# The Augustus Torchwood Files - Chapter 1: The Hapes Incident



## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

Inquisitor Lord Gabel sits in his drab and Spartan public office and tries not to dwell on how much more comfortable he’d be in his overstuffed armchair back in his opulent private residence. He listens with steepled fingers as Inquisitor Musgrave gives his report. The studious little toady was assigned to investigate reports of unusual and possibly renegade actions taken by one of their own during the suppression of a dangerous cult in the Hapes Hive. By nature, investigating a member of the inquisition is a grave and serious task, one which Musgrave approached with all too much aplomb for Lord Gabel’s taste.

“So, when the hive’s chief custodian questioned his presence and his authority, Inquisitor Torchwood drew his sidearm and coerced the custodian’s cooperation?” Lord Gabel asks, sounding annoyed, “I daresay I would have done the same thing myself, Musgrave.”

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In a dirty run-down office in the bowels of Hapes Hive, Chief Custodian Cranston stared down the barrel of an antique bolt pistol. The man holding the weapon was battle-scarred and weary looking. “No,” the man with the gun said, with an exasperated sigh, “I do not have a current Document of Remit, at the speed of Imperial Bureaucracy I’m sure I could furnish it for you sometime in the next century. In the meantime, I do have this…” he said, jiggling the weapon a little. “Ten thousand years old, pried from the cold dead fingers of an ancient Chaos Lord some years ago. I had it sent to the Adeptus Mechanus to be refurbished and have its corrupted machine spirit purged…it’s taken countless lives in those forgotten centuries, and in recent years has executed many enemies of the state. The first time it was fired, our beloved Emperor still walked amongst mortal men.” the Inquisitor stated in a low, intimidating snarl, “And I’m sure if you require confirmation of my authority, it’s more than capable of transporting you to Him, in spirit at least, and you can ask Him who sent me.”

Cranston sighed and shook his head, “That weapon’s not ten thousand years old. Before and during the Heresy they used a different pattern receiver, and those big ugly double-thick magazines…I can also read the serial number imprinted right under where you stuck that big platinum inquisition seal on the side there…they didn’t start putting the serial numbers on the outer casing until about six hundred years ago.”

Inquisitor Torchwood’s façade broke just then. “Really?” he asked, bringing the weapon closer so he could inspect it, “Well bugger me. Maddie, did you know that daemon-fucking bastard lied to me when he pulled this bloody knockoff on me?” he demanded, turning to face the attractive young woman in a stripped down suit of formerly powered armor who followed him in.

The woman laughed a little, “I’m sorry, Gus…you just looked so thrilled when you took it off of him, we didn’t have the heart to tell you.”

“We?” he demanded, visibly embarrassed, “Who the hell else knew I was toting around a damned forged antiquity on my hip all this time.”

The woman grinned, “Full Auto Otto knew as soon as the thorny bastard unholstered it. Don’t you remember him snickering when Lord Wassname started off on his whole ‘this weapon was given to me by the Emperor Himself’ spiel?”

Inquisitor Torchwood was visibly deflated at this point. “I thought that was because of the meltabomb I had behind my back…well, now I look like a damned tool in front of Cranberry, here.”

The chief custodian cleared his throat meaningfully, “It’s Cranston, actually.”

“Right, well let’s start the fuck over.” The Inquisitor said, running a hand through his graying brown hair and holstering his counterfeit artifact, “I’m Gus.” He said, thrusting the now empty hand out to the Custodian, “Let me buy you a drink, mate.”

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“Well, yes, Lord,” the younger inquisitor stammers, “But when the arrogant custodian held his ground, rather than shoot the man for hampering the Inquisition, Inquisitor Augustus Torchwood reportedly holstered his weapon and began to _reason_ with him! After an unnecessarily long conversation and more than a few alcoholic beverages, Inquisitor Torchwood managed to gain the custodian’s support. Afterwards, he abused his Imperial mandate to order a raise and a commendation for this arrogant and corrupt individual, purportedly for ‘courage and dedication in excess of expectations...clearly a bribe of some sort.” Musgrave says with a contemptuous sneer.

Gabel strokes his beard thoughtfully, “Perhaps…” he says, after a moment’s consideration, “But the Inquisitorial Mandate makes no mention of how we carry out our duties, only that they are to be carried out regardless of cost in lives or materiel,” the older man says, though he sounds a little troubled, “Though this instance does seem a little wasteful, both of time and resources. It would have been quicker just to shoot the upstart and get assistance from his newly promoted replacement…instead he makes us look weak…” he sighs sadly, “Go on…”

“Well,” the plump little bureaucrat continues, with renewed zeal, “Rather than simply taking command of the Custodian’s Adeptus Arbites enforcers and conducting a rightly sanctioned sweep of the lower hive, all he asked — and I do mean ‘asked,’ for even after buying this corrupt and incompetent Custodian, he still couldn’t muster the authority to issue commands…no, all he asked for was intell on known cult operations and suspected members, and a couple of Arbites squads to be kept on standby should he need assistance.”

“So?” Lord Gabel asks impatiently, “He chose to rely on his own squads of Stormtroopers, rather than the possibly corrupted and unreliable local forces to conduct the Sweep & Burn operation. Sounds prudent to me, given the circumstances.”

