Warhammer 40K: The Chaos Dozen

[Kuja]

Here it is folks. If I accepted you as a Chaos Marine, you're going to be showing up right here in this story. Much like Ford's new story, it's 40K with a touch of humor. Enjoy, mes amis.



Warhammer 40,000: The Chaos Dozen


Introduction


Abaddon was not happy. And when the Warmaster of Chaos was not happy, worlds had a tendency to depopulate violently.

He glanced out his window into the swirling void of the Oculus Terribus, what citizens of the wretched Imperium called the Eye of Terror. His eyes slid across the enormous leviathan that rested within its equally gigantic cradle.

The Planet Killer. The biggest and deadliest ship that the Legions had ever fielded, designed in part by himself and constructed by innumerable slaves and warpspawn. It was his pride and joy. It was also injured. Abaddon scowled as he felt his already dark mood grow blacker. Repair teams swarmed his child, erased the damage it had sustained in his last series of battles. A thousand and ten curses upon the Astartes for this, he thought acidly. The demon sword Drach'nyen vibrated in its sheath, sensing his foul mood and craving blood. Abaddon ignored it – sending the sword into a foul mood of its own – and turning back to his desk.

He hated this part of the job. Usually, it was a lot of fun being the Warmaster – organize fleet battles, lead ground campaigns, and lately, blow up planets. But being the leader of the Legions of Chaos meant that you occasionally had to do some Chaotic paperwork. Resigning himself to the annoyance, Abaddon sat down at his desk, his chair creaking under the weight of his millennia-old power armor. Picking up his stylus, he began writing quickly.

Two hours later, Abaddon sat back and took a breath of relief. The requisitions forms had been voluminous, mostly thanks to the Word Bearers' tendency to file everything in triplicate. For the umpteenth time since Horus had died, Abaddon promised himself that someday, paperwork would be a thing of the past. The distant, largely forgotten past. Abaddon started to grin, then remembered that he still had to work through the remand cases and his annoyance returned.

Once per year, the Legions offered a few sacrificial lambs to the Warmaster as a way to butter him up. It wasn't something he hated, per se, but such things could be time-consuming as he sat around trying to think up creative deaths. After ten thousand years, his creativity was started to reach its limits.

There were surprisingly few cases this time around. The severe beatings that the Legions and the Imperial Navy had given each other recently had to have been keeping things quiet. All in all, there were only twelve files.

Two from the Black Legion. Damn. Abaddon winced. If the other Legions sensed that his own was getting out of hand, they might try to make a play for him. Abaddon promised himself that he would come down hard on the two rule breakers.

One each from the Death Guard, World Eaters, Emperor's Children, and Thousand Sons. Those four Legions tended to dedicate more souls to their patron gods then the Warmaster. Abaddon shrugged.

Two from the Iron Warriors. Abaddon grinned. Good. That might keep the other Legions' eyes on them instead of the Black Legion.

One each from the Word Bearers, Night Lords, and Alpha Legion. Those legions tended to roam around more than sit on their asses in the Eye and so always sent fewer than the others.

And finally, one Dark Angel. Abaddon raised an eyebrow. It was rare to see a member of the Fallen cross his desk in any way.

He sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Now came the hard part: deciding how to kill them all.

That was when an unlucky slave opened the door and entered, head bowed low. "Your afternoon tea, my lord," the drone said.

Drach'nyen leapt from its sheath and shot right through the nondescript's torso, launching him backwards into the wall where he dung suspended three feet above the floor. Abaddon watched him wail and screech as Drach'nyen slowly rent him from the inside. The sword took its sweet time, enjoying every moment of the kill until nothing was left but a husk.

"Bodyguard," Abaddon said calmly.

A Black Legionnaire in Terminator armor entered the room and immediately bowed. "Your order, Warmaster?"

Abaddon held out his hand imperiously. "My sword."

The bodyguard started to reach for Drach'nyen, then thought better of it. Rather, he took the slave's hand, wrapped it around the hilt, used it to pull the sword from the wall, and cut the hand off at the wrist so that he could bring it to Abaddon. Kneeling before the Warmaster, he offered Drach'nyen up, still using the slave's hand to hold it. Abaddon took the sword and resheathed it. "Leave now. Take the meat with you."

"Yes, Warmaster." The bodyguard took the corpse and left. As the door closed, Abaddon realized that his mood had brightened considerably. Then he looked back down at the desk and an idea started to form. Leaning forward, he opened the first of the two Black Legion files and began reading through it. A grin split his features as the idea solidified.

