you to take it, and if it bothers your soul so much I won't press the issue. However-" He said, frowning. "That doesn't mean I can help in other ways. I'll have to make some last minute calls."

"I...thank you. Really," You say, the words unfamiliar and halting to you. Omnissiah, how did you respond to this? Academically, you had an understanding that probably you didn't NEED to reciprocate since you were turning down the laspistol, but you still felt the need to do...something. Say something, at least, to honor or at barest minimum recognize how significant his offer was and how it had affected your esteem of the man, but the words refused to come: every time you tried to think of one a blinding blankness seized your mind.

Father Eli gave a soft smile, placing a hand on your shoulder, causing you to flush a bit. "Son, you can thank me when you get back from that place alive."

14/30 progress to Networking (Journeyman)

+3 Fate. 4/5 Fate until ???

In the future, a choice has opened up, and another has closed off.

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[ ] Arms Dealers

The next place you go, your thoughts are all in a jumble, grappling with your decision. Omnissiah, you didn't understand Eli. What kind of person just offered something as...as holy as a relic laspistol to...

To, well, a nobody. You were literally just trash. It just...

You needed a inebriant. Quite sorely, honestly. But for now, you had to remain sober: maybe once you got back from the Orkium you would go on a bender. Frankly, you would have earned it, considering the Orkium in question. However, until then, you had to remain sharp, sharp as a flint: no engaging in your standard vices.

You licked your lips. Omnissiah, would you love a drink right now. Still. Had to stay strong: couldn't drink away your troubles if you were dead, after all.

You pushed open the door to the arms workshop. Business was slower, now: without the massive demand for gear necessitated by a Martyrs March, it was a great deal more sedate, with only the regular stream of laspistol purchases, warbike repair, etc. Frowning, you stepped into the
back, looking for Reva.

However, it was fruitless. After a few moments, you come to the conclusion that she isn't here: maybe she's running errands, maybe she was enjoying the rare day off (a generally foolish thing City-Borne who had recently become Outskirts liked to engage in: natives generally understood that stillness, as they said, was death. You debate leaving her be- after all, you didn't actually need her any more. Beyond which, she was probably not long for this world in general.

...However, every time you considered the idea, a pit opened up within you: after all, even if she was doomed, you had done the equivalent of shoving her closer to the edge. That wasn't something you particularly wished on your conscience, regardless of who it was.

You approached a man working on a war-truck. An expensive looking one: little rust or rents in the thick, solid armor, the frame heavy and rectangular, with a complete, equally armored canopy, windows made out of tough, durable glass-crete, the latter marking it as a City vehicle: the plasma-kilns required in its constructions too advanced for even the richest of gangs. It wasn't unusual: Suppression Squads operated at the edge of civilization not unfrequently, and some times it was more convenient to get light repairs done at the Shanties: best to return to the reaping fields faster and all that.

The man in question working on it, toiling beneath the hood to work on the guts of the behemoth, was possessed of a great deal of prominence, much like Father Eli, and going by his weight, proud and heavy, was likely the owner of the shop, or at least its foreman of sorts, position ensuring their plate amply filled. Covered in assorted mechanical viscera, sparks were illuminated in the dark as the mans lascutter worked to disgorged whatever piece of the truck was non-functional.

...A quick glance indicated it was the battery core. The man was currently ripping out the nav module.

Well. Going to stay silent on that for a bit. Clearing your throat, you did your best to catch the Foreman's attention. Grunting, the man turned, raising his goggles up to reveal reddish, strained eyes, no doubt irritated from staring at a lascutter blade without proper protection. "Whuddya want?" His eyes finally focused, and his frown widened in recogniztion. "Oh, yer the new girls hireling. Ain't in today. Lipped off to a customer." He snorted, lowering his goggles again, sparking up his lascutter. "Probably decided to lick her wounds wh'ever she holes up at," He grunted, continuing his job, conversation clearly done. The man very obviously didn't care to talk to you.

Well. You would have to find her at her place of residence then: she was...probably dead, or soon to be.

...Once you figured out where she lived.

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Mobile Park: a collection of mechanized housing, many of which were equipped with assorted weaponry. It was the general principle of the Shanties that no wheel and engine should go uncomplemented by a gun, so sayeth the Anointed St. Alatiwara, Patron of Vehicles and Bloody Mechanism. You whistled as you looked at the House-Tank Reva lived in. Swanky, almost Deluxe in its splendor: two whole stories, no visible rents or holes in the gunmetal grey, windowless armor, the treads were in excellent condition, and the turret was niiiice and long. Compared to an actual tank or dedicated heavy war-truck it wouldn't last a minute, but you knew from experience these motorized buildings were great for long term forays outside the Shanties: enough firepower to scare off most nasty critters, enough armor to dissuade the average hungry hunter to buzz off, and all the luxuries one desired in a home: running water, electric stove, a stand-up pantry.

You had always wanted to buy one. As you looked the majestic behemoth over, you briefly wondered whether you had pursued the wrong profession: if Reva could afford this...

You shook your head. No, no, you had good...GOOD reasons for not going into mechanics as your racket. You weren't worthy.

...Still, you wouldn't deny your obvious envy. Walking to the door, you knocked once, twice, each rap of your knuckles echoing with a sharp clang as you waited for a response.

...Nothing. Hesitant, you twisted the handle on the hatch, a round, circular thing small enough that you had to crawl through it, causing it to slide open. Not locked.

Worrisome. Heistantly, you crawled up the small portal, delving into the darkness. Blinking, you felt the wall, slowly rising to a standing position in the House-Tank as your eyes slowly adjusted to the near dark, a single bulb on the ceiling on and working. "Reva?" You called out, hesistant, before repeating yourself. "Reva?"

