- Location
- Great Khanate of Scotland
- Pronouns
- She/Her
You have to hit the bottom before you can come back up again!
Ecstacies of Saint Chrisenya the Mad [Warhammer 40k] [Transgender Sororitas] [NSFW]
- Thread starter dragonsaffron
- Start date
- Mature Sci-Fi
Chapter Thirty-Two
- Pronouns
- She/They
Six years. That's how long it had been since last there was a Fidelitas without a Chrisenya. One-third of her life, nearly the entirety of her life since she had been cut free from the fetters of home and kin, had been spent with the little white-haired disaster by her side. Now she was gone.
It had felt almost cathartic, at first, to let loose her frustrations with Chrisenya's staunch moralism, with her absolute refusal to disclose whatever fault of body, mind, or soul had been causing her to act with such utter derangement. Fidelitas had expected a hurried apology, a few rounds of begging for forgiveness, and an apologetic explanation. If she had realized what she was going to get instead she might have taken a different route. Or perhaps she wouldn't have; perhaps some things were worth this pain.
And what pain it was. Chrisenya's absence was a phantom limb of the mind. Throughout the day, Fidelitas would reflexively think to tell Chrisenya about some event, or flinch in the direction of aiding her with some difficulty, only for her to remember a moment later that they were not on speaking terms. There were countless little conversations throughout the day that Fidelitas found herself missing more and more sorely.
And then it had become much, much worse, when that absolute bastard Severn managed to connive her way up Chrisenya's skirt. Damned unfair was what it was; one rescue, one microscopic act of kindness, and Chrisenya crawled into her lap. As though Fidelitas would not have done the same thing a hundred times over if given the opportunity! In some senses it almost validated Fidelitas's decision to cut off contact, if Chrisenya's favor could be bought so easily as with a single positive interaction. But it didn't matter how little it had taken: the fact remained that it was Severn, not Fidelitas, who enjoyed the fruits of Chrisenya's company.
Loathe to admit it though she might have been, Fidelitas even found herself missing the sex. They'd only ever done it a couple of times, and yet every time she saw Chrisenya and Severn holding hands or pressing forehead to forehead whilst nobody else was looking, she found herself burning with desire for Chrisenya's skin. But of course it was Severn who got to enjoy that contact now. And, based on her observations of Chrisenya, likely far more than Fidelitas ever had.
There were several times when Fidelitas seriously considered doing something about the situation. Perhaps she would find a time when she could find Severn alone and give her a what-for, really stake her claim over Chrisenya. Maybe she would get Chrisenya alone and beg for her to take her back, maybe get down on her hands and knees while she was at it. Fidelitas might have even tried demanding an apology on the strength of the bond that had existed between the two of them, hoping that Chrisenya was as upset by the separation as she was. But all of these options ran into the same barrier, that of Fidelitas's pride. To give in, to take action, would be to admit defeat, to prove that Chrisenya hadn't actually upset her that much and this whole thing had just been an act of petulance.
And so the ache grew worse and worse, and there was so very little that Fidelitas could do but suffer. She threw herself into training, dedicating herself utterly to the skills of blade and bolt, and really studying the liturgy for the first time in years. Her dedication was for nothing, of course, nothing besides her own edification, which felt so very shallow without Chrisenya to share it with.
Then came the note, a bit of flimsy crudely slipped under her breakfast tray and marked with ink in Chrisenya's handwriting. All that was written on it was a location: a specific room in the chapel near the novitiate's hall. Fidelitas choked down the thick, milky gruel that was her morning meal that day—a free day, with nothing else to stop her—and raced away at once. This little communication, small as it was, was the first real interaction that she had had with Chrisenya in almost forty days, and she was not going to let it go to waste. The room was a small prayer nook, quiet and out of the way, decorated with a huge gilded icon of the Empress on the wall and just barely big enough for two.
And it needed to be, because Chrisenya was right there waiting for her. But a different Chrisenya from the one she had known before. She was still so very short, with her naturally-white hair in a rigid bob and her grey eyes like a bird's, peering through Fidelitas with keen interest. It almost looked as though Chrisenya had gained a handful of centimeters. She wasn't shrinking herself as much as she had previously, not slouching quite as much. And she was wearing a different uniform as well, one with a longer skirt and dark red lines starting at the hips and running up to the shoulders.
For several seconds, they shared the same room together, both novitiates unable to rupture the silence. Eventually, the tension grew so great that Fidelitas had no choice but to say something, anything at all. She said something insipid.
"Your lips and your eyes swapped colors," she said.
This was, technically, somewhat true. Chrisenya's lips were painted black, and her eyes possessed a halo of pale red coloration instead of the black-ink angel-wing design she had used ever since she was introduced to the concept of cosmetics.
"Indeed they have," Chrisenya said with a smile. It made Fidelitas's heart seize.
"Why'd you call me here?" Fidelitas said.
Chrisenya hesitated, casting her eyes downward and smoothing out the edge of her skirt. "To make amends," she said. "To… apologize."
Fidelitas's legs grew weak as a maelstrom of color fell in front of her eyes. She stumbled a step closer, hands almost ready to grab Chrisenya and pull her into a hug there and then. But Chrisenya leaned back.
"I should not have been so judgmental about your motives," Chrisenya continued. "It was… hubristic of me to do so. As it turned out, my own motives were not so sacrosanct either, and I should not have blamed you and insulted you as I did. You are, in the end, your own person, and ill understanding is no sin."
Fidelitas blinked at her for a moment, processing the meaning behind her words. "You still think I'm wrong, then?"
"Yes! Well, perhaps. I still think about it sometimes. But that is besides the point, the point is that I shouldn't have allowed it to get between us. I am sorry, Fidelitas."
The dam burst, and Fidelitas did pull Chrisenya into that hug, which was gladly reciprocated. An ache in her heart was soothed by the warmth of Chrisenya's tiny body pressed against hers, and the slight relief was so all-encompassing that for a little while she forgot the entire galaxy, even the second reason why she and Chrisenya had had their falling-out in the first place. Only for a little while.
"Do you want to talk about what was happening, why you were acting so strange?" Fidelitas said. "You've gotten better since then, I can see it, but you never explained…?"
Chrisenya extricated her head from Fidelitas's chest, giving her a look of profound embarrassment. "Stimm. I was… I was using stimm. Two, sometimes three pills a day."
Fidelitas was shocked, first that Chrisenya of all people would crack such a crude joke, and then a few moments later that she was being entirely serious. "Stimm?! What in the warp got into you, Chris?" Upon seeing the flash of terror in Chrisenya's features, she added, "I'm not upset, I've known stimm addicts, I'm just bloody confused!"
Chrisenya pulled away, her shame growing. "You saw how much I was struggling. How much I still am. It was the only way I could think to push through it."
Fidelitas nodded. It scared her, seeing Chrisenya of all people pushed to such extremes, but she wasn't going to judge. "You got better though, right? You're not taking it anymore?"
"No, not anymore," Chrisenya said. "I haven't taken any in, er, ages."
To Fidelitas's ears, she sounded like she was lying. But Chrisenya wouldn't lie, not about this. Regardless, she went on to change the topic.
"You really have no idea how much Sister Severn's been helping me with, just, everything. She's one of the better things to have ever happened to me, really."
Instantly, Fidelitas went cold, letting go of Chrisenya and leaving a respectable hand's-length gap between the two of them. Sister Severn. Of course she was still involved, of course Chrisenya hadn't come here to beg Fidelitas take her back, no Bolaran in the last fifty generations had been that lucky.
"Really?" Fidelitas said, not letting a single droplet of emotion touch her face or voice.
Chrisenya nodded. "She's not who I thought she was. Severn is a woman possessed of a deep faith and profoundly unusual perspective, I've never… I've never met anyone who understands things the way she does. I wouldn't have been able to survive without her."
Fidelitas wanted to ask if Chrisenya thought she would have been able to survive without her, but she bit back her tongue. "So, what, she your girlfriend or something?"
Chrisenya clasped her hands in front of her chest, and for a moment Fidelitas thought she might be about to start praying aloud. Instead she only nodded.
"I would not put it so… crudely, but our relationship is unique in a similar sense, yes." Chrisenya couldn't seem to meet Fidelitas's eyes.
"Are you…?"
"Yes."
"Didn't expect to get that answer so easily," Fidelitas said. "Most people are more private about that sort of thing."
"You and I have very little privacy," Chrisenya said. "Not now that we are no longer apart. I didn't want to have to ignore what we did, even if it wasn't quite the same, I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."
Fidelitas folded her arms. "What do you mean it 'wasn't quite the same'?"
"We're friends, Fidelitas. You comforted me in dark moments, and I you. We were never on, to use the phrasing which Sister Severn insists upon."
"So, what, you love her or something? I didn't realize you were so sentimental."
"No! Er, yes! But I love you too! It's just… different. She understands me."
"She understands you? Chrisenya, she's known you for barely a sixth of a year, and I've known you for six. How can she possibly understand you better than I do?"
Chrisenya threw up her arms, wheeling around to pace only to run into the edge of the room a moment later. "She just does. Some things you can't explain, you just can't."
The tight room, not really meant to accommodate two, was already starting to warm up, and the heavy beat of the anger in Fidelitas's chest was only making it worse. She couldn't wrap her head around it, how this handsome stranger had come in and stolen Chrisenya's heart so easily. Eventually, Chrisenya looked back over her shoulder, eyes shiny with tears.
"I don't want to start fighting with you again. Please. Can we let it go?"
"Of course," Fidelitas said. "Let's change the topic. What's with your new look?"
"New look?" Chrisenya looked down. "Oh, you mean the tunic? I never particularly liked the way you could see my knees in the old one, my legs are too thin and Maryllis helped me realize I was self-conscious of them."
"Maryllis? Who's that?"
Chrisenya raised an eyebrow. "Palatine Maryllis. Do you not know her?"
Fidelitas shook her head, then said, "Wait, actually, I remember that name from the recruitment office. That her?"
"She's the Palatine to Canoness-Commander Innogen, the lead recruiter for this year, or I suppose now it would be the last year. She's a very brilliant woman, but also uncommonly vain about her appearance. She's the one who's been keeping me supplied with all the cosmetic and the special uniforms that make it look like I have b— You know what I mean."
"And she, what, hooked you up with a more attractive design?" Fidelitas said, doubtfully. None of that sounded like Chrisenya at all.
"Yes. The Rule Sororitas dictates that all novitiates wear an identical uniform, but generally discipline will look the other way on code violations so long as they meet the rough qualifications and you've had good behavior. Red is the official color of the Order, besides, so red accents are considered to be…"
And just like that, things were back to normal. Chrisenya and Fidelitas left the chapel hand in hand, like they had always done, babbling back and forth about the affairs of the day. But there was a white hot flare in Fidelitas's heart, smothered under all that normality, a flare that would not forget.
It had felt almost cathartic, at first, to let loose her frustrations with Chrisenya's staunch moralism, with her absolute refusal to disclose whatever fault of body, mind, or soul had been causing her to act with such utter derangement. Fidelitas had expected a hurried apology, a few rounds of begging for forgiveness, and an apologetic explanation. If she had realized what she was going to get instead she might have taken a different route. Or perhaps she wouldn't have; perhaps some things were worth this pain.
And what pain it was. Chrisenya's absence was a phantom limb of the mind. Throughout the day, Fidelitas would reflexively think to tell Chrisenya about some event, or flinch in the direction of aiding her with some difficulty, only for her to remember a moment later that they were not on speaking terms. There were countless little conversations throughout the day that Fidelitas found herself missing more and more sorely.
And then it had become much, much worse, when that absolute bastard Severn managed to connive her way up Chrisenya's skirt. Damned unfair was what it was; one rescue, one microscopic act of kindness, and Chrisenya crawled into her lap. As though Fidelitas would not have done the same thing a hundred times over if given the opportunity! In some senses it almost validated Fidelitas's decision to cut off contact, if Chrisenya's favor could be bought so easily as with a single positive interaction. But it didn't matter how little it had taken: the fact remained that it was Severn, not Fidelitas, who enjoyed the fruits of Chrisenya's company.
Loathe to admit it though she might have been, Fidelitas even found herself missing the sex. They'd only ever done it a couple of times, and yet every time she saw Chrisenya and Severn holding hands or pressing forehead to forehead whilst nobody else was looking, she found herself burning with desire for Chrisenya's skin. But of course it was Severn who got to enjoy that contact now. And, based on her observations of Chrisenya, likely far more than Fidelitas ever had.
There were several times when Fidelitas seriously considered doing something about the situation. Perhaps she would find a time when she could find Severn alone and give her a what-for, really stake her claim over Chrisenya. Maybe she would get Chrisenya alone and beg for her to take her back, maybe get down on her hands and knees while she was at it. Fidelitas might have even tried demanding an apology on the strength of the bond that had existed between the two of them, hoping that Chrisenya was as upset by the separation as she was. But all of these options ran into the same barrier, that of Fidelitas's pride. To give in, to take action, would be to admit defeat, to prove that Chrisenya hadn't actually upset her that much and this whole thing had just been an act of petulance.
And so the ache grew worse and worse, and there was so very little that Fidelitas could do but suffer. She threw herself into training, dedicating herself utterly to the skills of blade and bolt, and really studying the liturgy for the first time in years. Her dedication was for nothing, of course, nothing besides her own edification, which felt so very shallow without Chrisenya to share it with.
Then came the note, a bit of flimsy crudely slipped under her breakfast tray and marked with ink in Chrisenya's handwriting. All that was written on it was a location: a specific room in the chapel near the novitiate's hall. Fidelitas choked down the thick, milky gruel that was her morning meal that day—a free day, with nothing else to stop her—and raced away at once. This little communication, small as it was, was the first real interaction that she had had with Chrisenya in almost forty days, and she was not going to let it go to waste. The room was a small prayer nook, quiet and out of the way, decorated with a huge gilded icon of the Empress on the wall and just barely big enough for two.
And it needed to be, because Chrisenya was right there waiting for her. But a different Chrisenya from the one she had known before. She was still so very short, with her naturally-white hair in a rigid bob and her grey eyes like a bird's, peering through Fidelitas with keen interest. It almost looked as though Chrisenya had gained a handful of centimeters. She wasn't shrinking herself as much as she had previously, not slouching quite as much. And she was wearing a different uniform as well, one with a longer skirt and dark red lines starting at the hips and running up to the shoulders.
For several seconds, they shared the same room together, both novitiates unable to rupture the silence. Eventually, the tension grew so great that Fidelitas had no choice but to say something, anything at all. She said something insipid.
"Your lips and your eyes swapped colors," she said.