Yes, this would do quite well. If they fragmented, so be it. They would have died anyway. If they produced results, so much the better. Whatever happened, the results would certainly be interesting. Especially if this Captain Cyran was as good as the report suggested.

[Lindar]

*squeaks and claps* oooh You're gonna kill Cyran>!>!>

[Elheru Aran]

....Hmm.

I missed out on the recruiting drive, apparently.

But nonetheless excellent. Keep going...

[Kuja]

....Hmm.

I missed out on the recruiting drive, apparently.

I'm still willing to recruit for bit players and other roles. Sign up here:

http://bbs.stardestroyer.net/viewtopic.php?t=79504

Go get 'em, tiger.

[Ford Prefect]

That just fucking rocks. Booyakasha.

[Captain Cyran]

You lying son of a bitch. You said you wouldn't be putting people you knew in this.

All in all pretty good. I don't know much about 40K, but I know enough so that I'm not confused. It wasn't hard to tell what you were doing considering the title.

[Shroom Man 777]

This is just wrong. The Ruinous Powers aren't to be laughed at, you know?

[Kuja]

You lying son of a bitch. You said you wouldn't be putting people you knew in this.

Did I? Oh dear.

[Kuja]

In which I introduce our main cast and throw Cyran to the wolves:


Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, Backstabber!" an all-too-cheery voice shouted. Cyran managed to open his eyes and react just in time to catch the black object being hurtled at his midsection, though doing so caused his arms to explode in pain as the hooks planted in them dug in. Ignoring the leers from his jailers, he turned the object over in his hands and looked at it in wonderment. It was his helmet. Blinking, he looked up at a Black Legionnaire whose bald head glistened in the light almost as much as his oversized blue canines did. "Cut him down," the man ordered, and two of the marines that had been Cyran's jailers moved to do so as the third unslung his bolter and pointed it at the bound marine.

They ripped the hooks out of him none too gently. His nerves seared, but Cyran offered nothing more than a minor twitch of the eyelid, no doubt disappointing the jailers. All the while, his confused gaze remained on the unfamiliar marine, one who wore the markings of a captain. "What is this?" he finally asked.

The captain grinned, an expression that looked vaguely akin to a snarl. He pointed to a room down the hall. "You have exactly five minutes to clean yourself up and don your armor Backstabber," he said. "One second longer and I get to blow your fool head off. Now move."

Cyran moved like a new recruit, swallowing his questions as he hastened to carry out his instructions. The only thought running through his mind was that somehow, impossibly, he'd been given a second chance to prove himself. He reached the room and closed himself away from the world as he washed the already-dry blood from his skin.

The armor came back on like an old girlfriend who'd spent too much time alone. Chest, groin, legs, shoulders, arms, boots…the familiarity of the routine took Cyran's mind away from his concerns for a moment, although he noted that none of his weapons were present and all his rank indicators had been removed. As he reached for his gloves, he briefly wondered what he would have to do in order to atone for his mistake.

Without warning he spun and struck the wall. The rock cracked and his knuckles shuddered under the force of the blow. Ignoring the pain, he drew back and struck again, this time splattering blood when he hit. No! Not a mistake! Never! Never call it that! Never let them make you think it! Cyran struck the wall a third time to ensure that his mind was in the right place. Bone showed through the skin over his knuckles. Ignoring the injury he donned his gloves and retrieved his helmet, sparing a moment to look into the eyes before tucking it under his arm and double-timing it out back into the hall where the captain was waiting for him.

"Four minutes and twenty-two seconds," the other Legionnaire said with a cruel smirk. "You disappoint me, Backstabber."

Cyran stared him down. "It is a pleasure I hope I will be able to continue exercising," he said evenly.

"Sadly no." The captain turned and started down the hall. "Follow me." Cyran fell into step just behind him as the man began speaking. "You've been given a rare gift, Backstabber. The Despoiler has decided to give you a second chance."

"What's the catch?"

"You'll have troops from multiple legions under your command and a good chunk of resources. You're also being given your own ship."

"So what's the catch?" Cyran asked again.

"You're also going to be operating away from the Eye. You'll be receiving orders from the Despoiler himself, and you'll be completely in charge."

"There has to be a catch here," Cyran insisted.

The captain finally graced Cyran with a smile. "Whatever you take from the Eye, that's all you get. And you're never coming back. Succeed in your mission and you'll be given a new one. Fail and you die. That's the first catch."