“You don’t understand!” Musgrave squeals, immediately regretting his choice of words, “W-what I mean, Lord, is that Augustus Torchwood doesn’t command any Inquisitorial troops besides his own deplorable band of sycophants and hangers-on. A troupe which consists of, to name but a few…”

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Inquisitor Torchwood’s Personnel Files

Name: Sister Madeline “Maddie” LeFey
Rank: N/A — Discharged from regular service
Specialty: Weapons & Medical 
Gus’ Notes: Maddie is a keeper. I found this girl on a burned out Sisters of Mercy medical outpost, naked, covered in blood and pointing a splinter cannon at me. It seems a band of Eldar Pirates hit the aid station in search of loot and an outlet for their nightmarish desires. Maddie was one of the few proper members of the Adeptus Sororitas present, the rest being nurses and medics, combat trained but not battle-hardened. The raiders hit hard and fast, killing off most of the armed resistance and rounding up the survivors for a little party. Turns out one of their leaders fancied young Maddie. Realizing there was little chance of survival unless they could get some weapons, Sister Madeline feigned an interest in her rapist. 

Eventually he took her aside for a little privacy. After a few hours his stamina ran out and he let his guard down in front of the apparently subdued and submissive young nun…that was all the opportunity she needed. Apparently she stoved in his head with one of the toys he used on her, then secured a splinter weapon and proceeded to storm the orgy…unfortunately she was too late. Her sisters had all chosen death before debasement and were eventually tortured to death. In a righteous fury, she hosed down the room with deadly shards…that’s about when I came in. 

I was in the area when the distress call went out. My guys killed off the guards they posted outside and were working our way inside when we heard the shots. Cavalry to the rescue, all too late. To make matters worse, the pack of frosty bitches running her particular chapter would rather she let herself be tortured to death along with the others than disgrace herself to secure their rescue. They kicked her out, so I snatched her up.

In recent years, under Sergeant Maddox’ patient tutelage she’s really blossomed, showing a real talent for the Heavy Bolter, as well as any other piece of hardware she can lay her slender fingers on. She’s developing a rather dirty sense of humor, and is a more than capable combat medic.

Additional: Fucks like a bloody hurricane. Definite keeper!

Name: Otto “Full Auto Otto” Maddox
Rank: Sergeant, Inquisitorial Storm Troopers
Specialty: Weapons, Explosives, Hardware
Gus’ Notes: A force of nature with a Heavy Boltgun. Full Auto Otto was transferred from the Imperial Guard to the Inquisitorial Storm Troopers for “Excessive Zeal.” In other words, he was too bloody fire-frenzied to keep on the lines, but too fucking good to shoot in the face and roll into a ditch. 

Otto is a career soldier, one of the best I’ve seen. He survived for more than ten years on the front lines of the IG with a bloody plasma gun for His sake’s, that’s got to count for something. Both his arms are bloody bionic, the real ones burnt right the fuck off of his body…not both at once, but in two separate overheats during his stint in the guard. That’s right, the damned plasgun blew itself to hell and took his arm with it…and he picked up a new one and went back at it, only to have it happen again with the left…and what did he do when they got around to installing replacements? Got himself another fucking plasgun. Now THAT is faith and dedication right there.

He’s taught me more than a thing or two about soldiering in the years I’ve known him. We first met when I was a knock-kneed initiate carrying around my master’s psycannon and fetching his tea. Otto was in charge of one of my master’s IST squads back then and was on his way to joining the Retinue. He was only a few years older than I at the time, but had a lifetime of combat experience. He took me under his wing, and in return I kept him by my side when my master died and it was time for me to head out on my own. He’s my right hand, and mentor to my little band. 

Additional: I banned him from ever touching another fucking plasma weapon. There’s not much left on him to burn these days.

Name: Brother Prometheus, A.K.A.: “Bolt”
Rank: N/A — Officially dead.
Specialty: Weapons, Fieldcraft, Psychological Warfare
Gus’ Notes: Brother Prometheus is an interesting case. He was an Aspirant to a chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, tough which chapter he refuses to say, even to this day. Though initially accepted and dosed with geneseed…or whatever the hell it is they do with those kids, young “Bolt” (a nickname his Scout Sergeant stuck him with after he was accidentally shot in the head with a dud during a live fire exercise…hardy-fuckin-har) started showing signs of instability… maybe because he got shot in the fucking head. But I’m no apothecary.

As a result, the usual mental conditioning and psych treatments weren’t sticking. The kid remained loyal and pretty much sane, but he wasn’t meshing with the monastic lifestyle. Rather than ask the kid what was wrong and maybe sending him to someone who could help, they figured he’d learn to deal by being put into a combat scout unit before his physical transformation was even complete. I think they were hoping he’d save them the trouble of putting him down. But I digress…

Surprise, surprise: not long into his trial by fire he got himself shot…again. Left for dead, his brothers moved on as the battle raged around him. Eventually they were wiped out or just took off and left him, he’s not sure which. I was running a cleanup operation, making sure nobody left any ominous glowing objects laying around on the battlefield when we found him. Maddie patched him up and Otto got to work figuring him out.