This was, technically, somewhat true. Chrisenya's lips were painted black, and her eyes possessed a halo of pale red coloration instead of the black-ink angel-wing design she had used ever since she was introduced to the concept of cosmetics.
"Indeed they have," Chrisenya said with a smile. It made Fidelitas's heart seize.
"Why'd you call me here?" Fidelitas said.
Chrisenya hesitated, casting her eyes downward and smoothing out the edge of her skirt. "To make amends," she said. "To… apologize."
Fidelitas's legs grew weak as a maelstrom of color fell in front of her eyes. She stumbled a step closer, hands almost ready to grab Chrisenya and pull her into a hug there and then. But Chrisenya leaned back.
"I should not have been so judgmental about your motives," Chrisenya continued. "It was… hubristic of me to do so. As it turned out, my own motives were not so sacrosanct either, and I should not have blamed you and insulted you as I did. You are, in the end, your own person, and ill understanding is no sin."
Fidelitas blinked at her for a moment, processing the meaning behind her words. "You still think I'm wrong, then?"
"Yes! Well, perhaps. I still think about it sometimes. But that is besides the point, the point is that I shouldn't have allowed it to get between us. I am sorry, Fidelitas."
The dam burst, and Fidelitas did pull Chrisenya into that hug, which was gladly reciprocated. An ache in her heart was soothed by the warmth of Chrisenya's tiny body pressed against hers, and the slight relief was so all-encompassing that for a little while she forgot the entire galaxy, even the second reason why she and Chrisenya had had their falling-out in the first place. Only for a little while.
"Do you want to talk about what was happening, why you were acting so strange?" Fidelitas said. "You've gotten better since then, I can see it, but you never explained…?"
Chrisenya extricated her head from Fidelitas's chest, giving her a look of profound embarrassment. "Stimm. I was… I was using stimm. Two, sometimes three pills a day."
Fidelitas was shocked, first that Chrisenya of all people would crack such a crude joke, and then a few moments later that she was being entirely serious. "Stimm?! What in the warp got into you, Chris?" Upon seeing the flash of terror in Chrisenya's features, she added, "I'm not upset, I've known stimm addicts, I'm just bloody confused!"
Chrisenya pulled away, her shame growing. "You saw how much I was struggling. How much I still am. It was the only way I could think to push through it."
Fidelitas nodded. It scared her, seeing Chrisenya of all people pushed to such extremes, but she wasn't going to judge. "You got better though, right? You're not taking it anymore?"
"No, not anymore," Chrisenya said. "I haven't taken any in, er, ages."
To Fidelitas's ears, she sounded like she was lying. But Chrisenya wouldn't lie, not about this. Regardless, she went on to change the topic.
"You really have no idea how much Sister Severn's been helping me with, just, everything. She's one of the better things to have ever happened to me, really."
Instantly, Fidelitas went cold, letting go of Chrisenya and leaving a respectable hand's-length gap between the two of them. Sister Severn. Of course she was still involved, of course Chrisenya hadn't come here to beg Fidelitas take her back, no Bolaran in the last fifty generations had been that lucky.
"Really?" Fidelitas said, not letting a single droplet of emotion touch her face or voice.
Chrisenya nodded. "She's not who I thought she was. Severn is a woman possessed of a deep faith and profoundly unusual perspective, I've never… I've never met anyone who understands things the way she does. I wouldn't have been able to survive without her."
Fidelitas wanted to ask if Chrisenya thought she would have been able to survive without her, but she bit back her tongue. "So, what, she your girlfriend or something?"
Chrisenya clasped her hands in front of her chest, and for a moment Fidelitas thought she might be about to start praying aloud. Instead she only nodded.
"I would not put it so… crudely, but our relationship is unique in a similar sense, yes." Chrisenya couldn't seem to meet Fidelitas's eyes.
"Are you…?"
"Yes."
"Didn't expect to get that answer so easily," Fidelitas said. "Most people are more private about that sort of thing."
"You and I have very little privacy," Chrisenya said. "Not now that we are no longer apart. I didn't want to have to ignore what we did, even if it wasn't quite the same, I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."
Fidelitas folded her arms. "What do you mean it 'wasn't quite the same'?"
"We're friends, Fidelitas. You comforted me in dark moments, and I you. We were never on, to use the phrasing which Sister Severn insists upon."
"So, what, you love her or something? I didn't realize you were so sentimental."
"No! Er, yes! But I love you too! It's just… different. She understands me."
"She understands you? Chrisenya, she's known you for barely a sixth of a year, and I've known you for six. How can she possibly understand you better than I do?"
Chrisenya threw up her arms, wheeling around to pace only to run into the edge of the room a moment later. "She just does. Some things you can't explain, you just can't."
The tight room, not really meant to accommodate two, was already starting to warm up, and the heavy beat of the anger in Fidelitas's chest was only making it worse. She couldn't wrap her head around it, how this handsome stranger had come in and stolen Chrisenya's heart so easily. Eventually, Chrisenya looked back over her shoulder, eyes shiny with tears.
"I don't want to start fighting with you again. Please. Can we let it go?"
"Of course," Fidelitas said. "Let's change the topic. What's with your new look?"
"New look?" Chrisenya looked down. "Oh, you mean the tunic? I never particularly liked the way you could see my knees in the old one, my legs are too thin and Maryllis helped me realize I was self-conscious of them."
"Maryllis? Who's that?"
Chrisenya raised an eyebrow. "Palatine Maryllis. Do you not know her?"
Fidelitas shook her head, then said, "Wait, actually, I remember that name from the recruitment office. That her?"
"She's the Palatine to Canoness-Commander Innogen, the lead recruiter for this year, or I suppose now it would be the last year. She's a very brilliant woman, but also uncommonly vain about her appearance. She's the one who's been keeping me supplied with all the cosmetic and the special uniforms that make it look like I have b— You know what I mean."
"And she, what, hooked you up with a more attractive design?" Fidelitas said, doubtfully. None of that sounded like Chrisenya at all.
"Yes. The Rule Sororitas dictates that all novitiates wear an identical uniform, but generally discipline will look the other way on code violations so long as they meet the rough qualifications and you've had good behavior. Red is the official color of the Order, besides, so red accents are considered to be…"
And just like that, things were back to normal. Chrisenya and Fidelitas left the chapel hand in hand, like they had always done, babbling back and forth about the affairs of the day. But there was a white hot flare in Fidelitas's heart, smothered under all that normality, a flare that would not forget.
- Pronouns
- She/They
So idk if y'all have noticed, but the chapters have started coming fewer and farther between, which probably has something to do with the fact that it's finals week starting tomorrow? So I'm officially going on break, it'll probably be a couple of months before I start posting EoSCtM regularly again. And I assure you I will be posting again, because if there's one thing you need to know about me it's that I'm incredibly obsessive about finishing what I start!
I might start writing and posting another 40k fic of mine during the interim, but I'm not totally sure of that yet. Hopefully going on break like this won't completely wreck my engagement! Frankly it's a miracle it took this long to burn out lol. Anyway, see y'all.
I might start writing and posting another 40k fic of mine during the interim, but I'm not totally sure of that yet. Hopefully going on break like this won't completely wreck my engagement! Frankly it's a miracle it took this long to burn out lol. Anyway, see y'all.
Chapter Thirty-Three
- Pronouns
- She/They
It was no great surprise to anyone, really, that out of the members of Bellara's drill-squad, the first to receive the privilege of augmetic enhancement was Sister Regina. Not that any of them were told about it before it happened, of course. One afternoon, Regina simply didn't return from lunch break, with even the Sister-Superior not being entirely sure where she had gone. The entire rest of the weekend, a pall of anxiety hung over the squad, Regina's absence more noticeable even than her presence had been.
And then she came back. It happened early in the morning, just before breakfast on the day they all had to return to training. There were lots of questions, lots of shocked gasps and happy hugs—fewer than there might have been on account of the way Regina winced whenever they happened, but there were a few regardless—and the reunion climaxed with Regina fully whipping her shirt off to show everyone what she'd had done to herself.
The technical term was a Dorsal Reinforcement, but everybody just thought of it as "Regina's new spine", even after she explained that the old spine was very much still in the same place as it had always been. The main external sign of it was plasteel plating, segmented like some strange centipede, bonded to the middle of her back, surrounded on both sides by bands of swollen, reddened skin. Sister Fidelitas was the only one allowed to touch, Regina exhorting her to feel out the reinforcing fibers throughout the tissue of the various large muscles of the upper and lower back. Chrisenya vaguely remembered having it explained to her that the bulk of physical strength came from the back, so she supposed that reinforcing it made perfect sense.
The second member of the squad to come back augmented was, if anything, even less of a surprise. Sister Serra did not receive augmentation via reward, nor even by choice. Hers was an entirely mandatory and necessary part of Hospitaller training. The attachment points for the medicae field harness looked almost like a collar, a thumb-thickness cable circling the upper edge of Serra's ribcage. There was no babble of questions when Serra returned after her augmentation: the dour look on her face made her feelings clear.
What was a surprise was Sister Gwynette's augmentation. Apparently, while nobody else was looking, she had been commended for both physical acuity and volunteer work helping the training sergeants clean up in the afternoons. She explained this only after she returned to the bunk-room with two augmetic eyes. One, the left one, was an identical black marble to Bellara's, and was apparently designed for sensitivity in low-light conditions. The other one more closely resembled an ordinary human eye, though the iris was brilliantly red and shaped like a cross. That one was for combat, enhancing the ability to aim down a boltgun's sights.
"To be honest," Gwynette said, "I'm more excited about the night-vision than the combat sight. I'll never stub my toes trying to take a piss again!"
Gwynette's strange machine-eyes glanced in Chrisenya's direction in a way that indicated that she had other reasons to be excited about her night vision. Chrisenya felt that was a very dirty reason to pluck out one's own eyes, but she certainly wasn't going to say anything about it. Sister Gwynette and her had an arrangement, after all.
But not even Gwynette's augmentation was as surprising as when Chrisenya was approached by Hospitaller-Superior Doloria and told that she had been selected for an augmetic.
"What have I done to deserve such a thing?" Chrisenya said.
"Piety, apparently. Your knowledge of the liturgy is second to none, I am told, and you pray more consistently than almost any other girl in your entire commandery."
"Oh. I… I suppose that is true, yes." Piety had faded into the background of Chrisenya's life so long ago that she had almost forgotten she was in any way exceptional. In a better galaxy, perhaps, she wouldn't be.
So, like Regina and Serra and Gwynette before her, Chrisenya was taken to the sanatorium, placed in a grox-leather chair, and given a list of potential options. Hers was, unfortunately, rather limited. Though she had certainly grown less infirm over the course of the first twelve weeks of her training, it still remained the case that Sister Chrisenya had only a minimum of the sort of physical acuity necessary for recovering from augmentation in the span of only three days.
Most of that list of Quaternius-grade augmetics which were allowed to Chrisenya were of absolutely no benefit to her; she skimmed past the listings of replacement limbs and stopgap repair internals suited more for the dying and maimed than the merely pathetic. Others seemed almost self-sacrificing: replacing a hand with an ultra-strong claw, removing two fingers to be replaced with a glow-rod, or implanting a device which would reinforce her faith by causing her to hallucinate holy chanting for ten hours out of every day.
For a brief while, Chrisenya wondered if she might be allowed to turn down the gift, or defer it into the vague future where she might be allowed to access Tertius-grade augmetics. But then she found an interesting one, one that she remembered Hospitaller-Superior Doloria mentioning in the past.
The exact mechanism of Therapeutic Tatooing was, of course, a kept secret of the Abbey's techpriests, but the essence of it was entirely medical. A black liquid artifact of technology would be implanted under Chrisenya's skin in certain holy patterns. Once they had had a few days to soak in, the liquid would come alive, driven by programmed instructions, and begin making enhancements.
The exact details were the subject of over an hour of conversation between Sister Chrisenya and Doloria. This was Chrisenya's reward, after all. Therapeutic tattoos came in sets, so the location of each individual mark had to be selected carefully, as did their shapes, in order to ensure that the tiny machine spirits imbued into the liquid ink would follow instructions correctly. It took a while for it to sink in that Chrisenya was permanently changing her appearance. The holy marks of technology would remain a part of her skin for the remainder of her life, however long that turned out to be.
And then it was done, and Chrisenya was shuffled off to prep. The first stage of that were the drugs; awful drugs that numbed the body and mind, followed by the even worse drugs that slackened the digestive tract. Even if she would be conscious throughout the whole procedure, it was still preferable that she not be disturbed by such bodily functions.
Next came the shaving. Chrisenya had never been particularly hairy, a fact which she considered an Empress-granted blessing, but she was nonetheless possessed of some bodily hair, some of it even possessed of color, unlike that on her head. Either way, it all had to go. Once the awful purgation of the drugs had passed, a pair of nurses stripped Chrisenya nude, then with a guttering, buzzing machine they ran over every single part of her body, stripping it down to bare, soft flesh. It was rather more efficient than Chrisenya's straight razor, though at least the use of that one left the room smelling faintly of flowers and not stinking of promethium.
Chrisenya was led, naked, into an operating room, though this time bare of most of the accoutrements of proper surgery. There were only three others there present besides herself: Sister-Superior Doloria, an anonymous skull-masked nurse, and a clicking, hissing techpriest. The techpriest held in its arms a tank, approximately the size of a bolter, full of black liquid, and decorated all along its glass surface with dials and readout monitors. Extending from the bottom of the tank was a long plasflex pipe, bending down low to the ground before terminating in a mess of plasteel and ceramite that resembled for all the world the claw of some great and vicious bird.
Chrisenya lay down on the central slab, aimed up at a shallow angle such that her feet were just above knee height, and her head just below the shoulder. Each limb had its own side platform splitting off from the main. The techpriest mumbled something inscrutable before handing off the bird's foot device to Sister Doloria. The tank remained firmly in its possession.
At the same time, the nurse stepped in, taking from Doloria's grasp an auto-syringe full of clear fluid. With one hand she took hold of Chrisenya's head, holding it perfectly still with a surprising amount of strength as she sank the needle into the side of Chrisenya's neck. The drug took effect almost at once. Suddenly Chrisenya could only partially feel her own weight pressing her down against the hard surface of the slab, and no longer even thought to resist as her arms and legs were each strapped down.
"Now, we've drugged you up as much as we can," said Doloria. "But you'll still have to hold very still if you want for this to work. Can you?"
Chrisenya grinned, with teeth. "Yes, of course. I can do anything you need me to. I am the chosen executioner of the Empress."
"Good," said Doloria. "We'll start with the easier ones."