Cyran felt his hearts sink. "And the second?"

"All your troops are screw-ups as well."

Cyran sighed. "When do I meet them?"

"Follow."

-----------------------------

Minutes later, they'd come to a room that consisted of a pane of glass and a few papers on a table. Beyond the glass, Cyran could see a small auditorium, built for about a hundred but only occupied by ten or so people, all Chaos marines. "That's a one-way mirror," the captain explained as he went to pick up to papers.

"I take it this is where I'm introduced to my merry band of lunatics?" Cyran asked.

The captain chuckled. "Indeed. Take care to memorize what I say here. It might prove vital for when they rebel against you."

Cyran noted that the man said 'when' and not 'if'. "Will do."

"First among equals is Gulgamesh, your fellow Black Legionnaire."

"I don't see a Black Legionnaire in there."

"Look up."

Cyran looked up. "Bloody hell!" he blurted. Gulgamesh was a Raptor, a crazed Chaos marine with a jetpack on his back. At the moment, he was hanging from the ceiling.

"Be sure not to go in there through the back way when you brief them. He's here because he apparently gets a kick out of dive-bombing his officers. Not treacherous, just a little...loopy. And remember, he's probably going to be your closest ally."

Cyran swallowed. "Got it."

"Next is Ghornal. That's the World Eater in the second row." The marine in question had his feet up on the seat in front of him and was absently running his fingers across the teeth of a chainaxe. The chainaxe was running. "Reprimanded for a lack of kills."

"You're joking, right?" Cyran said. "He's as bloodthirsty as any Khornate I've ever seen."

The captain shrugged. "Figure it out on your own. I don't care." He shuffled a few papers. "Jadeite of the Emperor's Children." That man sat farther back and more towards the left of the auditorium, but was easily spotted thanks to the bright color of his uniform. He sat with a guitar across his lap as he plucked at the strings, occasionally adjusting one. "Apparently, he gets cheap thrills out of playing that guitar as loud as he can late at night. Unfortunately for him, his ex-commander apparently gets cheap thrills from the dreams he experiences in deep sleep. The two don't mix."

"Apparently not."

"After him there's Dalton of the Death Guard."

Cyran looked to the giant green-armored figure sitting near the middle of the room, scythe stuck in the seat next to him. "What's his problem?"

"That's just it. No problems."

"What?"

"No diseases. Apparently his immune system was just too good to let them foster. His superiors considered it an insult to Nurgle and kicked him."

Cyran nodded. "Next?"

"Kuja Diadron, Thousand Sons." The figure in polished blue-gold armor sat well away from the others, one leg crossed over the other and head resting on one hand. A large book lay open in front of him. "Technically he was rebuked for insubordination, but I have the feeling it was because he never takes his nose out of a freaking book. Every time I look at the guy, he's buried in one." The captain took a breath. "Moving on, we come to your group chaplain, Nongenti Scalk of the Word Bearers, of course." Scalk was a scarred man with glowing eyes who sat hunched over his crozius, subvocalizing some prayer.

"I hesitate to ask how he ended up here," Cyran said.

"He summoned a daemon onto the battlefield. It went on a rampage. You can guess the rest."

"I can."

"Well then, that brings us to the partners in crime from the Iron Warriors. Sheppard is the one in Terminator armor." Cyran saw him immediately. The gray armor was polished to a shine. Tusks made of adamantium drooped from his helmet and a servo arm sprouted from his back. He sat at rigid attention next to a huge, hulking Obliterator. Guns and knives seemed to adorn his every feature; there was even a small dart gun poking out from his forehead. "The other one is Duomilleanno Domini."

Cyran winced. "Please tell me that wasn't High Gothic."

A shrug. "He goes by Domini, but apparently, he also answers to 'hey you' and an assortment of obscenities. They wound up here when Sheppard – he's a paranoid freak, so you know – accused his CO of conspiring against him. It probably would have blown over eventually, but Domini decided to end it quick and put a round through the guy's brain. Better keep that in mind."

Cyran nodded agreement.

"Now we go over to Typhonis of the Night Lords. He's the one sneaking up on Dalton."

Cyran groaned inwardly as he spied a figure in dark armor creeping through the rows of seats. Feeling his hearts race, he watched as the figure slink towards the Death Guard, who currently sat leaning back with his head resting on his hands. Once he had vanished behind the larger figure, the Night Lord suddenly reared up and although Cyran could hear nothing, he could imagine the bloodcurdling screech that sent Dalton leaping into the air and coming down on the backs of the seats in front of him, thus starting a one-marine avalanche to the ground.