He’s tight lipped about his chapter, so we don’t ask… none of my damned business anyhow. He’s loyal though, to the death if I’d let him. He started off all monosyllabic and formal, but once he realized we weren’t going to beat or starve him for being a human being he started to unwind. Lately he’s taken an interest in music…particularly something called the “Iron Chrous,” some sort of heavy metal hymnal group that’s becoming distressingly popular amongst the young hivers. He likes to play it loud while he lays on the firepower. I don’t much care, so long as he knows when to turn it off.

Additional: He has requisitioned an electric guitar and amp…I told him it was contraband for military personnel…I don’t know that it is, but I haven’t got the heart to tell him I don’t want to hear him wailing on it all bloody night and day.

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“Yes, yes.” Lord Gable snaps, cutting Musgrave off after only three rambling tirades based loosely on Torchwood’s personnel files. “I’m sure I’ll see all their files soon enough, but what was he planning to do with just his personal retinue against a cult, which by all accounts, seemed to be rather well dug in and equipped?”

“That’s what I was getting at, My Lord,” Musgrave says, trying to hide the irritation in his voice…he fails. Rather than a just and respectable show of force, Inquisitor Torchwood decided to endanger not just his own soul but those of his already tainted followers by exposing them to this blasphemous smut in an attempt to infiltrate the ranks of the cult! Of all the insane and reckless ideas…”

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To Be Continued…


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## Pandawithissues... (Dec 2, 2007)

Heh, i enjoyed this a lot, just the right amount of black humour I think.



> Apparently she stoved in his head with one of the toys he used on her


I can only assume this is some sort of train set
Dark eldar have always struck me as a bunch of model railway enthusiasts.


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## chrisman 007 (Jan 3, 2008)

I watch torchwood. It's good.


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

Thanks, Panda I'm glad you enjoyed it. As for Dark Eldar I always pictured them as sort of Slaneeshi-lite...not as full on mutated and depraved as chaos marines, but if they can create a god from the sheer force of rampant sadomy, they've got something going.

chrisman, I like the show too, though this story isn't really meant to be 'torchwood for 40k' I just cribbed the name and a little of the attitude. What did you think of the story?


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

*Chapter One: Part Two*

The following chapter is not intended as an entry in the contest...I just really felt like writing some more. Enjoy.

--

The Augustus Torchwood Files – Chapter 1: The Hapes Incident, Part Two


_*From The Journals of Inquisitor Augustus Torchwood*

…After securing the trust and cooperation of Lemont (Chief custodian Cranston), we brought The Enigma ex Machina to dock under the false registry Crimson Shad (I love that name…nobody ever gets it…). With the ship docked, I put Prospero and Cypher to the task of analyzing the data our new friend gave us, and I sent Bolt out to have a sniff around the underhive to scout the area and try to make some contacts.

I also sent Otto out to keep an eye on him, so to speak. Bolt’s a good kid, and damned good in a fight, but sometimes he’s not all there. I want to give him the chance to prove himself and see if he can handle the kind of undercover work we like to do, but I also want to be sure he’s safe.

Speaking of under-covers, that leaves Sister Madeline and me all alone in the up-spire penthouse I commandeered for our temporary HQ…I’m sure we’ll find something to keep our minds off of the trouble Bolt and Otto are bound to get themselves into…_

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Somewhere far from the luxury of the upper spires, a young man stalks through an underhive bazaar. His name is Brother Prometheus, but everyone calls him Bolt…he’s tall and timberwolf-lean, with a shaven head and intense, piercing gray eyes…eyes that carry a madman’s fervor and the deadly calm of a trained killer. The black leather and chrome, the telltale bulges under his long coat, none of these things keep people on alert as much as the sweep of those eyes.

Bolt has never walked these streets, but he has the menacing confidence to own them completely. He wears the dank and corrupted underhive like a tailored overcoat, making all things just a backdrop to him. Part of that backdrop detaches itself from the shadows and moves behind him, matching his pace but keeping a few yards back. Bolt doesn’t seem to be aware of his stalker, nor of the two others who’ve moved from a nearby alley. The muted throb blaring from his chromed earpieces gives the shadowy strangers extra confidence. Surely he cannot hear them over that racket.

He allows himself a little grin as his finely tuned sense of hearing picks out the sound of a holster being cleared through the familiar, almost subconscious din of his personal soundtrack. He’s debating on whether to play along and let them spring their little trap, or to just turn around and sort them out now, but his deliberation is cut short when someone steps into his path.

Nearly his same height, but much broader in build, the newcomer’s fiber-optic Mohawk shifts from green to red as he puts a shovel-sized hand on Bolt’s chest, “Toll road, mate. Either state your allegiance or fork over some cash…say the wrong name and you pay in blood.” He snarls the demand through jagged metal teeth, the various bolts and hooks and piercings in his face adding a nightmarish depth to his menacing glare. His bare arms bulge with almost too many muscles, and though his open leather vest conceals no weapons, it’s hard not to see what looks like a huge industrial chainsaw strapped across his back.

The two from the alley take this opportunity to step into the light, casually brandishing a bulky-looking slug pistol, and a length of steel pipe with a heavy, knobby-looking fitting on the end. Behind him, Bolt can hear the petulant whine of an old and poorly maintained laspistol, struggling to hold a hotshot charge in its aging capacitors. Across the street, a red glimmer on dirty glass betrays the presence of someone trying to use a cheap targeter from the second floor window.