Doloria moved to Chrisenya's right side, and with a snap of her fingers commanded the nurse to do the same. The nurse held Chrisenya down, one hand on her wrist and the other one on the lower part of her stomach. Doloria stood by her shoulder, pinning her down with the free hand while very carefully moving the claws of the machine towards the flesh of Chrisenya's bicep. Somehow, the lifeless plasteel seemed able to sense the proximity of bare skin, and twitched as she moved it, a thin spike flicking into the fore while an array of humming coils encircled it. Then the spike entered Chrisenya's flesh, and the rest was all sensation.
Almost instantly Chrisenya became reminded of her dreams. The pain was intense, worsened by her total inability to do anything about it, the forced stillness that robbed her of all escape. And yet in her drugged fugue, Chrisenya was not overcome by the pain, but instead allowed her mind to wander. There were hands on her body, Doloria's worn gloves and the nurse's smooth plasflex bodysuit pinning her down with expert dexterity.
Colors flashed in front of Chrisenya's vision, and out of the corner of her eye she occasionally saw her mother, though never speaking and only present for the briefest of instants. A few times, as the pain became so monotonous that it turned inevitably into a sideshow, she could focus on other sensations, sensations of her skin being twisted and torn from within wherever the burning secondary effect of the claw could be felt, or the tingling sensitivity issued to her by the cool air. Other times her heart raced with panic, as for seconds at a time she would forget that this was definitely not a dream, that the black marks left permanently upon her skin were real, and holy, and something that Misty would never have allowed her.
The three instruments of Chrisenya's modification—Hospitaller-Superior Doloria, the nurse, and the claw-end of the machine—all worked with great swiftness and efficiency. The first mark, on her upper arm, was completed quickly, and it was then time to move on to the chest. Then, from there, the other arm. Then the hip. Then the leg. Each place burned exquisitely, as though Chrisenya were being branded with a hot iron rather than carefully and precisely marked with a strange and irreplaceable ink.
Doloria was always certain to make the experience as comfortable as possible, though there was little to be done when her work involved a huge needle and rows of coils that burned flesh without making contact. Her medical expertise showed repeatedly throughout the process in a keen ability to know exactly when Chrisenya was about to reach her limit just a moment before it happened. Every time that she was about to have no choice but to scream, Chrisenya suddenly found the needle had already been retracted and the coils deactivated, even if the mark was still only a blurred and indistinct mass. Inevitably, of course, Doloria would be forced to finish what she had begun, but she did so only with the gentlest of hands.
"You're doing such a good job, girl. You understand that? This must be very painful, but you're being an excellent soldier of the Empress for me today."
The procedure continued for quite some time, waxing and waning as it did. Sometimes Doloria would be at work on Chrisenya's thigh or her arm, and she could shudder and fidget almost as she pleased. Other times the needle was jabbed into her abdomen, below the navel, or Chrisenya had been rolled over onto her side so as to ensure coverage of her back as well, and any movement at all risked fouling the process. Two things steadily increased throughout: the first was the full-body soreness, residual after-effects of the ink leaving a mild sting. The second, more subtle and yet far more entrancing, was the growing awareness of the tiny machine-spirits living under her skin. They did not speak to her, and it was doubtful that they would be loud enough even if they could speak, but she could sense them working busily away.
When it was all done, before Chrisenya was sent back to her drill-squad, she was given an opportunity to examine her new skin. It was… strange. Unsettling. Thrilling. She had been marked almost everywhere, little points on a map. Here, a fleur-de-lis decorated her chest, just above and inward from her left nipple. There, the mark of the sword, symbol of her order on her lower calf. A fragment of liturgy, the phrase "The Empress is all humanity" written in High Gothic across her upper arm. On her cheek, another sword, on her back between her shoulder blades another fleur-de-lis. And right between the navel and the crotch, the centerpiece of it all: a grand Imperial Aquila, wings spread, two heads eternally vigilant.
Her very flesh now bore the signs of her faith, and she knew with a growing sense of certainty that this had been the correct choice. Chrisenya held no delusions that this would fend Misty off, not even the presence of true holy relics did, but it was a new anchor against the never-ending terror of the night. Sister Severn would no doubt enjoy it as well.
And then she came back. It happened early in the morning, just before breakfast on the day they all had to return to training. There were lots of questions, lots of shocked gasps and happy hugs—fewer than there might have been on account of the way Regina winced whenever they happened, but there were a few regardless—and the reunion climaxed with Regina fully whipping her shirt off to show everyone what she'd had done to herself.
The technical term was a Dorsal Reinforcement, but everybody just thought of it as "Regina's new spine", even after she explained that the old spine was very much still in the same place as it had always been. The main external sign of it was plasteel plating, segmented like some strange centipede, bonded to the middle of her back, surrounded on both sides by bands of swollen, reddened skin. Sister Fidelitas was the only one allowed to touch, Regina exhorting her to feel out the reinforcing fibers throughout the tissue of the various large muscles of the upper and lower back. Chrisenya vaguely remembered having it explained to her that the bulk of physical strength came from the back, so she supposed that reinforcing it made perfect sense.
The second member of the squad to come back augmented was, if anything, even less of a surprise. Sister Serra did not receive augmentation via reward, nor even by choice. Hers was an entirely mandatory and necessary part of Hospitaller training. The attachment points for the medicae field harness looked almost like a collar, a thumb-thickness cable circling the upper edge of Serra's ribcage. There was no babble of questions when Serra returned after her augmentation: the dour look on her face made her feelings clear.
What was a surprise was Sister Gwynette's augmentation. Apparently, while nobody else was looking, she had been commended for both physical acuity and volunteer work helping the training sergeants clean up in the afternoons. She explained this only after she returned to the bunk-room with two augmetic eyes. One, the left one, was an identical black marble to Bellara's, and was apparently designed for sensitivity in low-light conditions. The other one more closely resembled an ordinary human eye, though the iris was brilliantly red and shaped like a cross. That one was for combat, enhancing the ability to aim down a boltgun's sights.
"To be honest," Gwynette said, "I'm more excited about the night-vision than the combat sight. I'll never stub my toes trying to take a piss again!"
Gwynette's strange machine-eyes glanced in Chrisenya's direction in a way that indicated that she had other reasons to be excited about her night vision. Chrisenya felt that was a very dirty reason to pluck out one's own eyes, but she certainly wasn't going to say anything about it. Sister Gwynette and her had an arrangement, after all.
But not even Gwynette's augmentation was as surprising as when Chrisenya was approached by Hospitaller-Superior Doloria and told that she had been selected for an augmetic.
"What have I done to deserve such a thing?" Chrisenya said.
"Piety, apparently. Your knowledge of the liturgy is second to none, I am told, and you pray more consistently than almost any other girl in your entire commandery."
"Oh. I… I suppose that is true, yes." Piety had faded into the background of Chrisenya's life so long ago that she had almost forgotten she was in any way exceptional. In a better galaxy, perhaps, she wouldn't be.
So, like Regina and Serra and Gwynette before her, Chrisenya was taken to the sanatorium, placed in a grox-leather chair, and given a list of potential options. Hers was, unfortunately, rather limited. Though she had certainly grown less infirm over the course of the first twelve weeks of her training, it still remained the case that Sister Chrisenya had only a minimum of the sort of physical acuity necessary for recovering from augmentation in the span of only three days.
Most of that list of Quaternius-grade augmetics which were allowed to Chrisenya were of absolutely no benefit to her; she skimmed past the listings of replacement limbs and stopgap repair internals suited more for the dying and maimed than the merely pathetic. Others seemed almost self-sacrificing: replacing a hand with an ultra-strong claw, removing two fingers to be replaced with a glow-rod, or implanting a device which would reinforce her faith by causing her to hallucinate holy chanting for ten hours out of every day.
For a brief while, Chrisenya wondered if she might be allowed to turn down the gift, or defer it into the vague future where she might be allowed to access Tertius-grade augmetics. But then she found an interesting one, one that she remembered Hospitaller-Superior Doloria mentioning in the past.
The exact mechanism of Therapeutic Tatooing was, of course, a kept secret of the Abbey's techpriests, but the essence of it was entirely medical. A black liquid artifact of technology would be implanted under Chrisenya's skin in certain holy patterns. Once they had had a few days to soak in, the liquid would come alive, driven by programmed instructions, and begin making enhancements.
The exact details were the subject of over an hour of conversation between Sister Chrisenya and Doloria. This was Chrisenya's reward, after all. Therapeutic tattoos came in sets, so the location of each individual mark had to be selected carefully, as did their shapes, in order to ensure that the tiny machine spirits imbued into the liquid ink would follow instructions correctly. It took a while for it to sink in that Chrisenya was permanently changing her appearance. The holy marks of technology would remain a part of her skin for the remainder of her life, however long that turned out to be.
And then it was done, and Chrisenya was shuffled off to prep. The first stage of that were the drugs; awful drugs that numbed the body and mind, followed by the even worse drugs that slackened the digestive tract. Even if she would be conscious throughout the whole procedure, it was still preferable that she not be disturbed by such bodily functions.
Next came the shaving. Chrisenya had never been particularly hairy, a fact which she considered an Empress-granted blessing, but she was nonetheless possessed of some bodily hair, some of it even possessed of color, unlike that on her head. Either way, it all had to go. Once the awful purgation of the drugs had passed, a pair of nurses stripped Chrisenya nude, then with a guttering, buzzing machine they ran over every single part of her body, stripping it down to bare, soft flesh. It was rather more efficient than Chrisenya's straight razor, though at least the use of that one left the room smelling faintly of flowers and not stinking of promethium.
Chrisenya was led, naked, into an operating room, though this time bare of most of the accoutrements of proper surgery. There were only three others there present besides herself: Sister-Superior Doloria, an anonymous skull-masked nurse, and a clicking, hissing techpriest. The techpriest held in its arms a tank, approximately the size of a bolter, full of black liquid, and decorated all along its glass surface with dials and readout monitors. Extending from the bottom of the tank was a long plasflex pipe, bending down low to the ground before terminating in a mess of plasteel and ceramite that resembled for all the world the claw of some great and vicious bird.
Chrisenya lay down on the central slab, aimed up at a shallow angle such that her feet were just above knee height, and her head just below the shoulder. Each limb had its own side platform splitting off from the main. The techpriest mumbled something inscrutable before handing off the bird's foot device to Sister Doloria. The tank remained firmly in its possession.
At the same time, the nurse stepped in, taking from Doloria's grasp an auto-syringe full of clear fluid. With one hand she took hold of Chrisenya's head, holding it perfectly still with a surprising amount of strength as she sank the needle into the side of Chrisenya's neck. The drug took effect almost at once. Suddenly Chrisenya could only partially feel her own weight pressing her down against the hard surface of the slab, and no longer even thought to resist as her arms and legs were each strapped down.
"Now, we've drugged you up as much as we can," said Doloria. "But you'll still have to hold very still if you want for this to work. Can you?"
Chrisenya grinned, with teeth. "Yes, of course. I can do anything you need me to. I am the chosen executioner of the Empress."
"Good," said Doloria. "We'll start with the easier ones."
Doloria moved to Chrisenya's right side, and with a snap of her fingers commanded the nurse to do the same. The nurse held Chrisenya down, one hand on her wrist and the other one on the lower part of her stomach. Doloria stood by her shoulder, pinning her down with the free hand while very carefully moving the claws of the machine towards the flesh of Chrisenya's bicep. Somehow, the lifeless plasteel seemed able to sense the proximity of bare skin, and twitched as she moved it, a thin spike flicking into the fore while an array of humming coils encircled it. Then the spike entered Chrisenya's flesh, and the rest was all sensation.
Almost instantly Chrisenya became reminded of her dreams. The pain was intense, worsened by her total inability to do anything about it, the forced stillness that robbed her of all escape. And yet in her drugged fugue, Chrisenya was not overcome by the pain, but instead allowed her mind to wander. There were hands on her body, Doloria's worn gloves and the nurse's smooth plasflex bodysuit pinning her down with expert dexterity.
Colors flashed in front of Chrisenya's vision, and out of the corner of her eye she occasionally saw her mother, though never speaking and only present for the briefest of instants. A few times, as the pain became so monotonous that it turned inevitably into a sideshow, she could focus on other sensations, sensations of her skin being twisted and torn from within wherever the burning secondary effect of the claw could be felt, or the tingling sensitivity issued to her by the cool air. Other times her heart raced with panic, as for seconds at a time she would forget that this was definitely not a dream, that the black marks left permanently upon her skin were real, and holy, and something that Misty would never have allowed her.
The three instruments of Chrisenya's modification—Hospitaller-Superior Doloria, the nurse, and the claw-end of the machine—all worked with great swiftness and efficiency. The first mark, on her upper arm, was completed quickly, and it was then time to move on to the chest. Then, from there, the other arm. Then the hip. Then the leg. Each place burned exquisitely, as though Chrisenya were being branded with a hot iron rather than carefully and precisely marked with a strange and irreplaceable ink.
Doloria was always certain to make the experience as comfortable as possible, though there was little to be done when her work involved a huge needle and rows of coils that burned flesh without making contact. Her medical expertise showed repeatedly throughout the process in a keen ability to know exactly when Chrisenya was about to reach her limit just a moment before it happened. Every time that she was about to have no choice but to scream, Chrisenya suddenly found the needle had already been retracted and the coils deactivated, even if the mark was still only a blurred and indistinct mass. Inevitably, of course, Doloria would be forced to finish what she had begun, but she did so only with the gentlest of hands.
"You're doing such a good job, girl. You understand that? This must be very painful, but you're being an excellent soldier of the Empress for me today."
The procedure continued for quite some time, waxing and waning as it did. Sometimes Doloria would be at work on Chrisenya's thigh or her arm, and she could shudder and fidget almost as she pleased. Other times the needle was jabbed into her abdomen, below the navel, or Chrisenya had been rolled over onto her side so as to ensure coverage of her back as well, and any movement at all risked fouling the process. Two things steadily increased throughout: the first was the full-body soreness, residual after-effects of the ink leaving a mild sting. The second, more subtle and yet far more entrancing, was the growing awareness of the tiny machine-spirits living under her skin. They did not speak to her, and it was doubtful that they would be loud enough even if they could speak, but she could sense them working busily away.
When it was all done, before Chrisenya was sent back to her drill-squad, she was given an opportunity to examine her new skin. It was… strange. Unsettling. Thrilling. She had been marked almost everywhere, little points on a map. Here, a fleur-de-lis decorated her chest, just above and inward from her left nipple. There, the mark of the sword, symbol of her order on her lower calf. A fragment of liturgy, the phrase "The Empress is all humanity" written in High Gothic across her upper arm. On her cheek, another sword, on her back between her shoulder blades another fleur-de-lis. And right between the navel and the crotch, the centerpiece of it all: a grand Imperial Aquila, wings spread, two heads eternally vigilant.