Everyone in the room drew a weapon and began gesticulating wildly. The sole exception was Kuja, who briefly looked up from his book and then went back to reading.

"Just an all-around fun guy," the captain commented dryly. "As you can probably guess, Typhonis gets his kicks by scaring the living hell out of teammates." The man paused. "You know, I bet him and Gulgamesh-"

"Just keep going," Cyran muttered as he began rubbing at a headache.

"Certainly, Backstabber. Your next loyal follower is Talen, that's the Alpha Legionnaire in the back corner." Talen, although still seated as he watched the confrontation, had drawn a dagger that looked like it was made to be thrown. "He was rebuked because of clumsiness."

"Clumsiness?"

"Yes."

"I hate specialist legions."

"You and me both, Backstabber. And finally, you've got Seth of the Dark Angels."

Cyran glared at the captain. "Now I know you're joking."

"Not at all. Look up there, past the seats."

Cyran did, and he spied a figure in dark green armor wearing a hooded robe. "A Dark Angel," he said.

"Yes, a member of the Fallen. Reprimanded for being a Dark Angel."

"What?"

"Come now, you know most Chaos Marines would blow a Fallen's head off at the drop of a hat. I think someone was trying to earn brownie points by offering a sacrificial lamb."

"That makes sense."

The captain closed the files and dropped them back onto the table. "Well, that's all I can give you. Good luck with them, your briefing's in fifteen seconds."

Cyran's head swung around. "You can't be ser-"

That was when the one-way mirror dropped into the floor and someone shoved him hard from behind. He did an unceremonious belly flop into the room and heard the door sliding shut again, trapping him in there with the other eleven members of the new suicide squad.

[Lindar]

*nods approvingly* Alright! so... let's see... i call dibs on the shrieker!

[Ford Prefect]

Hahahahaha! I can FLY! You are so very screwed Cyran, so very, very screwed. Especially if Kuja was nice and gave me a power claw. Damn that's a k'rad model.

[Shroom Man 777]

...nuts.

[Captain Cyran]

Well...

Huh...

Prefect, you try dive-bombing me and I tear out your throat through your ass then beat you with it until I figure out that it can't be used as a microphone. Which could take awhile depending on how much of a lesson I feel this group of maggots needs to be taught.

[consequences]

So I was reprimanded for lack of kills. This should be amusing as hell.

If we want to add a touch of me to brother Ghornal, then I should be stealing Kuja's reading material whenever possible. If we want to add a touch of the darker theoretical side of me, then I should try to hunt down substandard authors, their descendants, their friends, their friends' pets, and maybe their friends' pets' friends' fleas.

[Typhonis 1]

Well depending on when the Fallen joined chaos....his armor could be black not green.

[Kuja]

In which the Dozen are given their first mission and led to their ship:


Chapter 2

Cyran looked up to the uncomfortable sight of eleven Chaos marines from nearly as many groups staring at him. A moment later Gulgamesh, who had been perched on an irate Ghornal's back, hopped down towards him, executed an acrobatic midair flip, and brought his feet down on Cyran's shoulders, driving him back down to the floor. "Hmm, hmmm, what have we here?" the errant raptor enquired.

"It appears to be a fellow member of your Black Legion," a dry voice replied. "Perhaps you should remove your weight from his torso and allow him to introduce himself."

Gulgamesh chuckled and stepped off, then offered Cyran a hand up. Cyran took it. "Gulgamesh Questrierinal, Black Legionnaire and fast-attack expert," he said by way of introduction.

"Cyran Heitzen," he replied as he looked over the group feigning surprise and curiosity. "Who are all of you?"

"An eclectic group of so-termed good-for-nothings," the same dry voice replied. "Your arrival brings us to an even dozen. And I am Nongenti Scalk of the Word Bearers." Scalk began using his crozius to point at the others. "Duomilleanno Domini and Marcus Sheppard, Iron Warriors, Kuja Diadren, Thousand Sons, Reckon "Reck 'em" Typhonis, Night Lords, Robert Dalton, Death Guard, Ghornal Dire "Consequences" Terresque, World Eaters, Talen, Alpha Legion, Jadeite, Emperor's Children and finally Seth, Fallen Dark Angel."