Bolt takes it all in, but keeps his face devoid of expression. His steely gaze flicks from Mohawk’s face, to the hand on his chest and back. The thug starts to sweat as the light catches the dent in Bolt’s forehead, right above his left eye. He could swear he saw that left eye rotate with distressing independence, describing an erratic circle before snapping back with laser focus on him. He jerks his hand away as if burned then, remembering himself and his nearby comrades he straightens up and tries his line again, “Tell us who you’re with or pay the toll.” He says, with just a bit less confidence than before.

Silence, disturbed only by the muffled, primal beat surging from Bolt’s music player, then a response just as the lead singer begins to scream his unintelligible lyrics, “I keep my own council. Organizations seek to ally themselves with _me_.” he says in a jarringly soft voice. “And before you ask…” he adds, moving sideways with ophidian speed, “It works the same way with money.” Before Mohawk can reach for it, Bolt has torn the saw from its webwork sling and sends it skittering across the blacktop away from them.

With a grin, Bolt grabs Mohawk’s questing hand and places a boot on the center of his spine. With a hard shove and a grizzly, snickering pop bone breaks and an arm is pulled rather thoroughly out of socket. Mohawk goes down in a whimpering heap on the pavement.

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Up in the building across the street a finger tenses on a firing stud. “I wouldn’t, if I was you.” Says a voice like gravel poured down a stovepipe. The sniper spins around, trying to bring his cumbersome weapon to bear on the speaker when a fist like a bundle of rebar smashes into his face with the sound of a shovel hitting wet sand.

“Dumbass,” Otto says, shaking his head as the would-be assassin slumps to the floor with a wet gurgling sound. Matchlight flares briefly off a red-lensed eyepiece set into the old man’s face. Full Auto Otto draws the flame into a fresh cigar with a rattling metallic rasp and blows out a pall of blue smoke as he moves to inspect the cobbled together long-las the unfortunate young man was holding. “I wouldn’t put down a sick dog with this piece of shit.” He declares after a moment’s consideration. With a disgusted snort he tears the weapon in half. Blue sparks ark across his battered cybernetic limbs as the capacitors discharge their load. “Barely even got my nips hard, that kiddie-charge…fuckin pathetic.”

-===========]xxxo =][= oxxx[===========-​
Back on the street Bolt vaults over the whimpering wreck if Mohawk and launches himself at the stunned gangers. The one with the pipe takes a swing, but Bolt catches it and jerks hard, pulling its wielder forward and into a brutal punch. The unfortunate hiver drops to his knees, clutching the bloody smear that used to be a nose. Bolt flips the pipe once in the air and snatches it back so that now he holds the light end.

With a negligent seeming flick he brings the knobby end whistling down on the other thug’s slug-gun, shattering both the weapon and the hand that held it. Hearing the laspistol's whine stepping up an octave, Bolt drops down and sweeps the one handed ganger’s legs out from under him. He rolls, just ahead of a stuttering laser beam, as it cuts a molten morse code of dots and dashes into the plascrete sidewalk, the last piece of underhive scum trying in vain to track him with the sputtering beam. It quickly peters out as the focusers overheat and melt under the hotshot load.

Bolt comes up cross-drawing his twin bolt pistols. Specially diffused targeter beams paint fist-sized ruby dots on the unfortunate youth’s chest, vividly depicting what the .75 caliber high-explosive entry wounds would look like. “Drop—” he begins, but is cut off by the clatter of the pistol hitting the sidewalk before he can even form the word ‘it.’

“Please don’t fucking kill me!” the ganger sobs as he drops to his knees in front of Bolt, “I’ll be your bitch, anything you want!”

Bolt briefly considers asking why he went straight to sodomy, but decides instead to turn a phrase, “State your allegiance, or pay the ferryman…” he says, bringing both pistols down side by side so that the ganger finds himself staring into hell’s binoculars. 

“Wh-what?” he stammers meekly, the reference wasted on his terrified and uneducated mind.

“For whom did this miserable lot work?” Bolt clarifies impatiently.

“F-father Malthas Blak, s-sir!” the ganger blurts out, “He r-runs everything down here, him and the B-brotherhood.”

Bolt grins, and his left eye does its disturbing little pirouette inside his skull. The boy, to his credit, manages not to faint. “Good.” Bolt says finally, “It looks as if your master is badly in need of skilled enforcers. Go to him now,” he says, holstering his weapons and flicking something from the recesses of his jacket at the ganger. The youth squeals in terror and tries to scramble back as the business card bounces harmlessly off his chest. “Tell him that my associates and I can be of assistance to him.” Without further words, he turns and walks away from the cowering survivor. Contact established.


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## Luciferi (Mar 2, 2008)

This story is sweet!

I can't seem to find any flaws with it which is a rarity.


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

Thank you! I'm glad you like it...a friend of mine expressed concerns about my use of present tense though, said it was awkward to read. It's my natural way of writing, so it's actually hard for me to write any other way. Do you think it would read more smoothly if it was all in past tense though?


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## Luciferi (Mar 2, 2008)

To be honest i found no problems reading it.

