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Loving the set up so far!
Jingo sat huddled behind her makeshift altar, fiddling at and comforting the servo-skull in her lap as pistol shots cracked through the air and chipped away at her ever decreasing shelter.

“There, there, Matteo, we’ll soon have buzzing around like usual.”

Things were not going according to her projections.

She’d arrived on Footfall months ago, ready, willing and eager to transfer to to the Rogue Trader Julius Montleban; honoured to serve as technical and spiritual advisor to one of those brave entrepreneurs that explored the wild unknown of the galaxy.

Unfortunately, the dock she’d reported to had been empty. The Administratum had suggested that Montleban might have been rescheduled, lost in the Warp, taken by Xenos or may not have ever existed in the first place. They’d promised to have a definite answer for Jingo in the next 18-36 months but had been suspiciously vague on which solar systems months they’d been going by.

Still, Jingo was never one to let a little thing like having her whole life’s plans go awry to get her down!

She’d spent some time in the Shield Shrines and marvelled at how the Omnissiah worked to keep Mankind safe even in such hostile places like the void. Travelling through the Void in a ship was one thing, but only the Machine God would be capable of allowing life to thrive in the crude stone structures of Footfall.

And thrive it did! Jingo had been thrilled at all the wondrous cultures that had grown up isolated among the emptiness. Thrilled and a little disappointed, too. These people lived in an impossible reality, even more so than the world Jingo had grown up on, but they all seemed to take it for granted. Yes, there were the cathedrals to the God-Emperor and, yes, there were the shrines to the Omnissiah, but the slavers and the criminals and the drug addicts and the drug dealers and everyone else seemed more interested in their own petty concerns than spending just a few moments each day in thoughts of praise for the God-Emperor, Holy Terra, the Throne and the Omnissiah.

So Jingo had set to work.

Initial attempts at preaching at high-traffic junctions had yielded an unsatisfactory return.

Efforts to herd together a congregation by her servitors had only succeeded in creating varyingly violent mobs.

Finally, Jingo settled on a method that worked. Little servo-motors that clamped into the base of the skull, with Machine-Spirits instructed to hyper-produce endorphins whenever the user listened to or preached the glories of the Omnissiah. It had been a great success! Jingo had been happy to distribute the device to anyone who asked and her flock had swelled considerably in short order. All of them devoted and desperate to practice their faith. They’d all been so happy and attentive and loved to listen to Jingo!

And now, for some bizarre reason, the Narco-tribes and drug barons were accusing her of invading their territory! Just because she’d chemically altered a few dozen people into feeling ecstatic whenever they express their faith! She was just spreading the good word and now people were attacking her!

Jingo smacked the base of Matteo’s skull a few times, trying to wake up the dormant Machine -Spirits inside the servo-skull to no avail. Her voxcaster let out a screech of Holy Binary, commanding one of the servo-motors on a member of her congregation to stand up. The bony woman managed to let out a gasp of surprise as her traitorous legs lifted her into view before three separate gunshots honed in on her and extinguished her life.

The three shooters did reveal their positions, however, and were promptly taken down by Jingo’s flock in a barrage of gunfire.

Still, from the acoustic and visual reports, it seemed the Narco-tribes had no shortage of troops to send her way. She couldn’t spend all her flock like that and still come out on top. It wasn’t the way she’d like to exit this situation, but Jingo had no choice but to let out another screech of Holy Binary, boosting endorphin and adrenaline levels in all her flock.

She heard the faithful scream in excitement, joy, anger and pain as they rushed the drug gangs of Footfall; and Jingo scurried deeper into her makeshift chapel, ducking into a back passage and hopping onto her servitor, Otto, commanding it to carry her away from the conflict zone.

It was a shame it had turned out like this, but she’d gathered a lot of good data that would help her next attempt at spreading the good word.

Maybe it was time to find somewhere a bit further afield, though.
I thought it might be a bit too ordered to suit the rage of Lyria, but I'll never not post Hell March when I have a chance to! Good choice on what you decided on, though! Sound more suitable.
Assassin
@Enzayne

Hell March has a pretty great martial beat to it:

Mispost.


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