“Cue the rain,” Stigfield said, leaning into the microphone. His voice was quiet, somnolent. He always got like that when he worked. No idea why. It’s not as if his clients could hear him. Through his holoport he watched as the couple—his clients—stood in front of that baroque fountain and the rain began to dribble down, just as he ordained. The “man” was tall, rugged, handsome.

“Surely,” I said, dryness in my mouth making it hard to talk. “… you are one of those introspective, post-modern barbarians. Not the killy, murdery, foamy saliva kind?” Ignoring my words, Thrak Krunga took another step towards me. “Like say, Logan nine fingers? Or perhaps plagued by demons, unwilling to face your past self like Elric of—“ The barbarian swung his great fork-tongued sword at me.

The barrel of her gun shook, wobbling left, then right, up, then down. It was a six-shot revolver, but she always left an empty chamber under the hammer, in case she accidentally dropped it and it went off—a mistake she wasn’t willing to make twice. Still, with 5 shots she reckoned she could hit a man-sized target, despite her jittery hands.

As a member of the Vlka Fenryka, Shondrag knew he shouldn’t feel this way but he did: he hated the snow. Not the snow of home, Fenris. He loved the snow of Fenris, the cool tang in his flared nostrils as he scented a hunt. It was this world. Wazmuun. The snow here just wasn’t right. Somehow too cold. The flakes, too large.

“‘With all due, it was one of my finest crashes.’ I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth—despite their veracity. Wing Commander Valensi’s already red face turn a new shade of incandescent. ‘Your…Finest…Crashes?’ she said, coughing each syllable like a felid ejecting a fur-ball. ‘I mean, I hit the runway sir… if a little too hard.’ The truth was, I gouged a Thunderbolt Fighter sized hole in the runway.

Money, Lucy decided, was a good thing. It bought other things, like dresses, minks and pearls. All good things. The downside of money was when people knew you had it. Now she understood why the wealthy were so cagey about how much scratch they were actually worth. Lucy had cleaned up at Lady Towne’s cardroom. Starting the evening with her innocent, “oopsie, beginner’s luck” routine which helped dull the sting as she raked her tablemates chips.

“I mean, I figured I’d see you again. But only, like your head, you know? On the end of a pike. Or Maybe just your face, worn as a mask over some mutant’s face.” Dakota Christmas cheerfully said upon my return to the Doomsday, CA studio. While it had been a harrowing experience, escaping the aforementioned mutants, and while it was Ms.

She felt a traitor for even thinking it. This wasn’t Sister Lynretta Lon’s first squad. Nor her second squad. The first she’d left shortly after joining. A reshuffling of personal as the Adeptus Ministorum was so wont to do. She wasn’t there long enough to form any bonds. Not so with her second squad, The Iron Thorns. They, under the steady hand of Sister Superior Korbilee, had been a family.