I haven't read any other stories written in the present tense so it's a welcome change.


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

*The Augustus Torchwood Files: Part Three*

Mini-chapter, still have much to transcribe... Part Three

_*From The Journals of Augustus Torchwood*

Bolt and Otto reported back sooner than I had expected, and together at that. However, they failed to surprise in the manner in which they entered the base…bickering like brothers…_

-===========]xxxo =][= oxxx[===========-​
“I don’t much care if you knew he was there, or not. He’da shot you jus’ the same, boy.” Otto was saying as they trudged into the common room of their penthouse HQ, shedding muddy boots and jackets as they went.

“I’ve been shot before,” bolt said moodily as he hung his long coat on the rack by the door, “And judging from the quality of the weapons they were using, I most likely had little to worry about.”

“Reckless _and_ ignorant,” the old vet declared, lighting up another cigar. 
They may been packin’ shit for munitions, but a shit gun’ll kill ya’ jus’ as dead as a spanky new one if you ain’t watchin’ yer ass. You know how many shiny suits’a power armor I seen cut to pieces by some greenskin with nuffin’ but sharp bit o metal and a bit of determination?”

“Alright, alright, enough,” Gus said, striding into the room in a long, plush looking bathrobe. “The important thing is nobody got hurt,” he glanced at bolt’s blood-spattered sleeve and corrected himself, “none of us, at least…” he said with a sigh, plumping himself down in the overstuffed armchair.

“So, how did it go, boys?” Sister Madeline asked, emerging into the common room in a rather short and fluffy robe and toweling her dark hair. She perched herself on the arm of Gus’ chair and crossed her legs demurely.

“Well, I uh…” Bolt flushed and stammered for a moment before composing himself, “I made contact with some cult thugs. They attempted to shake me down, but they also asked if I had any affiliations, said I would pay in blood if I gave the wrong name. Sounded fishy to me.”

“Sounds to me…” Gus started, taking a sip from the teacup he left on the table earlier, “Ugh, gone all cold.” Madeline smiled, remembering the circumstances under which he was originally forced to abandon sip. She got up, gave him a quick peck and gathered up the teaset to go back into the kitchenette. Gus blushed a bit and carried on, “Anyway…sounds to me like the good Reverend hasn’t got as firm a grip on thing as he’d like. We should see if he’s got any enemies left alive still. If he’s asking allegiances, then there’s got to be someone left to worry about. Sounds like a useful asset to me.”

“So, we’re gonna team up with a pack of underhive scum?” Otto asked, raising a scarred and hairless brow skeptically. 

Gus leaned back in his chair a bit, “Look, I’m not saying we should go around giving out chocolate and blowjobs, or anything, but I’ve got no problem inviting them to come along and get in front of some bullets for us.”

“Not a bad plan, Gus,” Sister Madeline said as she returned with a fresh tea tray from the little kitchenette, “But how do you plan to get a peek at Reverend Fucknut’s enemies list, and how do we go about inviting who we find on it to ‘get in front of some bullets’ for us?” she asked, setting the tray down on the table and bending over it to pour her and Gus fresh cups, leaving the others to help themselves. 

“Well…” Bolt said, trying not to linger on the image of Maddie bent over the coffee table, “When I dealt with them I gave one of the survivors our card. I told him that it was obvious his boss could use some skilled enforcers and told him to have him call us.”

“Oohh, looks like someone’s wearin’ his smarty boy britches today.” Otto commented, pausing in his efforts to fill a teacup almost entirely with sugar cubes.

Maddie grinned and leaned forward invitingly, “Mmmm, now there’s something I like to see in my men, brains and a bit of initiative…” she purred, “Which card did you give him, love?”

“Uh…” Bolt flushed with mostly embarrassment, “I wasn’t actually paying attention…” he admitted, earning a cackle from Otto as the young man fumbled for his card case. “Looks like number seven.” He said after a moment’s inspection of the little sliver case’s contents.

Gus chuckled and shook his head, realizing which one it was. The phone rang and the inquisitor answered with a pleasant drawl, “Torchwood Pest Control, we Cleanse _and_ Purify…”

Maddie put a hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling with suppressed mirth. Otto choked and sputtered on his sugary tea and Bolt did his best to sink into the couch cushions from embarrassment. 

“Yes, Reverend, that does sound like quite an infestation got there…” Gus said after a pause, “I’ll send my best agents over right away to discuss details…”


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

*Augustus Torchwood Part Four*

Bigger update this time, but still tons left to transcribe...I've actually had to stop writing until I get more of this stuff on the computer. Part Four...

Back in the offices of Inquisitor Lord Gable, Inquisitor Musgrave continues with his report. “As I understand it, Inquisitor Torchwood had managed to secure an interview with the leader of this cult in his own headquarters. Why he didn’t simply end it all there and put this monster down on the spot is beyond me.” The pudgy man sputtered indignantly, “I demanded access to his personal journals, but the underling who answered my call instructed me to…” he leafs through his notes and squints through his spectacles, “Ah yes, take my summons, ‘roll it up real tight’, and I’m quoting here, ‘stick it and swivel,’ whatever that means.”