Her very flesh now bore the signs of her faith, and she knew with a growing sense of certainty that this had been the correct choice. Chrisenya held no delusions that this would fend Misty off, not even the presence of true holy relics did, but it was a new anchor against the never-ending terror of the night. Sister Severn would no doubt enjoy it as well.
- Pronouns
- She/They
It's very amusing how the thread still asks me "hey, it's been two months" are you sure you want to resurrect this thread even though I'm the literal author. Like obviously it can't tell but that's very amusing to me.
Also, I'm posting another 40k fic? Not smutty like this one, more of a shonen anime kind of deal with some added commentary on 40k as a setting, but also very queer. I figure there might be enough of an overlap in audience to post the link here. Morningstars [Warhammer 40k] [Overpowered OC Fixes/Causes Problems] [Primarchs Involved] Sci-Fi - Action
Also, I'm posting another 40k fic? Not smutty like this one, more of a shonen anime kind of deal with some added commentary on 40k as a setting, but also very queer. I figure there might be enough of an overlap in audience to post the link here. Morningstars [Warhammer 40k] [Overpowered OC Fixes/Causes Problems] [Primarchs Involved] Sci-Fi - Action
- Pronouns
- She/They
Oh, I assure you, we will *get* to the baroque, over-engineered HRT stuff
Chapter Thirty-Four
- Pronouns
- She/They
Today was a special day. It was that thought which carried Sister Chrisenya through yet another day of bone-breaking training, through the exhaustion and the soreness, through the nagging feeling that all of this was to no avail. Today was a special day, which meant that Chrisenya could not possibly give up.
When afternoon squad drills came to an end, instead of her usual schedule of prayer and cleaning, Chrisenya returned to the bunk-room and took a brief nap. She would need her strength for what was to come, and the sleep would no doubt improve her appearance, especially once she followed it up with a quick shower. Her heart was beating, for once, not with exhaustion or the reckless acceleration of stimm—she'd foregone stimm that day, because it was so special—but with genuine excitement and not a small portion of affection.
Once she was ready, and once the fourth bell had rung to signal it was about time, Chrisenya set off to the ordained location. In this case, the location was the same long-abandoned garage that had been the staging area for so many smuggling runs. She slipped through the shadows of the Abbey, then crawled through the dirt as daintily as she could, which was to say not very daintily at all.
Once Chrisenya was through the worn-out passage, and once she had stood up, she instantly found that the garage didn't look quite the same as it had previously. Everything was in the right place, more or less; the Rhino shell still stood there, the gravestone of a fallen colossus. The stairway up was just as decrepit as it always had been, the workbenches just as strewn with abandoned tools. But nearly every surface was clean. Not spotlessly clean, not polished to a perfect shine, but the absence of dust and dirt was so notable that it made the garage appear to be a new chamber entirely.
And, of course, Severn was there waiting for her. She grinned as she saw Chrisenya's look of surprise, then swaggered across the garage.
"Like what I did with the place?"
"How?" Chrisenya asked absurdly.
"Borrowed some supplies from storage yesterday, then popped down here as soon as training was over. I figured it would be nice for once to meet in someplace that wasn't a complete trash heap, y'know? Miracle of the Empress neither of us have come down with an infection."
Severn took Chrisenya's hips in her hands and pulled her in close. Instinct drove Chrisenya to press her head into the chest offered to her, to place her hands on the soft stomach, to allow herself to be overcome by strength.
"It's been too long," Chrisenya muttered. "I'd almost started to forget your touch."
"Don't think like that, Chris. Overfamiliarity renders what we have too mundane. That we sacrifice our hours to the Empress only proves the strength of our bond."
"Don't poetize at me!" Chrisenya whined, slapping Severn on the sternum. "I know why it is. That it is justified does not make it any less painful."
"Would you rather I be kissing you instead?"
"Yes."
Chrisenya was smothered under Severn's warmth, her powerful hands groping softly along her lower back as the larger girl bent over to bring herself into contact. Her skin, rendered by a miracle of science so much softer and more sensitive than ever before, thrummed with delight at the contact, the soft pressure and curious roaming touch. Controlling her own limbs was a distant second priority for Chrisenya, but she nonetheless did manage it, groping awkwardly at Severn's substantial breasts. Severn moaned into Chrisenya's mouth, and the feeling of that moan on her lips made her throb.
"Feeling assertive today, are we?" Severn purred. "Here, let me make it easier for you."
It took a moment for Chrisenya to realize what Severn was doing when she reached down, but once her lust-addled mind comprehended that Severn was removing her own tunic, she immediately moved to help. Four fumbling hands pulled the tunic up and over Severn's head, leaving her heavy breasts to hang openly in the air, at least until Chrisenya took hold of them.
Chrisenya's narrow fingers kneaded and pinched at Severn's breasts, her lips pressing kisses into their tops and leaving behind marks of red wax. Severn moaned, an unusually feminine sound coming from her mouth, eyes shut and face averted. They stumbled back, back, back, until Severn was up against the spotlessly-clean wall and the hard bulge in her uniform's leggings had nowhere to go but into Chrisenya's stomach. As much as she was enjoying using Severn's body like that—and she was enjoying it more than she had thought she would—it was that hard, hot, throbbing pressure that caused Chrisenya to pull away.
"Did you bring the fricgel?" she whispered.
"Of course. Did you bring a pretty arsehole?"
Chrisenya had no other reaction besides to start giggling like an idiot as she stepped aside and allowed Severn to prepare. Her eyes remained firmly locked on the muscles bunching around Severn's shoulder blades as she stripped out of her own uniform.
"I thought we might try something different today." Severn leaned against one of the workbenches, one that had a large blanket thrown over the side of it to drape down to the ground, pulled down her leggings to allow her cock to bounce free, and started applying fricgel. "This way you won't have to bend quite as much, and your legs'll look… Fuck, I'm never going to get used to that."
This was only the second time that Severn had been able to see Chrisenya naked since she'd acquired her tattoos; the first had been the day after it happened, during a very exciting half of an hour spent in the shower stall attached to the bunk-room.
"Do you not like them?"
"Of course I like them," Severn said. "You're just not the type of girl I expected to ever go for something like that. Where I come from, the girls who had tats were always the ones who were one bad day away from getting a heresy charge, y'know?"
"These are holy symbols of my devotion to the Empress!" Chrisenya said shrilly. "My piety is written into my very flesh."
"I know that," Severn replied. "But nobody ever thought of it that way back on Notidal, y'know? Plus it looks, erm. Spicy? It's so much more daring than I'd come to expect from you."
Chrisenya grinned, stalking her way across the room. "Well, I suppose I have you to thank for that. It was you who taught me how to stand up for myself. And once I knew how to do that, it became obvious that I wanted a more persistent mark of my faith. Even when you have stripped me bare, I am still holy."
Chrisenya found her way once more to Severn's lips. For all that she had come to enjoy the more aggressive forms of lovemaking, there was still something about the soft, warm wetness of the play between lips that she hungered for. Severn's erect member pressed against Chrisenya's stomach, smearing it with fricgel.
"You're getting better at that," Severn whispered.
"Training and practice," Chrisenya purred.
"Of course. Now put your chest on the blanket."
There was a limit to Chrisenya's defiance. She did as she was told, bending at the waist to press her torso into the soft, plush synthcloth, spreading her ankles apart ever so slightly as she did. Severn had been right: it was oddly comfortable, settled, with her cheek down and her back open to the cool garage air. If Chrisenya could have gotten away with sleeping like this in the bunkroom, naked and face-down, she would have.
And then all thoughts of calm left Chrisenya's mind as Severn's hands found their way to her arse, squeezing it firmly. She gasped, a gasp which faded rapidly into a groan of contentment as the rush of electric desire flashed across her skin. Severn enjoyed the touch as much as Chrisenya did, judging by the way her hands groped down towards her upper thighs then back up before spreading her cheeks just a touch. The very tip of her, soaking wet, flirted for the briefest instant with Chrisenya's hole.
"You've bulked up," Severn said.
"What are you talking about?"
Severn pressed the heels of both palms into Chrisenya's rear end. "It's not much, but you definitely have more muscle than you did the first time I saw you naked. Especially back here."
"Thank you," Chrisenya said.
"Don't mention it," Severn said while she applied yet more fricgel onto two of her fingers.
A moment later, both of those fingers took the plunge, spreading Chrisenya open so terribly wide. Their chances for private time were so few and far between that Chrisenya never had the chance to get fully used to it, which meant each act of sexual congress that she and Severn shared was an exercise in exceeding that which she thought possible. Severn did not give her much time to luxuriate, stroking swiftly around Chrisenya's circumference in order to spread the fricgel properly. Chrisenya gasped, paralyzed with bliss, both arms twitching from the sudden stimulation. For a brief moment, Severn's fingers stroked over the spongy center of Chrisenya's pleasure, a brief moment that caused her legs to shudder as arousal dripped from her tip.
Then Severn's fingers retracted, leaving Chrisenya gasping.
"Sensitive, are we?"
"It's been too long," Chrisenya whimpered. "And you aren't usually so rough."
"I'll be sure to go easy on you, then," said Severn as she started to slip forward.
Chrisenya gritted her teeth, then slowly allowed herself to relax around Severn. The overabundance of fricgel made the movement smooth, though the slick liquid dripping down the insides of Chrisenya's thighs caused her to shiver. Severn moved steadily, far more quickly than she could be going but far more slowly than she was able to, until at last Chrisenya could feel the soft pressure of Severn being sheathed up to the hilt. It was a painful pressure, sore like had become almost her body's default state, but as the moments passed the pain faded, and she came to fully encompass Severn's warmth.
And then Severn retracted, grunting as she did, and the movement was yet another shock to Chrisenya's system. There was no time to become used to anything, no time to find familiarity. This time as Severn pressed in she leaned herself forward, shifting the pressure of her length into the soft core of her pleasure. Chrisenya nearly screamed.
Severn quickly gave up on restraining herself, and Chrisenya rapidly found herself reminded of how utterly she was outmatched in terms of sheer physical power. Each thrust of Severn's broad hips left a streak of pleasure in its wake as Chrisenya's entire body was rocked forward, forcing her to brace herself with her arms. Everything from the navel downward was a single solid mass of warm, glowing pleasure and limp, shuddering weakness. Apparently, though, this was not enough for Severn. As she bottomed out inside Chrisenya, Severn quickly and without warning gave her a firm slap on the arse, relishing the sudden tightening that followed with a pleased gasp. A brief flicker of rage rose up in Chrisenya's stomach at the poor treatment, but was extinguished just as quickly the very next time that Severn's length pressed against her core. She knew what she enjoyed.
Without even realizing it, Chrisenya slipped into nonexistence, riding the wave of Severn's movement and the coursing pleasure throughout her body as thought the blanket below her were a raft set to drift upon a vast sea. She couldn't abide by it. It reminded her much too much of her dreams, and of the half-bright state that came so easily and so naturally during them. Chrisenya's nails clawed at the cloth below her, and Severn suddenly found herself dealing with much greater resistance.
"Want me to slow down?" Severn asked.
"No, no, I love what you're doing, don't you dare stop. You feel amazing in me."
Chrisenya had a goal, and she was going to achieve it. Finding the right way to twist her spine around that wouldn't disrupt their activity was a challenge, especially so when her brain was full of fuzz, but she did it. As she had expected, Severn looked absolutely beautiful from that angle. Her breasts bounced and swayed with each thrust, and the muscles in her arms were visibly straining even through the generous layers of fat. Severn, alas, had her eyes closed, concentrating intensely on something.
What that something was became clear before long. Severn's pace, fast already, accelerated to something feverish. Her thighs clenched and her grip on Chrisenya's rear end tightened, nails digging into soft and sensitive skin. She had remembered too late that this was supposed to be a gift for Chrisenya, not herself, and was pushing her willpower to its very limit to keep that the case. Alas, it was not enough. Chrisenya shuddered, her own arousal swelling to the point of pain as she realized seconds before Severn did that the moment of climax had come too early. Warm wetness buried itself deep within her, filling her up and spilling out.
"Damn it," Severn said through gritted teeth.
She tried a few thrusts more but they were awkward, unsustainable. Once it was clear that wasn't going to work, Severn pulled out, letting seed stain the leggings that she had never actually removed through this whole process, instantly switching to the same two fingers she had used to open Chrisenya up at first.
"You like it rough, right?"
Chrisenya moaned in a way that she hoped came across as affirmative. Her hopes were met when Severn slipped the two fingers fiercely inside of her, pressing their wrinkled pads directly to the most sensitive spot. With a single press, Chrisenya was sent down a long, winding, and inevitable path. She matched the tempo of Severn's fingers as they stroked circles around her insides, grinding against the table as much as she could manage given her state. Chrisenya hadn't been fingered before, not by Severn at least, and as she clenched for the grand finale she could feel every ridge on her fellow novitiate's fingertips.
The room suddenly felt very cold. In the far corner, one of the lights finally gave out for good, collapsing into a shower of sparks.
And then it was over. Severn made sure to give her a few more seconds of apologetic stroking, but it was obvious they were both tired. Severn bent over, further ruining her leggings as she placed her arms carefully on either side of Chrisenya's shoulders and let her naked breasts press down on her back. Her nipples had hardened. Chrisenya pulled in a deep breath, the first one she'd had in what felt like several minutes, and delighted in the pressure of Severn's weight.
For a little while, no words were shared. They communed in touches, in the secret lover's code of where Severn's lips left their tingling afterimages on Chrisenya's skin. After leaving one on Chrisenya's cheek, Severn whispered into Chrisenya's ear.
"Nineteen years alive. May the Empress bless your twentieth."
When afternoon squad drills came to an end, instead of her usual schedule of prayer and cleaning, Chrisenya returned to the bunk-room and took a brief nap. She would need her strength for what was to come, and the sleep would no doubt improve her appearance, especially once she followed it up with a quick shower. Her heart was beating, for once, not with exhaustion or the reckless acceleration of stimm—she'd foregone stimm that day, because it was so special—but with genuine excitement and not a small portion of affection.
Once she was ready, and once the fourth bell had rung to signal it was about time, Chrisenya set off to the ordained location. In this case, the location was the same long-abandoned garage that had been the staging area for so many smuggling runs. She slipped through the shadows of the Abbey, then crawled through the dirt as daintily as she could, which was to say not very daintily at all.