...Silence. Giving a dry swallow, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small flashlight, clicking it on, illuminating the small home with its narrow beam.

...Was that wallpaper?

You shook your head. Focus. Reva now, aesthetics later. You began to explore, trudging forward and opening each and every door in the building, your light revealing their contents as you went room by room. As you worked, two thoughts converged within you. The first, and more immediate one, was "I really hope I don't find a corpse". For one thing, you'd feel more than a bit guilty at never having made amends. For another, you didn't really want to dispose of a body.

The other, less prominent one was "If she's dead, I'm stealing her house."

What? You weren't going to lie and pretend you were above it: a vehicle like this, it could go for several hundred, IF you decided to sell it. You were equally considering keeping it, and using it to move to another Shanty, beyond the Sisterhoods reach. That or lying low in the wilderness for awhile, wait for the Sisterhood to forgive and forget (or at least forget): tough living, sure, but you had survived on Squig in the past, greasy and slightly rancid tasting as it might have been.

Eventually, you came upon the final room in the building. Taking a deep breath, you gathered your courage, pushing open the door even as you braced yourself for the sour, milky, almost fruity or floral smell of rotted, maggoty flesh.

When you didn't smell such a thing, you felt an odd mix, one part a boon of relief, on the other, a pang of regret: you would have really enjoyed having a house-tank. For one thing, you didn't have to worry about leaky roofs with them. On the bed, you noted, was Reva, laying still, face and body covered in bruises and cuts, the former a litany of yellow and brown and purple, the latter varying shades of red.

You couldn't see their chest rise and fall, so you noted they might indeed still have been dead. It wasn't unusual: people whose injuries seemed light felled by a clot of the brain or shake of the head gone wrong, hours or days after the injury which might seem unlethal. Your own caretaker, you recalled, had died like that: the old monster had accidentally hit his head on the frame of a door, gaining a minor bump. A day later, they were gone, reaped from the coil.

...Good riddance.

Still, you knew enough to check whether Reva was in fact deceased.

Approaching, you placed a finger on where her pulse would be located.

Diagnose: 87-5 (Untrained): 82: Solid Success

Bump. Bump. Bump. You let out a breath. She was alive, then: just unconscious. Probably should get her a water or pillow or something, make sure she doesn't dehydrate-

Reva's eyes opened, blinking, bleary, before settling on you. "Ulysses? Why are you holding my wrist?"

Of all times for someone to regain consciousness.

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A few minutes, some explanation, and some working with a recaff machine later, you were leaning on the wall, drinking from that foul, obsidian brew. Across the room, Reva sipped from her metal thermos, still on her bed but slightly risen, doing her best to not shift her bones: apparently she had broken a number of them.

"...So, your first thought on seeing me was that I was probably dead?" She asked, staring at you from the corner of her eyes, never meeting your gaze directly, her voice low and scratchy.

"...Yeah."

"Well. Thanks for checking, at least," She said, a heaviness in her tone, a weariness that you recognized. The weariness and melancholy that afflicted all new to the shanties upon getting their first taste of reality. "Most probably would have stabbed me just to make sure."

...Probably yeah. You didn't vocalize the thought, but frankly she already knew such was true and you weren't going to lie to her about it. After all, for the briefest moment even you had considered a quick severance and the seizing of property.

"...What if I WAS dead, Ulysses?" She asked, finally meeting your gaze even as her head remained facing her slowly cooling cup, steam rising off the pitch dark surface. "What would you have done then?"

...

"Are you sure you want me to answer that?" You reply, honestly. Because you knew the awnser: it wasn't even a question, not really. You would have tossed her corpse in a ditch regardless of any guilt you might have, and then stolen every single thing in the House-Tank after first finding and retrieving the keys, and then taken the tank as your own.

It wasn't an answer you liked, but you were honest with yourself, at least. To an Outskirts, empathy was mere petty sentiment, and for the dead moreso. But you weren't sure that the City-Born could deal with the truth, not in as such an emotionally fragile state as they clearly were.

Reva nodded. You opened your mouth...

Select a Skill!

[ ] Logos: Absolute Truth. You would have taken everything she had, and you would feel exceedingly little guilt about it, because that was the kind of mindset that kept you alive.

[ ] Pathos: Lie. Lie like hell. You would have seen that she got at least some kind of burial, and would have gotten Father Eli to pray for her.

[ ] Ethos: Doesn't really matter: she would have been dead and beyond caring.

[ ] Write In Appropriate Skill

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AN: So, social challenges, arguments, etc, unlike more morality and ethics adjacent choices, you don't have a few pre-set options. Instead you select from your relevant skills to construct your argument. These do not have to be social skills, mind: if you were trying to negotiate a treaty, for instance, involving the movement of troops in a region, you could sub in tactics, or if you were trying to convince someone it would be a good idea to invest in a company you owned, you could use the appropriate trade skill.

Obviously, using different skills engenders different results. To use the Treaty example, Tactics would likely end with a treaty more favorable to you due to negotiating yourself into a position where you could benefit from assorted tactical loopholes in the treaty, wheras Logos would likely result in a more broadly fair, and thus better received, treaty, wheras Leadership would probably net you a treaty with enthusiastic support but more holes. Further, different skills obviously have different DC's. As such, don't make your choice based solely on what social skill you have grinded the highest, but what one you think will end in better results.

Later on, you'll encounter social challenges that let you select multiple skills, but we'll cover those when we get to them.

(Also, because I don't think I ever explained it, the Kairos skill represents the Appeal to Opportunity branch of rhetorical appeals. In many ways it functions as a sort of broader haggle skill.)