Lord Gable snorts, choking back a laugh and coughing to cover it up, “Yes, quite rude…but an inquisitor’s personal files, much like his personal staff, are his to relinquish or withhold as he sees fit, unless formal charges are raised.”

“Yes, do I’ve been told…” Musgrave mutters sulkily, before pressing on.

-===========]xxxo =][= oxxx[===========-​
_*From the Journals of Augustus Torchwood*

Thanks to Bolt’s footwork, we managed to score a meeting with Reverend Blak. I had Cypher pull up scans of that section of the underhive and put in a call to Lamont to have some of his boys hit a couple hab-units nearby, make it look like a random Arbites sweep sort of thing.

I passed on a couple of instructions of my own in that regard. Custodian Cranston was only too happy to oblige me, but at a terrible price… Maddie and I have to go over to his place for dinner this week. His wife is making something she calls ‘Hiverat Stew’… the man drives a hard bargain.

Explaining the plan to the boys took some doing. Bolt didn’t understand why we don’t just take him out there and then, especially after I told Otto what he would be doing. But I explained that taking Blak out now would just make rounding up the rest more difficult, and he seemed to understand. We need a chance to get them all together.

With a little luck the whole plan will go to hell and we’ll all be dead well before ‘Hiverat Stew’ night at the Cranston’s…_

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Dirty and dangerous was the theme as Torchwood’s crew assembled and strode off to their meeting. Bolt kept to the street-lethal look he sported earlier. Sister Madeline wore her stripped-down armor, mostly form-fitting armor plates from her old power armor, worn over a skintight energy-dispersing bodysuit. She also wore a pair of sleek, high-powered lasers, of ancient make, strapped to her hips. For Otto it was hars-wearing chameleon fatigues, currently set to black, worn over a lightweight set of kasrkin plate, his matte black hellgun carried casually over one shoulder, one arm hooked lazily around the butt, the other free for smoking. 

Augustus took the lead, wearing a log black coat of a different, more antiquated style and era than Bolt’s, and a broad-brimmed hat. He walked with an antique skull-topped cane; runes and stones glittered and glowed in the dim light. Under his coat lurked an ancient and baroque looking plasma pistol, and a dented and well worn breastplate in dull red. No aquilla or inquisitorial seals, no forms of identification on any of them.

The intense, primal beat of Bolt’s music seeped out into the air around them, like an action movie soundtrack…an effect with Gus immediately shattered when he began whistling a rather up-beat tune and tapping his cane to keep time. The others grinned, they knew the ancient tune well, had heard him sing it many times. ‘Hear me now, o’ thou bleak and unbearable world,’ it went, ‘thou art base and debauched as can be. But a night, with his banners all bravely unfurled, now hurls down his gauntlet to thee…’ he always sang it when he had a good feeling about the way things were going to go…or whenever he was in the shower.

By the time they reached the ruined imperial cathedral that Malthus Blak was using as his headquarters, Gus was all business again, his jaunty swagger and the spring in his step were replaced by a purposeful stride and a steady gaze.

They were stopped at the doors by a pair of goons holding pistols and waving primitive weapon scanners. “Gotta disarm.” One of them grunted, “Father’s orders.”

None of them made a move until Gus nodded, at which point they began removing their various weapons, grenades, extra ammunition and other such devices. One of the tugs pointed to the cane Augustus was carrying. The inquisitor followed his gaze and shook his head. He tapped the cane against his shin with a ‘clonk’ as it hit a hidden greave, “Medically necessary.” He lied smoothly.

The guard shrugged and moved on, waving them through in turns with his scanner. He held up his hand to stop Otto when the little device began to click and squeal. Otto gave an innocent yellow grin and opened his fatigue jacket to reveal a bandolier of grenades. A brace of pistols and a cutlery drawer’s worth of knives. “Medically necessary?” he said with optimistic innocence. Gus sighed and shook his head.

“Well, blow this for a lark.” Otto muttered and spat, “Can’t abide one crippled ole man, wh? Well fuck it, I’m havin’ a smoke!” he declared, reaching back into his coat. The guards took a step back and leveled their weapons, but relaxed when he withdrew a battered pack of thin cigars and a box of wooden matches. “You go on and talk to Pater Paranoia, I’ll jus’ go an’ have a stroll so’s these boys can calm down a bit.”

Gus nodded and watch the ‘crippled old man’ stump off across the littered churchyard, then he turned to the guards, “He means well,” he said, with a hint of a smile, “Just a bit overprotective is all…Shall we?”


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

Just out of curiosity, is anyone still reading? Not trying to whine for responses or anything, I'mjust curious if I still have readers ;-)


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## Luciferi (Mar 2, 2008)

Hhmm for some reason I didn't get an email from Heresy telling me you'd posted more.

And yes, people are still reading xD.

When do you plan on adding the next installment?


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## Silar (Mar 19, 2008)

Yeah I'm still reading, it's really good and different from the normal stories here.


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

When I have the time to transcribe more of what I've written I'll post more, probably sometime Monday.
I'm glad to hear people are still reading. Sorry about this needy little diversion ;-)


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## Galahad (Dec 21, 2006)

*The Augustus Torchwood Files: Part Five*

This is the last of what I had left to transcribe, so enjoy...more to come as it comes....