Once Chrisenya was through the worn-out passage, and once she had stood up, she instantly found that the garage didn't look quite the same as it had previously. Everything was in the right place, more or less; the Rhino shell still stood there, the gravestone of a fallen colossus. The stairway up was just as decrepit as it always had been, the workbenches just as strewn with abandoned tools. But nearly every surface was clean. Not spotlessly clean, not polished to a perfect shine, but the absence of dust and dirt was so notable that it made the garage appear to be a new chamber entirely.
And, of course, Severn was there waiting for her. She grinned as she saw Chrisenya's look of surprise, then swaggered across the garage.
"Like what I did with the place?"
"How?" Chrisenya asked absurdly.
"Borrowed some supplies from storage yesterday, then popped down here as soon as training was over. I figured it would be nice for once to meet in someplace that wasn't a complete trash heap, y'know? Miracle of the Empress neither of us have come down with an infection."
Severn took Chrisenya's hips in her hands and pulled her in close. Instinct drove Chrisenya to press her head into the chest offered to her, to place her hands on the soft stomach, to allow herself to be overcome by strength.
"It's been too long," Chrisenya muttered. "I'd almost started to forget your touch."
"Don't think like that, Chris. Overfamiliarity renders what we have too mundane. That we sacrifice our hours to the Empress only proves the strength of our bond."
"Don't poetize at me!" Chrisenya whined, slapping Severn on the sternum. "I know why it is. That it is justified does not make it any less painful."
"Would you rather I be kissing you instead?"
"Yes."
Chrisenya was smothered under Severn's warmth, her powerful hands groping softly along her lower back as the larger girl bent over to bring herself into contact. Her skin, rendered by a miracle of science so much softer and more sensitive than ever before, thrummed with delight at the contact, the soft pressure and curious roaming touch. Controlling her own limbs was a distant second priority for Chrisenya, but she nonetheless did manage it, groping awkwardly at Severn's substantial breasts. Severn moaned into Chrisenya's mouth, and the feeling of that moan on her lips made her throb.
"Feeling assertive today, are we?" Severn purred. "Here, let me make it easier for you."
It took a moment for Chrisenya to realize what Severn was doing when she reached down, but once her lust-addled mind comprehended that Severn was removing her own tunic, she immediately moved to help. Four fumbling hands pulled the tunic up and over Severn's head, leaving her heavy breasts to hang openly in the air, at least until Chrisenya took hold of them.
Chrisenya's narrow fingers kneaded and pinched at Severn's breasts, her lips pressing kisses into their tops and leaving behind marks of red wax. Severn moaned, an unusually feminine sound coming from her mouth, eyes shut and face averted. They stumbled back, back, back, until Severn was up against the spotlessly-clean wall and the hard bulge in her uniform's leggings had nowhere to go but into Chrisenya's stomach. As much as she was enjoying using Severn's body like that—and she was enjoying it more than she had thought she would—it was that hard, hot, throbbing pressure that caused Chrisenya to pull away.
"Did you bring the fricgel?" she whispered.
"Of course. Did you bring a pretty arsehole?"
Chrisenya had no other reaction besides to start giggling like an idiot as she stepped aside and allowed Severn to prepare. Her eyes remained firmly locked on the muscles bunching around Severn's shoulder blades as she stripped out of her own uniform.
"I thought we might try something different today." Severn leaned against one of the workbenches, one that had a large blanket thrown over the side of it to drape down to the ground, pulled down her leggings to allow her cock to bounce free, and started applying fricgel. "This way you won't have to bend quite as much, and your legs'll look… Fuck, I'm never going to get used to that."
This was only the second time that Severn had been able to see Chrisenya naked since she'd acquired her tattoos; the first had been the day after it happened, during a very exciting half of an hour spent in the shower stall attached to the bunk-room.
"Do you not like them?"
"Of course I like them," Severn said. "You're just not the type of girl I expected to ever go for something like that. Where I come from, the girls who had tats were always the ones who were one bad day away from getting a heresy charge, y'know?"
"These are holy symbols of my devotion to the Empress!" Chrisenya said shrilly. "My piety is written into my very flesh."
"I know that," Severn replied. "But nobody ever thought of it that way back on Notidal, y'know? Plus it looks, erm. Spicy? It's so much more daring than I'd come to expect from you."
Chrisenya grinned, stalking her way across the room. "Well, I suppose I have you to thank for that. It was you who taught me how to stand up for myself. And once I knew how to do that, it became obvious that I wanted a more persistent mark of my faith. Even when you have stripped me bare, I am still holy."
Chrisenya found her way once more to Severn's lips. For all that she had come to enjoy the more aggressive forms of lovemaking, there was still something about the soft, warm wetness of the play between lips that she hungered for. Severn's erect member pressed against Chrisenya's stomach, smearing it with fricgel.
"You're getting better at that," Severn whispered.
"Training and practice," Chrisenya purred.
"Of course. Now put your chest on the blanket."
There was a limit to Chrisenya's defiance. She did as she was told, bending at the waist to press her torso into the soft, plush synthcloth, spreading her ankles apart ever so slightly as she did. Severn had been right: it was oddly comfortable, settled, with her cheek down and her back open to the cool garage air. If Chrisenya could have gotten away with sleeping like this in the bunkroom, naked and face-down, she would have.
And then all thoughts of calm left Chrisenya's mind as Severn's hands found their way to her arse, squeezing it firmly. She gasped, a gasp which faded rapidly into a groan of contentment as the rush of electric desire flashed across her skin. Severn enjoyed the touch as much as Chrisenya did, judging by the way her hands groped down towards her upper thighs then back up before spreading her cheeks just a touch. The very tip of her, soaking wet, flirted for the briefest instant with Chrisenya's hole.
"You've bulked up," Severn said.
"What are you talking about?"
Severn pressed the heels of both palms into Chrisenya's rear end. "It's not much, but you definitely have more muscle than you did the first time I saw you naked. Especially back here."
"Thank you," Chrisenya said.
"Don't mention it," Severn said while she applied yet more fricgel onto two of her fingers.
A moment later, both of those fingers took the plunge, spreading Chrisenya open so terribly wide. Their chances for private time were so few and far between that Chrisenya never had the chance to get fully used to it, which meant each act of sexual congress that she and Severn shared was an exercise in exceeding that which she thought possible. Severn did not give her much time to luxuriate, stroking swiftly around Chrisenya's circumference in order to spread the fricgel properly. Chrisenya gasped, paralyzed with bliss, both arms twitching from the sudden stimulation. For a brief moment, Severn's fingers stroked over the spongy center of Chrisenya's pleasure, a brief moment that caused her legs to shudder as arousal dripped from her tip.
Then Severn's fingers retracted, leaving Chrisenya gasping.
"Sensitive, are we?"
"It's been too long," Chrisenya whimpered. "And you aren't usually so rough."
"I'll be sure to go easy on you, then," said Severn as she started to slip forward.
Chrisenya gritted her teeth, then slowly allowed herself to relax around Severn. The overabundance of fricgel made the movement smooth, though the slick liquid dripping down the insides of Chrisenya's thighs caused her to shiver. Severn moved steadily, far more quickly than she could be going but far more slowly than she was able to, until at last Chrisenya could feel the soft pressure of Severn being sheathed up to the hilt. It was a painful pressure, sore like had become almost her body's default state, but as the moments passed the pain faded, and she came to fully encompass Severn's warmth.
And then Severn retracted, grunting as she did, and the movement was yet another shock to Chrisenya's system. There was no time to become used to anything, no time to find familiarity. This time as Severn pressed in she leaned herself forward, shifting the pressure of her length into the soft core of her pleasure. Chrisenya nearly screamed.
Severn quickly gave up on restraining herself, and Chrisenya rapidly found herself reminded of how utterly she was outmatched in terms of sheer physical power. Each thrust of Severn's broad hips left a streak of pleasure in its wake as Chrisenya's entire body was rocked forward, forcing her to brace herself with her arms. Everything from the navel downward was a single solid mass of warm, glowing pleasure and limp, shuddering weakness. Apparently, though, this was not enough for Severn. As she bottomed out inside Chrisenya, Severn quickly and without warning gave her a firm slap on the arse, relishing the sudden tightening that followed with a pleased gasp. A brief flicker of rage rose up in Chrisenya's stomach at the poor treatment, but was extinguished just as quickly the very next time that Severn's length pressed against her core. She knew what she enjoyed.
Without even realizing it, Chrisenya slipped into nonexistence, riding the wave of Severn's movement and the coursing pleasure throughout her body as thought the blanket below her were a raft set to drift upon a vast sea. She couldn't abide by it. It reminded her much too much of her dreams, and of the half-bright state that came so easily and so naturally during them. Chrisenya's nails clawed at the cloth below her, and Severn suddenly found herself dealing with much greater resistance.
"Want me to slow down?" Severn asked.
"No, no, I love what you're doing, don't you dare stop. You feel amazing in me."
Chrisenya had a goal, and she was going to achieve it. Finding the right way to twist her spine around that wouldn't disrupt their activity was a challenge, especially so when her brain was full of fuzz, but she did it. As she had expected, Severn looked absolutely beautiful from that angle. Her breasts bounced and swayed with each thrust, and the muscles in her arms were visibly straining even through the generous layers of fat. Severn, alas, had her eyes closed, concentrating intensely on something.
What that something was became clear before long. Severn's pace, fast already, accelerated to something feverish. Her thighs clenched and her grip on Chrisenya's rear end tightened, nails digging into soft and sensitive skin. She had remembered too late that this was supposed to be a gift for Chrisenya, not herself, and was pushing her willpower to its very limit to keep that the case. Alas, it was not enough. Chrisenya shuddered, her own arousal swelling to the point of pain as she realized seconds before Severn did that the moment of climax had come too early. Warm wetness buried itself deep within her, filling her up and spilling out.
"Damn it," Severn said through gritted teeth.
She tried a few thrusts more but they were awkward, unsustainable. Once it was clear that wasn't going to work, Severn pulled out, letting seed stain the leggings that she had never actually removed through this whole process, instantly switching to the same two fingers she had used to open Chrisenya up at first.
"You like it rough, right?"
Chrisenya moaned in a way that she hoped came across as affirmative. Her hopes were met when Severn slipped the two fingers fiercely inside of her, pressing their wrinkled pads directly to the most sensitive spot. With a single press, Chrisenya was sent down a long, winding, and inevitable path. She matched the tempo of Severn's fingers as they stroked circles around her insides, grinding against the table as much as she could manage given her state. Chrisenya hadn't been fingered before, not by Severn at least, and as she clenched for the grand finale she could feel every ridge on her fellow novitiate's fingertips.
The room suddenly felt very cold. In the far corner, one of the lights finally gave out for good, collapsing into a shower of sparks.
And then it was over. Severn made sure to give her a few more seconds of apologetic stroking, but it was obvious they were both tired. Severn bent over, further ruining her leggings as she placed her arms carefully on either side of Chrisenya's shoulders and let her naked breasts press down on her back. Her nipples had hardened. Chrisenya pulled in a deep breath, the first one she'd had in what felt like several minutes, and delighted in the pressure of Severn's weight.
For a little while, no words were shared. They communed in touches, in the secret lover's code of where Severn's lips left their tingling afterimages on Chrisenya's skin. After leaving one on Chrisenya's cheek, Severn whispered into Chrisenya's ear.
"Nineteen years alive. May the Empress bless your twentieth."
- Location
- Great Khanate of Scotland
- Pronouns
- She/Her
This is so hot, I love these two together.
Also lol @ Chrisenya with the Aquila womb tattoo, what, no tramp stamp too?
Also lol @ Chrisenya with the Aquila womb tattoo, what, no tramp stamp too?
- Pronouns
- She/They
Thank you, I'm glad that even the more "mundane" sex scenes are still working for people.
Imo, a tramp stamp is a very different kind of horny that isn't quite the vibe I'm going for.
- Pronouns
- She/Her/It/Its
I get what you're saying, but not sure if I can put it into words. How would you distinguish between different kinds of horny represented by womb tattoo versus tramp stamp?
Chapter Thirty-Five
New
- Pronouns
- She/They
"Today's training is going to be different than what you have come to experience over these last eighteen weeks!" Sister-Superior Coriah announced, pacing back and forth in front of the Commandery. "It may, indeed, be a day that some of you have been looking forward to! Today is the day that you girls will, at long last, be given the privilege of using a real, unmodified boltgun."
Immediately, the energy of the assembled novitiates changed. They had all known something was different when the drills had taken place at a different part of the field, nearer to the firing range and its massive ferrocrete wall, but it was not until that moment that suspicions had been confirmed. Nobody dared to speak, but there were noises and looks exchanged from one end of the crowd to the other. Even Chrisenya, restrained as she was, could not help but feel the slightest thrill at the prospect of sending a shell downrange.
"If I've trained you well, you should be able to use this weapon already, without the need for further instruction. Treat it exactly as you have been treating the passivated boltguns, even up to the moment you pull the trigger, and you will do well. Now, everybody take a weapon and form a line just behind the edge of the grass, leaving one shoulder-width between each of you."
The first part of the process was much as it always had been, the shoving rush to grab a boltgun from the rack. It had only grown very slightly more orderly over the months of practice. Aside from the buzz of excitement, the greatest difference between this day and all the ones before it was that Chrisenya could hear quite a few more voices emanating from the weapon rack than usual. Apparently, the machine spirits of functioning boltguns were far more talkative.
"I may be old," hissed one boltgun, "but I'm in tip-top condition. Very smooth recoil, as well, my springs got plenty of attention from the techpriest."
Chrisenya shoved her way past another novitiate, snatching that particular boltgun off of the rack without looking its direction, so as to seem disinterested. It was still heavy, incredibly heavy, but time had caused Chrisenya to become used to the weight, and no longer felt as though carrying one around was actively damaging her. She walked along the line with her back as straight as she could, then turned sharply and took up position, with Sister Severn on her left and Sister Serra on her right.
Between the line of novitiates and the wall was an entire field of targets, each one man-sized but only vaguely formed. It was an entire skirmish formation of targets, steadily advancing into the waiting wall of the Sororitas bolter fire. Coriah, standing behind the firing line, gave a remarkably brief lecture about the proper stance for firing a boltgun. Most of the relevant information, how to reload, the location of the safety, had already been drilled into the brains of the novitiates.
"And that's all you'll need for now, we'll refine the technique over time," Sister-Superior Coriah continued. "Take aim at any target you like, though if you all pick the closest ones you're sure to run out of rockcrete before you run out of shells. And, while these bolters are more than capable of emptying out a magazine in five seconds, don't be tempted. Without a power armor, they're more likely to bring ruin to all the bones in your shoulder than the enemy, so take it slow for now."