Cyran pretended to go along with the introductions, then turned back to Scalk. "Good-for-nothings?" he asked.

"In the time we've been here we've been comparing notes, so to speak. I've noticed that the one recurring theme is that all of us ran afoul of our superiors in one way or another."

"Except-"

"In your case, Seth, the mistake was associating too closely with untrustworthy allies," Scalk said without turning his head.

The Dark Angel clenched a fist. "Listen chaplain-"

The door opening violently followed by the sound of marching feet cut off the irate marine as all of those present turned to see a double row of Black Legion Terminators entering the room. Cyran tensed for a moment as they split and began walking along the walls – a classic firing squad formation. But after the ten Terminators came a curious thing: a human slave, his eyes dug out and his wrists shackled together. All over the slave's body were patches of some kind of pus; a viscous purple liquid that seemed to sprout tendrils to sink into his flesh.

"What the hell?" one of the marines – Cyran thought it was Ghornal - asked.

"A Linkor," Kuja muttered.

The slave stopped just inside the room and the door closed behind it. A moment later, the slave moaned and fell to his knees just before a spike of violet erupted from his chest.

"Shit!" someone blurted. Cyran guessed that it was Jadeite. He wondered just how young the man was. Chaos marines saw worse than this on a daily basis.

The slave moaned again as the spike suddenly split open like a flower, eight tendrils unfolding to lie across the slave's chest. A bluish glow began to emanate from the center of opening and a moment later, a ghostly figure formed in the air before the slave. "Kneel!" one of the Terminators barked, and the twelve marines threw themselves to the ground.

"Rise," a voice said a moment later. Cyran lifted his head and fixed his eyes on the image of Abaddon himself. The Despoiler's image briefly cast its gaze over the small assembly and began to speak.

"Once per year, your superiors offer me a sacrificial lamb. A throwaway for me to do with as I see fit. For ten thousand years, I have found unique and interesting ways of executing these offerings." The shade paused. "However, I am loath to waste resources to no good end. So it is that I find myself addressing you." Again the image paused and looked over the group. "Understand this. All of you are dead men. There can be no question about that. But-" it added with a raised hand, "-although you are dead already, there is nothing preventing you from being nasty corpses."

The shade smiled. "So, here is my order. You twelve are to be put aboard ship and exiled from the Eye of Terror. You will be given dangerous missions, impossible missions, missions that will be sure to kill you. You will be given no reinforcement and no support. No one will avenge you if you are killed. Doubtless no one will even care.

"Your ship is a former rogue trader, the Black Dart. There is no crew, only a multitude of daemons and servitors that have been bonded to the various systems. It has more than enough room for the twelve of you and your equipment. It has been safeguarded from sabotage, so if you twelve should 'accidentally' get lost, don't expect the ship to be coming with you. As to command..." The shade turned to look right at Cyran. He realized that this was no mere image, this was a projection of the Despoiler himself. "Cyran Heitzen, the Backstabber," the image said. "Before ending up here, you held the highest rank of all those present, that of captain. I am reinstating it immediately and placing you in charge."

There was more than a little grumbling from behind him, but Cyran's sharp hearing picked up a soft yet chirpy 'cool!' that he knew had to come from Gulgamesh.

"All the rest of you please note that aboard your ship is one system dedicated to monitoring your captain's life signs. If they should mysteriously cease, the ship is programmed to self-destruct."

More grumbling.

"With the issue of command settled, it is time you learnt of your first mission. Be seated, all of you." They all scrambled into the nearest seats as one of the Terminators set a pad onto the floor in front of Abaddon's image. A hologram sprang up from the floor to display a massive Imperial battleship flanked by a large asteroid. "This is the Emperor-class battleship St. Dylan's Vengeance," Abaddon said. "The asteroid beside it is an Imperial refuel and repair station. After a recent battle following the Thirteenth Campaign, the Dylan retreated with its engines heavily damaged. As of now it is effectively immobile and will remain that way for the next four weeks. It is in a poorly defended system and in fact, it is largely relying on its own weapons and ordinance to protect the station. Of course, the Dylan is one of the most heavily armed ships in the Imperial Navy, so this in no way means that the station is overly vulnerable."

There was a pause that weighed heavily in the air.

"Your mission is to destroy the St. Dylan's Vengeance by any means necessary," Abaddon said after a moment, confirming Cyran's suspicions. "Certainly we could send a battle group to do the job, but that would entail more resources and casualties than I am prepared to spend at the moment. That is all."