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The guards made sure Otto was out of sight before turning back to the others and leading them in. The broken down old church was long since abandoned when the hive rose higher and the once middle-class zone was absorbed by the slowly expanding underhive. Now it stank of old sex and fresh blood. Madeline visibly bristled at the scent, but Gus laid a calming hand on her shoulder and she found herself relaxing, but with a determined look in her sapphire eyes.

Guards and dazed looking cultists were slumped in every nook and alcove of the old imperial church. Some staring into space, others busily fornicating, some just passed out. In the chancel, under a broken and defiled stained glass depiction of the Emperor casting Horus into oblivion, lay the altar—warped and defiled, crusted in the residue of indescribable fluids. Augustus suppressed a shudder as the eyes of his skull-topped cane flared briefly. Madeline’s eyes grew intense and cold, but she moved closer to Gus, keeping his hand on her shoulder. Bolt took it in, but nothing changed the intense, predatory look on his face.

-===========]xxxo =][= oxxx[===========-​
Their guides lead them to one side and into the rectory. After the defiled and run-down church-proper, this immaculate and baroque inner sanctum came as a shock to Torchwood and company. Warm candle light, and soft orchestral music filled the air, while sweet incense wafted from an ivory and gold burner, elaborately sculpted in the form of a beautiful, androgynous young child kneeling in supplication and offering the tray of incense as an offering. All around them were hard wood shelves and desks, stacked high with books and tomes. And on every flat surface there were sculptures of beatific young children and cherubs, like a massive choir of smooth, sexless young forms, carved from ivory, marble and alabaster.

“I can tell you like the décor,” said a kindly old voice. As one they turned from eerie silent chorus to observe as a pleasant and harmless looking old friar tottered into the room, “You must be the nice young man I talked to earlier,” he said, peering curiously at Gus, “I must confess, I was not expecting someone as impressive looking as yourself, master Torchwood.”

Augustus flashed a disarming smile, “Please, call me Gus, Reverend Blak.” He said, doffing his cap with a bow.

The old man gave him a toothy smile, though his eyes had drifted to Bolt and Madeline. “Just ‘Father’ will do, son,” he said, gesturing for them to sit, “And who are your beautiful young companions?” he asked, eyeing them both with all too much interest.

Bolt returned the old man’s hungry look with a hard, unfriendly stare. His left eye did one of its erratic rotations. Maddie, who was a bit quicker on the uptake, flashed a shy smile and looked down demurely as Augustus made the introductions, claiming them as his nephew and adopted ward. “I raised them both myself, since they were children.” Gus said with unusual and unsettling emphasis. The old man smiled knowingly and lowered himself gingerly into the ornate chair behind his ancient hardwood desk. Gus petted Madeline’s hair possessively, and she lifted submissively into his touch.

The old man smiled and steepled his fingers, sensing a kindred spirit and letting some of his guard down, “Are you a religious man, Gus?” he asked, old blue eyes drinking in the subtly perverted façade. 

Augustus managed to look slightly abashed, “I’m afraid not, Father,” he admitted, “I never held much truck with the imperial cult, and, of course, they don’t allow much else for alternatives. But I’ve always felt that the sense of discipline and obedience it instills is important for the raising of childre so I made my own attempts to impress those values on my little foundlings here.”

The heretical preacher smiled and nodded, seeing a meaty target, “Well, blessed are we to be so far from theprying eyes of the Emperor and his…minions.” Father Malthus said reverently, “Perhaps when you’ve helped me rid the underhive of the last of the heathens and the godless, you and your fine family would consider joining our little congregation.”

Gus rubbed his chin, “It’s a tempting offer, one I’ll have to consider while we sort out this problem you’ve got,” he said, gently guiding things back to business. 

Malthus Blak smiled, he liked this man…polite, pragmatic, perverted. He would do nicely, “Yes, of course,” he grinned, “You’re here to discuss your business, not mine,” he said with a little laugh, “The main source of our woes are a nihilistic gang of street scum who call themselves the ‘Red Chrome Legion.’” Malthus spat contemptuously, “A pack of mutants and mutilated semi-human cyborg slime. They claim to worship the machine spirit of the hive itself, or some such pagan nonsense. Because they seem to identify themselves with the tech-cult of Mars they see our challenging of the Imperial Creed as some sort of threat to their interests and have begin persecuting our followers,” he pulled a folder from his desk, “This is what information I have on them. Sadly, we are a peaceful group and lack the warrior spirit needed to take the fight to these oppressive freaks.”

Gus smiled as he scooped up the file, leafing through it briefly before he passed it off to Bolt, who tucked it into his long coat. “Fortunately, Father, we have warrior spirit to spare,” Gus said, as he rose to his feet and offered his hand, “We’ll handle this lot for you, for the terms we discussed on the phone,” he smiled as the old man stood and shook his hand, “And if all things work out, we’ll talk about a more lasting and less professional association…” he said with a pedophile smile.

Father Malthus laughed and was about to say something when Gus noticed the red glow in the old man’s silver hair. “Get down! Augustus shouted, using their handshake to pull the old heretic over his desk and onto the hard marble tiles…with just a wee bit too much force. Gus let out a pained cry as a lance of red light stabbed through the smoky air and struck him in the shoulder with a meaty hiss. A molten hole appeared in one of the high vaulted windows. Ignoring the pain, he dived atop the old priest, crushing him into the floor for a moment, until he could move to cover behind the desk.