Chrisenya raised the boltgun to her shoulder, remembering the images she'd seen painted into the margins of holy manuscripts. She selected the second-closest target, perhaps fifteen meters distant, and let the pockmarked statue fall between the iron sights of the boltgun. Her front arm, gripping tightly onto the ridged thermoplas, would be able to hold the weight steady for only a generous handful of seconds. Contented focus boiled off of the gun's machine-spirit as Chrisenya's finger coiled around the trigger, waiting for the order.
"Fire at your pleasure."
The whole field was consumed by the roar of over a hundred boltguns firing at once, such that even when Chrisenya did pull the trigger, the sound of her weapon was subsumed into the whole. It sounded almost like a gunship taking off, the constant hiss of exhaust gasses magnified into an all-consuming sound. Chrisenya's boltgun rocked back in her hands, and she wrestled it back into position in time for the second shot, then the third, then the fourth. Two of those shots spiraled off into the grass, where they couldn't be followed; two struck home, spalling hand-sized chunks of rockcrete off of the target.
And then Chrisenya's arms gave out. She pinned the boltgun against her chest to regain her strength, allow the un-tested tendons in her arms to recover.
"Don't fight me," hissed the boltgun. "I'm your weapon, not your wrestling partner."
Chrisenya raised the boltgun again, relaxing her arms as much as she could while still keeping the sights on-target. She let her breath slow, despite the constant roar of bolt-fire all around her, and pressed her finger to the trigger. The kick of a boltgun was a steady thing, brought about by the acceleration of the bolt engine as it rocketed down the barrel.
"If you're wrong about this I'm smashing you," she said to the gun.
Sister Serra glanced over at her, frowning in mild confusion. Chrisenya hardly noticed, the totality of her thoughts instead being on the topic of firing the next shell onto target. This time, when Chrisenya pressed down on the trigger, she did not fight it, but let the weapon go where it wished to.
Her first attempt, the nine kilograms of plasteel moving swiftly up and back nearly knocked her over, but she adjusted her footing and tried again. This time it worked perfectly. Like a machine cycling, the bolter moved in an up-down motion, landing precisely back where it had started just in time for the next pull of the trigger. Even firing as slowly as Coriah had ordered her to, it was almost no time at all before Chrisenya's magazine ran empty, and an entirely automatic movement drove her to press the button that sent the empty mag tumbling to the grass.
As though it had known, Coriah's techpriest assistant appeared behind Chrisenya, offering up a new magazine. "Four remaining," it intoned. Chrisenya had hardly taken the magazine when it moved on to the next girl in need.
There was something very bloodless about bolter fire, something that rendered it artificial when compared to sword spars and wrestling. Perhaps it was merely that the targets did not fire back. Regardless, Chrisenya focused as best as she could; if she was going to be the Empress's executioner, then a mastery of all of Her chosen means of death would be necessary. With each shell sent forth to do the Empress's bidding, Chrisenya could feel her skill sharpening.
She set herself a simple goal, to strike the same spot twice, digging into the bottom of the crater she'd already left. It proved to be more difficult than one might suppose. Her muscles said that the boltgun was returning to the same position after each shot, as did the steel sights, and yet the evidence of the rockcrete proved that something had gone wrong. With each shell fired, Chrisenya grew more frustrated, and her limbs more exhausted by the weapon's weight. In the end, it was luck more than proper skill that allowed her to finish out her first experience with the boltgun in success rather than failure. Consciously, she had no awareness of any difference between that shot and the ones that came before and after it, but sure enough, the crater in the rockcrete target suddenly deepened, shards of grey material rocketing out of the depression where the shell had struck home.
Chrisenya had a few minutes to rest while the most frugal of her sisters ran down the last of their allotted ammunition, before they moved on to the next phase. That would be the heavy bolter, the most destructive form of the general principle, and one which Chrisenya soon found she would never, ever be able to use. Even in power armor the heavy bolter was large and difficult to use, to the point where Chrisenya heard the phrase "back-breaker" used more than once. As such, a large hip-frame had been developed, allowing the strength of the entire body to be utilized in supporting the weapon's bulk.
But it didn't matter how much strength Chrisenya had, or how well she might have been able to hold up the plasteel construction of the weapon. Some elements of physics could not be overcome so easily; among them, the tendency of a body to tip forward when it has been attached to an object of equal or even greater weight.
"Well, you'll never be a Retributor," Sister-Superior Bellara said. "There are other ways of progressing. You can sit this next one out."
Which was just fine by Chrisenya, considering the state of her arms. She was more than content to do squats and the occasional curl-up while watching Sister Severn become used to the heavy bolter. She took to it like an avian to the sky, rapidly turning rockcrete targets into showers of flying stone shrapnel, the unceasing roar of the weapon occasionally interrupted by explosive cries of "For the Empress!" It was beautiful to watch Severn be transformed so thoroughly into an instrument of holy devastation; a vision appeared before Chrisenya's eyes of the same woman, in the same posture, standing upon some alien battlefield, mowing down mutated servants of chaos while clad in a red suit of armored plate.
The day's lessons finished off with a round of bolt pistol training. Many of the operating principles were similar, but there were enough differences that, unlike with the boltgun, Coriah did have to go over the mechanisms with the group before they could get to shooting. Chrisenya did not do quite as well with the bolt pistol as she had with the boltgun, a fact which she pinned on two causes: firstly, the bolt pistol's machine spirit was not nearly so verbose as the boltgun's had been, mostly limiting itself to brief bursts of emotional thrill during firing. Secondly, Chrisenya's arms were already tired, and the one-handed firing stance did them absolutely no favors. Supporting the bolt pistol with the opposite hand was strictly forbidden, on the grounds that said hand would, in real combat, be carrying a sword.
The next few days of training were more of the same, for the most part; better to grind the use of the weapon into every sinew before allowing a break. Eventually, though, the day did come when Chrisenya and the others arrived on the training field to find that the boltguns being handed out contained no ammunition and had been fully passivated. It was time for the rodent race again, that endless sprinting back and forth across the field, interrupted in Chrisenya's case only by bursts of pain.
And, indeed, the first eight repetitions of the process went by in much the same way as they always had. Chrisenya allowed herself, gracefully, naturally, to fall to the very back of the pack, to conserve her strength as much as possible, and with all the composure of a Saint she took her strokes from Coriah's whip. It was only on the ninth lap that something inscrutable changed.
As was to be expected from the ninth turn sprinting back and forth across a grass field with a nine-kilogram mass of plasteel clutched in one's arms, the tempo of the commandery had significantly slowed from the first lap. Even those overachievers at the front of the pack, lightning-quick Sister Gwynette and long-legged Sister Regina and all the others who were of their ilk, had had the sharp edge of their swiftness worn down to a nub. Those girls in the back, those who had to burn themselves alive for a chance at avoiding the whip, had been reduced to shambles.
Except for Chrisenya. Certainly, she was quite tired, but she could still feel within herself some hint of remaining vitality, and certainly more than was in evidence in the others. The weight in her arms was almost familiar, draining as it may have been. One of the other novitiates fell behind her, even at her lax pace, and Chrisenya finally decided to make a go for it.
There was about a third the distance yet to go when Chrisenya lurched forward, putting all of her speed into her legs, exhaustion be damned. It was such a subtle difference, still not nearly enough to put her on par with the girls at the front, but one by one the other exhausted weaklings began to fall behind her. The thrill of conquest surged through her bloodstream, even as her lungs and heart and arms burned from the sudden, extra exertion. It was a brilliant reminder that Chrisenya was still a warrior, could still truly push herself rather than merely trying to survive.
When Chrisenya crossed the finish line, she dropped the boltgun at once, panting for breath. It wasn't the best finish she'd ever had, but considering she wasn't vomiting, it was also far from the worst. Eventually the sound of running ceased, and she could breathe again for long enough to pick the boltgun off the ground. She didn't even have to turn around to know that there were more than ten novitiates who had crossed the finishing line after she did, but it wasn't until after she had the boltgun in her hands again that she became cognizant of what that actually meant. It had taken so many months, but for the first time, Chrisenya had avoided Coriah's whip.
The Sister-Superior gave her the slightest grin before going to dispense her discipline. "For the Empress," Chrisenya hissed in between panting breaths.
Immediately, the energy of the assembled novitiates changed. They had all known something was different when the drills had taken place at a different part of the field, nearer to the firing range and its massive ferrocrete wall, but it was not until that moment that suspicions had been confirmed. Nobody dared to speak, but there were noises and looks exchanged from one end of the crowd to the other. Even Chrisenya, restrained as she was, could not help but feel the slightest thrill at the prospect of sending a shell downrange.
"If I've trained you well, you should be able to use this weapon already, without the need for further instruction. Treat it exactly as you have been treating the passivated boltguns, even up to the moment you pull the trigger, and you will do well. Now, everybody take a weapon and form a line just behind the edge of the grass, leaving one shoulder-width between each of you."
The first part of the process was much as it always had been, the shoving rush to grab a boltgun from the rack. It had only grown very slightly more orderly over the months of practice. Aside from the buzz of excitement, the greatest difference between this day and all the ones before it was that Chrisenya could hear quite a few more voices emanating from the weapon rack than usual. Apparently, the machine spirits of functioning boltguns were far more talkative.
"I may be old," hissed one boltgun, "but I'm in tip-top condition. Very smooth recoil, as well, my springs got plenty of attention from the techpriest."
Chrisenya shoved her way past another novitiate, snatching that particular boltgun off of the rack without looking its direction, so as to seem disinterested. It was still heavy, incredibly heavy, but time had caused Chrisenya to become used to the weight, and no longer felt as though carrying one around was actively damaging her. She walked along the line with her back as straight as she could, then turned sharply and took up position, with Sister Severn on her left and Sister Serra on her right.
Between the line of novitiates and the wall was an entire field of targets, each one man-sized but only vaguely formed. It was an entire skirmish formation of targets, steadily advancing into the waiting wall of the Sororitas bolter fire. Coriah, standing behind the firing line, gave a remarkably brief lecture about the proper stance for firing a boltgun. Most of the relevant information, how to reload, the location of the safety, had already been drilled into the brains of the novitiates.
"And that's all you'll need for now, we'll refine the technique over time," Sister-Superior Coriah continued. "Take aim at any target you like, though if you all pick the closest ones you're sure to run out of rockcrete before you run out of shells. And, while these bolters are more than capable of emptying out a magazine in five seconds, don't be tempted. Without a power armor, they're more likely to bring ruin to all the bones in your shoulder than the enemy, so take it slow for now."
Chrisenya raised the boltgun to her shoulder, remembering the images she'd seen painted into the margins of holy manuscripts. She selected the second-closest target, perhaps fifteen meters distant, and let the pockmarked statue fall between the iron sights of the boltgun. Her front arm, gripping tightly onto the ridged thermoplas, would be able to hold the weight steady for only a generous handful of seconds. Contented focus boiled off of the gun's machine-spirit as Chrisenya's finger coiled around the trigger, waiting for the order.
"Fire at your pleasure."
The whole field was consumed by the roar of over a hundred boltguns firing at once, such that even when Chrisenya did pull the trigger, the sound of her weapon was subsumed into the whole. It sounded almost like a gunship taking off, the constant hiss of exhaust gasses magnified into an all-consuming sound. Chrisenya's boltgun rocked back in her hands, and she wrestled it back into position in time for the second shot, then the third, then the fourth. Two of those shots spiraled off into the grass, where they couldn't be followed; two struck home, spalling hand-sized chunks of rockcrete off of the target.
And then Chrisenya's arms gave out. She pinned the boltgun against her chest to regain her strength, allow the un-tested tendons in her arms to recover.
"Don't fight me," hissed the boltgun. "I'm your weapon, not your wrestling partner."
Chrisenya raised the boltgun again, relaxing her arms as much as she could while still keeping the sights on-target. She let her breath slow, despite the constant roar of bolt-fire all around her, and pressed her finger to the trigger. The kick of a boltgun was a steady thing, brought about by the acceleration of the bolt engine as it rocketed down the barrel.
"If you're wrong about this I'm smashing you," she said to the gun.
Sister Serra glanced over at her, frowning in mild confusion. Chrisenya hardly noticed, the totality of her thoughts instead being on the topic of firing the next shell onto target. This time, when Chrisenya pressed down on the trigger, she did not fight it, but let the weapon go where it wished to.
Her first attempt, the nine kilograms of plasteel moving swiftly up and back nearly knocked her over, but she adjusted her footing and tried again. This time it worked perfectly. Like a machine cycling, the bolter moved in an up-down motion, landing precisely back where it had started just in time for the next pull of the trigger. Even firing as slowly as Coriah had ordered her to, it was almost no time at all before Chrisenya's magazine ran empty, and an entirely automatic movement drove her to press the button that sent the empty mag tumbling to the grass.
As though it had known, Coriah's techpriest assistant appeared behind Chrisenya, offering up a new magazine. "Four remaining," it intoned. Chrisenya had hardly taken the magazine when it moved on to the next girl in need.
There was something very bloodless about bolter fire, something that rendered it artificial when compared to sword spars and wrestling. Perhaps it was merely that the targets did not fire back. Regardless, Chrisenya focused as best as she could; if she was going to be the Empress's executioner, then a mastery of all of Her chosen means of death would be necessary. With each shell sent forth to do the Empress's bidding, Chrisenya could feel her skill sharpening.
She set herself a simple goal, to strike the same spot twice, digging into the bottom of the crater she'd already left. It proved to be more difficult than one might suppose. Her muscles said that the boltgun was returning to the same position after each shot, as did the steel sights, and yet the evidence of the rockcrete proved that something had gone wrong. With each shell fired, Chrisenya grew more frustrated, and her limbs more exhausted by the weapon's weight. In the end, it was luck more than proper skill that allowed her to finish out her first experience with the boltgun in success rather than failure. Consciously, she had no awareness of any difference between that shot and the ones that came before and after it, but sure enough, the crater in the rockcrete target suddenly deepened, shards of grey material rocketing out of the depression where the shell had struck home.
Chrisenya had a few minutes to rest while the most frugal of her sisters ran down the last of their allotted ammunition, before they moved on to the next phase. That would be the heavy bolter, the most destructive form of the general principle, and one which Chrisenya soon found she would never, ever be able to use. Even in power armor the heavy bolter was large and difficult to use, to the point where Chrisenya heard the phrase "back-breaker" used more than once. As such, a large hip-frame had been developed, allowing the strength of the entire body to be utilized in supporting the weapon's bulk.
But it didn't matter how much strength Chrisenya had, or how well she might have been able to hold up the plasteel construction of the weapon. Some elements of physics could not be overcome so easily; among them, the tendency of a body to tip forward when it has been attached to an object of equal or even greater weight.