The hologram of the ship vanished and Abaddon looked over the group once again. "My Terminators will conduct you to your ship once I am finished speaking. You depart the Eye in four hours. This is your warm-up mission gentlemen. Make the Imperium tremble. DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!"

Cyran and Gulgamesh immediately leapt to their feet, echoing their leader's war cry. "DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!"

A moment later everyone in the room was bellowing. "DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR! DEATH TO THE FALSE EMPEROR!"

As they chanted, the image of Abaddon slowly faded away. As it did so, the slave slowly collapsed to the ground and expired. They quieted and the Terminator with the most decorated armor stepped forward. "You will follow me to your ship," he said firmly.

----------------------------

The windows looked thin as paper, but Cyran knew they could stand up to a bolter round. Beyond them lay a one-kilometer ship, slim in build and no doubt constructed for speed. As they walked, Cyran looked back over his shoulder and motioned to Gulgamesh, who promptly caught up to him. "Yeah?"

"You're a flyer, how does she look?" he asked with a nod out the window.

"Um..." Gulgamesh scratched his helmeted head. "In good shape, I guess."

"I've been on ships like it," Talen interrupted. "It looks quick to me but we'd better not get hit by anything."

"I'd agree with that assessment," Seth added.

"Can either of you fly it in case of an emergency?" Cyran asked.

The two of them looked at each other. "I'm qualified on landspeeders..." the Alpha Legionnaire said tentatively.

"I've never done any real flying, but I usually stand on the bridge when traveling so I've seen quite a bit," Seth said.

Cyran sighed.

As they approached the boarding hatch, Cyran stood to one side and waved the others in. "Pick your own rooms and meet me on the bridge in an hour!" he ordered, receiving a few half-hearted replies. As the last of them went aboard, the captain of the Terminators caught his eye and motioned him over. He went cautiously. "What?"

The Terminator glanced towards the ship and back to him. "You might be a screw-up," he said softly, "but unlike most of them, you're still a Legionnaire." He reached to his belt and withdrew a small holdout pistol, surreptitiously passing both it and its holster to Cyran, who quickly strapped it to the small of his back. "Be careful, Backstabber. Give the Imperium hell."

"I will. Give them some of your own," Cyran said solemnly. He took the Terminator's hand and clenched it fiercely in farewell, then he turned and walked down the boarding ramp. As he reached the end, he turned to cycle the airlock.

It was the last time Cyran the Backstabber would be seen in the flesh by any true member of the Black Legion.

[Lindar]

awwwwwwwwwwwww*applauds*

Self destruct! w00t that's awesome!!!

[Captain Cyran]

Well, I'm safe for the next few weeks from getting offed by my own guys until they find away around it.

Very cool. And a wonderful suicide mission you're sending us on.

[Ford Prefect]

Kuja, you fucking rock. Twice. Really hard.

[Pcm979]

*Claps* This is going to be fun

Oh, and I love what you've done with Nongenti Skalk. My full approval and everything.

[consequences]

Well, I'm safe for the next few weeks from getting offed by my own guys until they find away around it.

Very cool. And a wonderful suicide mission you're sending us on.

Ha...Ha..Hahahahaha!

He thinks he's safe. Abby didn't say anything about a sensor linked to make sure you don't get turned into a lobotomised toothless quadripilegic with no eyes, ears, nose, or tongue.

"Sleep Tight, don't let the bed-bugs paralyse!"

[Captain Cyran]

Well, I'm safe for the next few weeks from getting offed by my own guys until they find away around it.

Very cool. And a wonderful suicide mission you're sending us on.

Ha...Ha..Hahahahaha!

He thinks he's safe. Abby didn't say anything about a sensor linked to make sure you don't get turned into a lobotomised toothless quadripilegic with no eyes, ears, nose, or tongue.

"Sleep Tight, don't let the bed-bugs paralyse!"

Consequences. This is me we're talking about. You really don't think I either a) am going to be sleeping with one eye open or b) have some other sort of fail safe?

[The Yosemite Bear]

post again soon Mon-keigh or I shall personally track you down and in the name of the laughing god personally hand you over to the Druchii

[Ford Prefect]

Consequences. This is me we're talking about. You really don't think I either a) am going to be sleeping with one eye open or b) have some other sort of fail safe?

And that failsafe is me. Dn't worry Cyran, I've got your back.

[LadyTevar]

Kuja, once again, you are a Fantastic writer, with any genre.