The laser cut through the room briefly, setting books to smolder and cutting candles in half before it sputtered out. Bolt and Maddie rolled for cover as a pair of Malthus’ guards stormed on, only to be cut down by the sniper’s baleful ruby glare. Bolt grabbed up a fallen lasgun and returned fire through the half-melted window while Madeline hirried over to fuss over Gus’ wound.

“Otto, were under fire!” Augustus groaned into a comlink that he pulled from his belt.

“Sniper, from one of the hab-blocks behind the church,” Otto’s voice confirmed, crackling over the airwaves, “I’m on it. Sit tight,” a burst of static signified the end of the conversation.

Father Malthus Blak sat dumbfounded as the las-shots cracked around him. He babbled incantations, but nothing happened. After a couple of long minutes the incoming fire ceased and Otto Maddox came back on the link, “Cheeky little bugge pulled a runner when I located his nest. Left his shooter though…looks like a piece of hiver shit, not police spec for sure.”

Gus nodded, “Looks like our unbelievers,” he said, then into the link he addes, “Alright, Otto, come on back then…we’ll have to go hunting.”

The reverend got carefully to his feet when he was sure the danger had passed. “You saved my life, mister Torchwood, and it won’t be forgotten. Bring me the man who did this and I’ll not just double your pay but I’ll make you head of my guard, chief inquisitor, anything.”

Gus grinned, “Inquisitor, eh? Cheeky…I like it,” he patted the old man on the back and shook his hand, “You’ve got a deal, Father. I won’t fail you,” he picked up his cane and ushered his ‘wards’ to the door.

“I like that one…” Blak said, seemingly to himself once they were gone, “What do you think, my children?”

At first there was silence, then slowly his statues began to move, coming to a gross parody of life. They scampered to him, embracing and climbing into the old priest, covering him in cold, stone kisses, “They all have potential, Master.” One of them said in an adoring, child-like voice, “The boy has much anger in him, and little to restrain it besides his loyalty and respect for his uncle. The girl has been touched by corruption in the past. The stain on her soul is clear for us to see.”

Blak smiled, surely these tainted people were no servants of the Emperor, “And Torchwood?” he asked, caressing the frigid marble flesh where he could.

“It’s hard to tell, Master.” A second cherub admitted with a pout in its voice, as if it were afraid of being scolded, “His presence was too strong, we were almost afraid to think with him looking at us,” it shivered and pressed against him, seeking affection and comfort, “he could have gifts and blessings of his own, or perhaps a powerful latent talent or some item of power,” the unsettling little creature lifted happily into his touches and cooed.

“Humm…” Malthus pondered, petting the stone mockery lovingly, “That complicates matters… He could be an asset and a valuable ally, or he could be a threat…damn!” he sighed and smiled as his grotesque little ‘children’ moved closer, kissing and caressing to lift his spirits, “Mmmm…well, we’ll just have to invite them to our next ceremony once this nastiness is sorted out, see how he reacts when our Lord arrives for his gifts. He will judge our friend Gus, and he will be there to lend us the power to carry out his decision.”

His eerie stone harem giggled and tittered excitedly at the news, “Father is coming!” they chorused, before swarming their master under with their perverse affections.

-===========]xxxo =][= oxxx[===========-​
On their way back to base the group met back up with Full Auto Otto, who was grinning happily, “I think that went well,” he declared, giving Gus an over-friendly pat on the shoulder, relishing in the wince and groan it elicited in the younger man.

“You would,” Gus muttered accusingly, “What happened to ‘minimal power, just for show’?”

Sergeant Maddox shrugged blithely, “Thick glass,” he explained, “Absorbs lots of low-end infra-red…had to tune up to punch through. I’ve seen you take worse an’ keep on wise-assing, so quit yer bawlin.” He said with a miscreant’s grin, “So how’d it go in there?”

Gus shrugged, wincing again, “I think he bought it.”

Bolt shuddered, “That whole thing creeped me right the fuck out,” he said fervently, “I feel like I need a shower.”

“Fuck showers.” Maddie said as they entered the lift, “I need a change of skin. That place, those smells…that man, like a harmless old granddad…and those horrible little sculptured…I could swear they were watching me.”

“They were.” Gus said, keying in their floor. He took in their shocked and horrified expressions and explained, “They were possessed. Some kind of familiars maybe, or totems. Certainly qualified as a fetish, in every sense of the word,” the doors closed and they began their ascent, “They were trying to read us, maybe pushing a little influence on us too, so we would buy into all that cult crap,” he explained, the waggled his cane meaningfully, “I only let through what I wanted them to see in us.”

“That’s not entirely comforting…” Maddie said as they entered their suite.

Gus shrugged and walked over to the well stocked liquor cabenet, “Best I can do at the moment,” he said, pouring himself a drink as Bolt headed for the shower and the others began stripping off their gear.


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## Silar (Mar 19, 2008)

cool, nice work, it's gonna be interresting to see how they bring this guy down, or maybe they wont:shok:


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## Luciferi (Mar 2, 2008)

Hey, we gonna get more of this stuff anytime soon >_>?


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