"Well, you'll never be a Retributor," Sister-Superior Bellara said. "There are other ways of progressing. You can sit this next one out."
Which was just fine by Chrisenya, considering the state of her arms. She was more than content to do squats and the occasional curl-up while watching Sister Severn become used to the heavy bolter. She took to it like an avian to the sky, rapidly turning rockcrete targets into showers of flying stone shrapnel, the unceasing roar of the weapon occasionally interrupted by explosive cries of "For the Empress!" It was beautiful to watch Severn be transformed so thoroughly into an instrument of holy devastation; a vision appeared before Chrisenya's eyes of the same woman, in the same posture, standing upon some alien battlefield, mowing down mutated servants of chaos while clad in a red suit of armored plate.
The day's lessons finished off with a round of bolt pistol training. Many of the operating principles were similar, but there were enough differences that, unlike with the boltgun, Coriah did have to go over the mechanisms with the group before they could get to shooting. Chrisenya did not do quite as well with the bolt pistol as she had with the boltgun, a fact which she pinned on two causes: firstly, the bolt pistol's machine spirit was not nearly so verbose as the boltgun's had been, mostly limiting itself to brief bursts of emotional thrill during firing. Secondly, Chrisenya's arms were already tired, and the one-handed firing stance did them absolutely no favors. Supporting the bolt pistol with the opposite hand was strictly forbidden, on the grounds that said hand would, in real combat, be carrying a sword.
The next few days of training were more of the same, for the most part; better to grind the use of the weapon into every sinew before allowing a break. Eventually, though, the day did come when Chrisenya and the others arrived on the training field to find that the boltguns being handed out contained no ammunition and had been fully passivated. It was time for the rodent race again, that endless sprinting back and forth across the field, interrupted in Chrisenya's case only by bursts of pain.
And, indeed, the first eight repetitions of the process went by in much the same way as they always had. Chrisenya allowed herself, gracefully, naturally, to fall to the very back of the pack, to conserve her strength as much as possible, and with all the composure of a Saint she took her strokes from Coriah's whip. It was only on the ninth lap that something inscrutable changed.
As was to be expected from the ninth turn sprinting back and forth across a grass field with a nine-kilogram mass of plasteel clutched in one's arms, the tempo of the commandery had significantly slowed from the first lap. Even those overachievers at the front of the pack, lightning-quick Sister Gwynette and long-legged Sister Regina and all the others who were of their ilk, had had the sharp edge of their swiftness worn down to a nub. Those girls in the back, those who had to burn themselves alive for a chance at avoiding the whip, had been reduced to shambles.
Except for Chrisenya. Certainly, she was quite tired, but she could still feel within herself some hint of remaining vitality, and certainly more than was in evidence in the others. The weight in her arms was almost familiar, draining as it may have been. One of the other novitiates fell behind her, even at her lax pace, and Chrisenya finally decided to make a go for it.
There was about a third the distance yet to go when Chrisenya lurched forward, putting all of her speed into her legs, exhaustion be damned. It was such a subtle difference, still not nearly enough to put her on par with the girls at the front, but one by one the other exhausted weaklings began to fall behind her. The thrill of conquest surged through her bloodstream, even as her lungs and heart and arms burned from the sudden, extra exertion. It was a brilliant reminder that Chrisenya was still a warrior, could still truly push herself rather than merely trying to survive.
When Chrisenya crossed the finish line, she dropped the boltgun at once, panting for breath. It wasn't the best finish she'd ever had, but considering she wasn't vomiting, it was also far from the worst. Eventually the sound of running ceased, and she could breathe again for long enough to pick the boltgun off the ground. She didn't even have to turn around to know that there were more than ten novitiates who had crossed the finishing line after she did, but it wasn't until after she had the boltgun in her hands again that she became cognizant of what that actually meant. It had taken so many months, but for the first time, Chrisenya had avoided Coriah's whip.
The Sister-Superior gave her the slightest grin before going to dispense her discipline. "For the Empress," Chrisenya hissed in between panting breaths.
- Pronouns
- She/They
Credit goes to one of my friends in the Katalepsis discord server who was the one to coin the term "fricgel", it was indeed perfect. Also, funny that you mention how well things have been going for Chrisenya, considering we have another chapter of things going well coming up right now!
Chapter Thirty-Six
New
- Pronouns
- She/They
"That's it, Sister Chrisenya, your twenty-fourth week physical is complete," Hospitaller-Superior Doloria said, cheer audible even under her mask.
Chrisenya hopped off of the platform of moving rods that served as combination exam-table and medical auspex, and promptly took back her clothes from the awaiting nurse. While she dressed herself, Doloria examined the outputs of the bulky harness on her back.
"The therapeutic tattoos are functioning at full capacity. You've probably noticed the salient effects, but this will be a blessing for any small injuries, not to mention preventing… well, if you serve in the Hospitallers for as long as I have you learn to dread the sorts of things that happen to a body which is confined too long to power armor!"
Chrisenya knew that the tattoos were working, of course. She could hear the hum of their tiny machine spirits harmonizing with each other all across her body. But it was good to get a second opinion, she supposed.
"As for broader physical fitness…" Doloria glared at the data-slate readout, tutting under her breath for a moment before returning to her normal cheeriness. "You've gained weight, almost five kilograms, mostly muscle and some fat. I think I can say with some confidence that you're well on track to be up to standard."
"You don't need to measure my muscle mass percentage to know that," Chrisenya said. "There are spots on my back where you can see my normal skin color, can't you? That tells you everything you need to know."
"I'll be sure to add 'grew a sense of humor' to your medical record," Doloria said. "Sister Severn is a terrible influence on you."
Chrisenya finished putting on her tunic, and spent a few seconds adjusting her uniform before asking, "How do you know about myself and Severn?"
"I know everything," Doloria said. "And besides, I've had to give Severn a lecture or two about infectious diseases."
Doloria moved around the room, handing off her data-slate to the waiting nurse. "I'm giving you clearance for Tertius-grade augmetic procedures. That include ones related to the matter of your gendering."
"Oh," said Chrisenya. "When will that begin, then?"
"Shouldn't be longer than a few weeks, availability is complicated. But more important is to discuss the kinds of procedures available. At your size and shape, most of the more extreme operations will be unnecessary. But, aside from your passivation, I could also recommend a basic vocal augmetic, a few sessions of lymphatic modulation, and of course regular access to the anointing chamber. You understand to what I am referring?"
Chrisenya did, of course. She'd read those particular sections of the data-slate at least a dozen times, always with the strangest mix of fear and desire. It was too similar to what Misty had offered her so many times in the past, and not even Severn's repeated admonishments to treat her body with a modicum of respect had fully overcome that particular fear.
"Do I have to take the vocal augmetic?" Chrisenya asked, cringing away from eye contact with Doloria. "I think I should prefer to keep my voice as it is."
"Of course not," Doloria said warmly. "Passivation is the only procedure that's mandatory, in conjunction with use of the anointing chamber, though you'll struggle to fit into your armor without lymphatic modulation."
"I see," said Chrisenya. "Then, in that case, you may schedule me for those three."
Doloria fell silent, shuffling over to the on-duty nurse. The two engaged in a brief burst of whispered conversation while Chrisenya stood at attention. Eventually, Chrisenya concluded that she had been nonverbally dismissed, and went for the door to the examination room. She stopped when it was half-open, standing in the doorway until Hospitaller-Superior Doloria spoke up.
"When you get to the waiting room, could you send in Sister Serra next? Thank you."
Chrisenya left the room with a fraction more energy in her steps than she had had when she entered it. All her thoughts were abuzz with anxious anticipation of what was to come, so much so that she entirely ignored the shiver of sinister foreboding that passed through her as she stepped down the corridor.
A minute later, Sister Serra briskly entered the room, beginning to disrobe herself for examination before the door had even fully clicked shut. With an imperious gesture of her hand, Hospitaller-Superior Doloria ordered her to stop.
"This isn't an examination, I'm afraid. There will be countless opportunities to catch up on your medical status at a future date."
Serra hesitantly returned her mantle to her shoulders. "Sister-Superior?"
"I'm not here to speak to you as doctor and patient, but as Sister and novitiate. I have an important mission for you."
Serra's posture became somehow even more rigid. "Yes, Sister-Superior. What do you require of me?"
Doloria sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her medicae harness. "Sister Chrisenya has been abusing stimm since not long after the beginning of her training. The medical signs are clearly obvious."
"Oh," Serra said. Her eyelashes flickered as she rapidly re-evaluated all of the interactions she had had with the smallest and strangest of her squad-mates. "I had dismissed those signs as more of her… strangenesses."
"Indeed," Doloria said fondly.
"Why have you not reported this to anyone? If you've known for so long, then you should have—"
"Sister Chrisenya is my patient," Doloria said. "The punishment for illicit stimm usage is… severe. I thought that it might be best to attempt to dissuade her through other means rather than to subject her to that, but not even having to undergo pelvic surgery while the stimm partially counteracted the anesthesia was enough to break the addiction. Which means that I'll need your help."
Serra didn't agree with the soft touch. Chrisenya was breaking the rules of the Abbey, so why go soft? But it was not her place to question the orders of a superior. "How may I be of assistance?"
"I need you to find the location of Chrisenya's stash. Every stimm addict has one, a place to keep their supply where it won't be found by sweeps. That may entail you having to stalk Chrisenya while she is sneaking about, asking around about her movements, but I promise that I can vouch for you if any questions are raised."
Serra remained very still as she considered what little she knew of Chrisenya's movements. "How important is it that I remain surreptitious? I assume very?"
"Yes. Once you find the stash, your orders are to steal the stimm and deliver it to me. If Chrisenya is able to make the connection between that theft and you, she may become violent, so secrecy may prove crucial."
"Of course. I will carry out this mission as soon as possible." Serra was not one easily brought to emotion, but as she realized the trust that had been placed in her, the smallest swelling of pride came forth in her chest. "In the name of the Order of the Silver Suture, and of our glorious Empress."
"May she guide your way, Sister Serra. That will be all." Doloria paused a moment, quirking her head to one side. "Though if we wish to make it seem to the remainder of your squad that I have been examining you, it may be best to waste a few more minutes. How go your studies?"
…
Tracking the movements of Sister Chrisenya proved to be more difficult than Serra could have possibly anticipated. She had never previously paid much more attention to the girl than their proximity had necessitated, though even that amount had given her the impression that this was someone who she wished to have little connection to. Chrisenya was an eccentric, a strong argument in favor of the position that there was such a thing as too much piety, and she was deeply unsettling to look at or converse to; but what Serra hadn't known until it had suddenly become her business to know about was the fact that Chrisenya was monstrously busy.
Serra was busy too, of course. Exempt though she may have been from most chores, her scheduled activities of military training, hospitaller training, and prayer took up quite a lot of time. But Chrisenya took it one step further, as she did with most things, filling even her non-scheduled time with a constant whirr of activity. Far too often Serra would return to the bunk room for a nap or some quiet, non-strenuous study of her medical reference texts only to discover that nobody knew where Chrisenya was.
But she had been given an order from Sister-Superior Doloria, her first true mission in the name of the Adepta Sororitas, and Serra Sanguinius-Died-So-You-Could-Be-Saved was not going to be dissuaded so easily. So, like all things, she took it systematically.
The first step was to work out those parts of Chrisenya's schedule which were the same most days, things like when she habitually took meals, when she prayed, which chores she had taken it upon herself to do and at what times, and so on. These where the hours about which Serra did not have to worry, given that Chrisenya's location was well-accounted during them. Once those were eliminated, Serra was able to shift her own schedule to allow for as much stalking as possible.
And then came the madness. Nobody ever seemed to know where she had vanished off to, which meant that Serra's only chance was to be at the room when Chrisenya was there, and leave just behind her when she left. The end of every lecture or prayer session became a mad dash to return to the bunkroom, a race which Serra would often find herself winning by a matter of minutes, if she won it at all. After a few days of this Serra was even forced to begin wiggling her way out of training, an act which she justified with the understanding that it was, after all, for the mission.
Even still, tracking Chrisenya was a great challenge. Serra knew for a fact that Chrisenya suspected nothing, and yet her movements, both in terms of when she went out on her little excursions and the paths she took once she did, were almost as if she knew she were being followed. She would stop and look back with great frequency, forcing Serra to rush into cover or pull the hood of her mantle over her face and look anonymous, and when she was moving it was a lengthy and erratic path. Many times Chrisenya would manage to lose Serra before she made it to wherever she was going.
When Chrisenya did arrive, it never seemed to be the place that Serra was hoping for. Too often she would come to some shadowy, abandoned nook which appeared to be the exact sort of place an addict would hide their stash, only for the noises emanating from within to make it quite clear that this was an engagement with Sister Severn, which while disgusting was sadly not reportable. Other times there would be no explanation for why it was that Chrisenya went to some strange location, but not even a thorough search would reveal evidence of any sort of stash. Over a week passed, and Sister Serra found herself having gotten absolutely nowhere.
It was an unusually warm evening, the day everything changed. Serra had been intending to wait for Chrisenya to leave once again, but with the white-haired girl busy praying and the whole business having steadily sapped her strength, Serra's will failed and she ended up taking a nap; a nap which soon became filled with strange, upsetting dreams. There were hands all across her body, disgusting, pawing hands that she couldn't seem to fight off no matter how much she struggled.
Chrisenya was there as well, taunting Serra even in the escape of unconsciousness. She leaned in close and said, "You've been barking up the wrong tree for too long. It's time to make things interesting and wake up."
Serra jolted awake, her heart thumping in her chest and a stinging pain rapidly fading from the front part of her skull. This damned mission had been destroying her mentally just as much as it was physically. It took her several seconds to calm her breaths, clear her mind of those heretical doubts, and realize that there was a noise in the bunk room. She turned over just in time to see the door to the room crack open. She could not see the figure, so quickly did they flit out through the crack in the door, but a quick count of heads in the room revealed that it was Sister Chrisenya.
Serra gave it a thirty count, long enough that Chrisenya hopefully wouldn't hear a thing, before slipping out from under her covers and rushing to follow. Keeping up was a mad race. It was as though the entire Abbey had turned against Serra, every stone flooring slab and tree root tripping at her feet, every wandering servitor attempting to cross her path. At the same time, though, it soon became obvious that Chrisenya was heading off in a direction that Serra had never seen her go: the center of the Abbey.
