New project I'm working on. C&C please. Enjoy!
+++Log1 – Sec 1952F+++
“I still do not understand.”
“Neither do I.”
“So you are saying that they do not have brains and they do not think.”
“But they are sentient.”
“How is that possible?”
“What should we do?”
“All we can.”
I’m angry. Angry at the soldier who made fun of my kilt. Angry at my officer for reprimanding me once I punched said soldier so hard he shat himself. But mostly, I’m angry at the Munitorum frakheads who had organised the joining of the regiments in the first place. It was a stupid idea.
The Heilund 5th Grav-chuters and the Mordian Iron Guard Artillery Detachment. The most stuck-up, pompous snobs to ever grace the Imperium intermingled with the rowdiest, dirtiest and wildest guardsmen in the universe. Not to mention the Earthshaker cannon/Valkyrie discrepancy.
Tensions were high. Someone poked fun at someone else because he wore a “skirt” and someone knocked someone else out. So I’m sitting in the Commodore’s office. Angrily.
“He called it a skirt!” I shouted.
“I don’t care what he said!” Air Commodore Timothy Plum yelled back at me.
“It’s not a skirt!”
“We don’t knock each other out for political incorrectness, Daisy!”
He’s the only one who dares call me by my first name. Usually, they call me Toonie Tox or just Tox. But I’ve known Timmy for a long time.
“It’s not a skirt!”
“By the Emperor’s Holy chamber pot, stop saying that!”
“’Hello Air Commodore, nice skirt you’re wearing!’” I said, imitating the Mordian who so rudely offended me.
“Get the frak out!” Timmy roared, obviously exasperated.
I didn’t need to be told twice.
I’m still in bed, even though it’s late afternoon.
I just had an amazing night with the most attractive woman I have ever seen. I didn’t get very much sleep.
I’ve always been great with women, but I was doubtful when I first hit on her. I don’t think she even has a league.
Payed off though.
I lock up with the man. Everyone around the ring is busy making bets. I doubt I’m the favourite. The man’s twice my size and it seems that he is well-known for his exploits on the wrestling mat.
He’s grinning at me as we circle. He baits me with his leg, leaving it open and standing up. I keep circling for a few more moments, but I cannot ignore his blatant mockery.
I poke his temple with my left hand and I reach for his very generously offered leg with my right, diving forward onto my knee. I quickly grab his calf and lift his flailing limb above my head, all the while sweeping his remaining leg off the ground with the side of my foot.
He falls onto his back. Hard. Everyone begins to yell.
I throw myself on top of the man as he quickly spun to his stomach. He holds his head high so I can’t use it. Instead, I shift from my position on his back to his rear end. I stick my shoulder into his hamstrings and lace his ankles between my arms in a very fluid movement.
I crank his crossed legs toward his body sharply and he lets out a quick yell of pain. Smiling, I stand up suddenly, and he forcibly springs to his back. Then, taking his legs with me, I fall once more on top of him and scoop his head into my arms while still maintaining my grip on one of his legs.
The acting referee slaps the mat. He’s pinned. I’ve won.
The crowd is stunned. They stare, some of them with hanging jaws, as I stand and hurry to leave.
I’m still smiling when I hear the angry roar behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know what it is. I should probably run.
I turn anyway.
I walk through the ship’s corridors. A stupid, bright-faced recruit is following me.
“What do they call you?” He asks.
“Grumps,” I grunt without a glance.
I turn and look at him.
He stops following me.
I’m standing in line at the mess hall. I’m hungry and I’ve had a long, eventful and thoroughly enjoyable night. Not much sleep though.
It’s natural, of course. The men’s endocrine system just loves my body. Actually, I don’t really mind.
After all, it’s not their fault.
"Employ your time in improving yourself by other men's writings, so that you shall gain easily what others have labored hard for."