Exhausted, nerves severely frazzled, Sister Serra arrived at a large structure, one she didn't recognize. She'd never had any reason to go to the Hall of Mementos, what with her mind much more focused on faith of the mind and the technical aspects of healing the sacred human body. She had little value for relics. But Chrisenya had entered the building, and if this was the location of her stimm stash then Serra was obligated to follow. The guards at the entrance quizzed her about why she was there, forcing Serra to come up with a story about researching Order history for one of her lectures. By the time that affair was done, Chrisenya had vanished into the stacks.
Serra searched them row by row. The building was nearly empty, the only sounds a distant creaking and the steady clicking of the servitors. How long had the Orders been protecting the Gabrielle system, Serra wondered, that they had managed to accumulate this much?
And then, at last, she found Sister Chrisenya. The target of her search was roughly in the middle of the row, and she was… praying. Serra felt, for a moment, as though she were about to be struck dead from sheer disappointment. Hiding around the edge of the massive shelf, Serra watched on as minute after minute passed and Chrisenya hardly moved, kneeling before some nameless relic with her hands clasped. If this was the site of her stash, Chrisenya showed no signs, and after some time she rose to her feet and started walking towards Serra's hiding spot, forcing her to quickly duck out of the way.
There was one last chance to get something out of this. Once Chrisenya was gone, Serra hurried down the row, looking for the place where she had been; fortunately, the floors were quite dusty, and the knee-prints quite clearly marked where she had been. Serra searched around, looking for any possible places where Chrisenya might have been able to hide something away. She found nothing, but while she searched her eyes fell onto the label of the object Chrisenya had been praying to.
"Divinatory device of unknown providence. Possibly tool of chaos."
And suddenly it all clicked into place. The strange feeling that Serra felt whenever she was in Chrisenya's presence, the extreme emphasis on her own piety, the strange vanishings that Serra could not always follow. Chrisenya was not merely a stimm addict. Chrisenya was a heretic, corrupted, a servant of chaos that had somehow made it all the way to infiltrate the Adepta Sororitas.
Doloria had said that this was all to be kept a secret, but she would not have said the same if she had known what was at stake. Serra rushed out of the Hall of Mementos, no longer even bothering to hide her presence. She was going to have to report this to someone, and do it immediately. And in the case of something as severe as chaos corruption, there was only one possible option: going directly to the top.
Chrisenya hopped off of the platform of moving rods that served as combination exam-table and medical auspex, and promptly took back her clothes from the awaiting nurse. While she dressed herself, Doloria examined the outputs of the bulky harness on her back.
"The therapeutic tattoos are functioning at full capacity. You've probably noticed the salient effects, but this will be a blessing for any small injuries, not to mention preventing… well, if you serve in the Hospitallers for as long as I have you learn to dread the sorts of things that happen to a body which is confined too long to power armor!"
Chrisenya knew that the tattoos were working, of course. She could hear the hum of their tiny machine spirits harmonizing with each other all across her body. But it was good to get a second opinion, she supposed.
"As for broader physical fitness…" Doloria glared at the data-slate readout, tutting under her breath for a moment before returning to her normal cheeriness. "You've gained weight, almost five kilograms, mostly muscle and some fat. I think I can say with some confidence that you're well on track to be up to standard."
"You don't need to measure my muscle mass percentage to know that," Chrisenya said. "There are spots on my back where you can see my normal skin color, can't you? That tells you everything you need to know."
"I'll be sure to add 'grew a sense of humor' to your medical record," Doloria said. "Sister Severn is a terrible influence on you."
Chrisenya finished putting on her tunic, and spent a few seconds adjusting her uniform before asking, "How do you know about myself and Severn?"
"I know everything," Doloria said. "And besides, I've had to give Severn a lecture or two about infectious diseases."
Doloria moved around the room, handing off her data-slate to the waiting nurse. "I'm giving you clearance for Tertius-grade augmetic procedures. That include ones related to the matter of your gendering."
"Oh," said Chrisenya. "When will that begin, then?"
"Shouldn't be longer than a few weeks, availability is complicated. But more important is to discuss the kinds of procedures available. At your size and shape, most of the more extreme operations will be unnecessary. But, aside from your passivation, I could also recommend a basic vocal augmetic, a few sessions of lymphatic modulation, and of course regular access to the anointing chamber. You understand to what I am referring?"
Chrisenya did, of course. She'd read those particular sections of the data-slate at least a dozen times, always with the strangest mix of fear and desire. It was too similar to what Misty had offered her so many times in the past, and not even Severn's repeated admonishments to treat her body with a modicum of respect had fully overcome that particular fear.
"Do I have to take the vocal augmetic?" Chrisenya asked, cringing away from eye contact with Doloria. "I think I should prefer to keep my voice as it is."
"Of course not," Doloria said warmly. "Passivation is the only procedure that's mandatory, in conjunction with use of the anointing chamber, though you'll struggle to fit into your armor without lymphatic modulation."
"I see," said Chrisenya. "Then, in that case, you may schedule me for those three."
Doloria fell silent, shuffling over to the on-duty nurse. The two engaged in a brief burst of whispered conversation while Chrisenya stood at attention. Eventually, Chrisenya concluded that she had been nonverbally dismissed, and went for the door to the examination room. She stopped when it was half-open, standing in the doorway until Hospitaller-Superior Doloria spoke up.
"When you get to the waiting room, could you send in Sister Serra next? Thank you."
Chrisenya left the room with a fraction more energy in her steps than she had had when she entered it. All her thoughts were abuzz with anxious anticipation of what was to come, so much so that she entirely ignored the shiver of sinister foreboding that passed through her as she stepped down the corridor.
A minute later, Sister Serra briskly entered the room, beginning to disrobe herself for examination before the door had even fully clicked shut. With an imperious gesture of her hand, Hospitaller-Superior Doloria ordered her to stop.
"This isn't an examination, I'm afraid. There will be countless opportunities to catch up on your medical status at a future date."
Serra hesitantly returned her mantle to her shoulders. "Sister-Superior?"
"I'm not here to speak to you as doctor and patient, but as Sister and novitiate. I have an important mission for you."
Serra's posture became somehow even more rigid. "Yes, Sister-Superior. What do you require of me?"
Doloria sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of her medicae harness. "Sister Chrisenya has been abusing stimm since not long after the beginning of her training. The medical signs are clearly obvious."
"Oh," Serra said. Her eyelashes flickered as she rapidly re-evaluated all of the interactions she had had with the smallest and strangest of her squad-mates. "I had dismissed those signs as more of her… strangenesses."
"Indeed," Doloria said fondly.
"Why have you not reported this to anyone? If you've known for so long, then you should have—"
"Sister Chrisenya is my patient," Doloria said. "The punishment for illicit stimm usage is… severe. I thought that it might be best to attempt to dissuade her through other means rather than to subject her to that, but not even having to undergo pelvic surgery while the stimm partially counteracted the anesthesia was enough to break the addiction. Which means that I'll need your help."
Serra didn't agree with the soft touch. Chrisenya was breaking the rules of the Abbey, so why go soft? But it was not her place to question the orders of a superior. "How may I be of assistance?"
"I need you to find the location of Chrisenya's stash. Every stimm addict has one, a place to keep their supply where it won't be found by sweeps. That may entail you having to stalk Chrisenya while she is sneaking about, asking around about her movements, but I promise that I can vouch for you if any questions are raised."
Serra remained very still as she considered what little she knew of Chrisenya's movements. "How important is it that I remain surreptitious? I assume very?"
"Yes. Once you find the stash, your orders are to steal the stimm and deliver it to me. If Chrisenya is able to make the connection between that theft and you, she may become violent, so secrecy may prove crucial."
"Of course. I will carry out this mission as soon as possible." Serra was not one easily brought to emotion, but as she realized the trust that had been placed in her, the smallest swelling of pride came forth in her chest. "In the name of the Order of the Silver Suture, and of our glorious Empress."
"May she guide your way, Sister Serra. That will be all." Doloria paused a moment, quirking her head to one side. "Though if we wish to make it seem to the remainder of your squad that I have been examining you, it may be best to waste a few more minutes. How go your studies?"
…
Tracking the movements of Sister Chrisenya proved to be more difficult than Serra could have possibly anticipated. She had never previously paid much more attention to the girl than their proximity had necessitated, though even that amount had given her the impression that this was someone who she wished to have little connection to. Chrisenya was an eccentric, a strong argument in favor of the position that there was such a thing as too much piety, and she was deeply unsettling to look at or converse to; but what Serra hadn't known until it had suddenly become her business to know about was the fact that Chrisenya was monstrously busy.
Serra was busy too, of course. Exempt though she may have been from most chores, her scheduled activities of military training, hospitaller training, and prayer took up quite a lot of time. But Chrisenya took it one step further, as she did with most things, filling even her non-scheduled time with a constant whirr of activity. Far too often Serra would return to the bunk room for a nap or some quiet, non-strenuous study of her medical reference texts only to discover that nobody knew where Chrisenya was.
But she had been given an order from Sister-Superior Doloria, her first true mission in the name of the Adepta Sororitas, and Serra Sanguinius-Died-So-You-Could-Be-Saved was not going to be dissuaded so easily. So, like all things, she took it systematically.
The first step was to work out those parts of Chrisenya's schedule which were the same most days, things like when she habitually took meals, when she prayed, which chores she had taken it upon herself to do and at what times, and so on. These where the hours about which Serra did not have to worry, given that Chrisenya's location was well-accounted during them. Once those were eliminated, Serra was able to shift her own schedule to allow for as much stalking as possible.
And then came the madness. Nobody ever seemed to know where she had vanished off to, which meant that Serra's only chance was to be at the room when Chrisenya was there, and leave just behind her when she left. The end of every lecture or prayer session became a mad dash to return to the bunkroom, a race which Serra would often find herself winning by a matter of minutes, if she won it at all. After a few days of this Serra was even forced to begin wiggling her way out of training, an act which she justified with the understanding that it was, after all, for the mission.
Even still, tracking Chrisenya was a great challenge. Serra knew for a fact that Chrisenya suspected nothing, and yet her movements, both in terms of when she went out on her little excursions and the paths she took once she did, were almost as if she knew she were being followed. She would stop and look back with great frequency, forcing Serra to rush into cover or pull the hood of her mantle over her face and look anonymous, and when she was moving it was a lengthy and erratic path. Many times Chrisenya would manage to lose Serra before she made it to wherever she was going.
When Chrisenya did arrive, it never seemed to be the place that Serra was hoping for. Too often she would come to some shadowy, abandoned nook which appeared to be the exact sort of place an addict would hide their stash, only for the noises emanating from within to make it quite clear that this was an engagement with Sister Severn, which while disgusting was sadly not reportable. Other times there would be no explanation for why it was that Chrisenya went to some strange location, but not even a thorough search would reveal evidence of any sort of stash. Over a week passed, and Sister Serra found herself having gotten absolutely nowhere.
It was an unusually warm evening, the day everything changed. Serra had been intending to wait for Chrisenya to leave once again, but with the white-haired girl busy praying and the whole business having steadily sapped her strength, Serra's will failed and she ended up taking a nap; a nap which soon became filled with strange, upsetting dreams. There were hands all across her body, disgusting, pawing hands that she couldn't seem to fight off no matter how much she struggled.
Chrisenya was there as well, taunting Serra even in the escape of unconsciousness. She leaned in close and said, "You've been barking up the wrong tree for too long. It's time to make things interesting and wake up."
Serra jolted awake, her heart thumping in her chest and a stinging pain rapidly fading from the front part of her skull. This damned mission had been destroying her mentally just as much as it was physically. It took her several seconds to calm her breaths, clear her mind of those heretical doubts, and realize that there was a noise in the bunk room. She turned over just in time to see the door to the room crack open. She could not see the figure, so quickly did they flit out through the crack in the door, but a quick count of heads in the room revealed that it was Sister Chrisenya.
Serra gave it a thirty count, long enough that Chrisenya hopefully wouldn't hear a thing, before slipping out from under her covers and rushing to follow. Keeping up was a mad race. It was as though the entire Abbey had turned against Serra, every stone flooring slab and tree root tripping at her feet, every wandering servitor attempting to cross her path. At the same time, though, it soon became obvious that Chrisenya was heading off in a direction that Serra had never seen her go: the center of the Abbey.
Exhausted, nerves severely frazzled, Sister Serra arrived at a large structure, one she didn't recognize. She'd never had any reason to go to the Hall of Mementos, what with her mind much more focused on faith of the mind and the technical aspects of healing the sacred human body. She had little value for relics. But Chrisenya had entered the building, and if this was the location of her stimm stash then Serra was obligated to follow. The guards at the entrance quizzed her about why she was there, forcing Serra to come up with a story about researching Order history for one of her lectures. By the time that affair was done, Chrisenya had vanished into the stacks.
Serra searched them row by row. The building was nearly empty, the only sounds a distant creaking and the steady clicking of the servitors. How long had the Orders been protecting the Gabrielle system, Serra wondered, that they had managed to accumulate this much?
And then, at last, she found Sister Chrisenya. The target of her search was roughly in the middle of the row, and she was… praying. Serra felt, for a moment, as though she were about to be struck dead from sheer disappointment. Hiding around the edge of the massive shelf, Serra watched on as minute after minute passed and Chrisenya hardly moved, kneeling before some nameless relic with her hands clasped. If this was the site of her stash, Chrisenya showed no signs, and after some time she rose to her feet and started walking towards Serra's hiding spot, forcing her to quickly duck out of the way.
There was one last chance to get something out of this. Once Chrisenya was gone, Serra hurried down the row, looking for the place where she had been; fortunately, the floors were quite dusty, and the knee-prints quite clearly marked where she had been. Serra searched around, looking for any possible places where Chrisenya might have been able to hide something away. She found nothing, but while she searched her eyes fell onto the label of the object Chrisenya had been praying to.
"Divinatory device of unknown providence. Possibly tool of chaos."
And suddenly it all clicked into place. The strange feeling that Serra felt whenever she was in Chrisenya's presence, the extreme emphasis on her own piety, the strange vanishings that Serra could not always follow. Chrisenya was not merely a stimm addict. Chrisenya was a heretic, corrupted, a servant of chaos that had somehow made it all the way to infiltrate the Adepta Sororitas.
Doloria had said that this was all to be kept a secret, but she would not have said the same if she had known what was at stake. Serra rushed out of the Hall of Mementos, no longer even bothering to hide her presence. She was going to have to report this to someone, and do it immediately. And in the case of something as severe as chaos corruption, there was only one possible option: going directly to the top.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Warhammer really puts the disaster in disaster lesbian I see..
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I get the feeling that such a procedure will include far more chainsaws, buzzsaws, and hacksaws than is strictly advisable for a gender reassignment surgery.
- Pronouns
- She/They
I don't want to spoil anything too much but there's a crucifixion involved