@BangoSkank@Hank@Guy0fV4lor@Bright_Ops@Jamesyco@Searat

They had called it a 'gramophone' on Ancient Terra, thousands of years before the coming of the God-Emperor and his benevolent rule, but the sounds that came from it gave Livingstone cause to wonder why it had ever disappeared - the seemingly unconnected melodies and playful pieces of music, put on something called a 'vinyl record', made him somewhat happier given his current state of affairs and so he could not see the downside these simplistic machines may have had.

Ah, but like almost everything to do with his life it was false - the record and gramohphone were reconstructions taken from millennia old blueprints, the music created to the best of the abilites of the one who had tried to bring it back into being. Like this reinvented artefact he too was merely a new construction of something old and lost, his dear father in this case, seen by many as only playing at being half the Trader his beloved Papa was known throughout the segementum to be.

Such thoughts fled his mind as he turned toward more important matters, the sound of brass instruments (or were they, really?) And drums nevertheless filling his peripheral hearing and the interior of his private quarters.

For over a month now the Pride of Praetoria, Firestorm-class Frigate of the Livingstone Dynasty flotilla, had been at anchor near Bakka; the lion-head prowed vessel was there because it required the twenty-five thousand or so pressed men and women to function correctly, a labourious process Edmund found, but one that needed to be done whether he liked it or not.

Six megatonnes of ship was a lot to handle, granted, but did it have to be so darned boring? Indeed, being so close back to his smog-ridden homeworld he had expected some variation to his days, fun even, alas it had not been so and instead he had been forced to sit day-in-and-day-out in the Red Lion tavern while illiterate Praetorians and others from further afield had made their mark, or signed their name if they could.

Now they were finally nearing the end of the process and Edmund could not be happier!

Absent mindedly he poured himself another steaming hot cup of tea, his gloved hand (pinky out, of course!) Lifting it majestically to his lips and...

"FRAK! Ruddy tea, burn me would you, gah."

His monocled face twisted into an expression of extreme distaste, but not anger, the Trader put his cup down and dabbed at the paperwork on his finely carved desk. He had been told to use dataslates, like a normal person, but couldn't bring himself to do so - he knew it was a nightmare for his manservant-cum-secretary Roderick to keep everything in order, but the truth was that he simply didn't care.

"Now, where was I? Ah yes."

There had been exceptions during his time here gathering human materials, certain individuals that could well prove useful, and now Edmund looked once more at their sheets with great interest.

Rupert O' Donald... Head of the Janitorial Union aboard the ship no less.

'Goose' Boucher, a Guard veteran from the Bristonian Hellhounds.

Maximillian Nidavel and Apollyon Kaicero, both men of quality by the looks of it, men that would do well to be by his side and not down below decks with the rest of the ragged masses.

Yes, and there were more.

For the moment he had arranged a meeting with these individuals, a briefing if you will, a statement of intent even; once way or another he would see what these persons were made of, and should they pass his test then they would accompany him... Possibly to where no-one had gone before.

---

---

The Windsor Suite aboard one of the several spacestations orbiting Bakka was one usually reserved for Planatary Governors, emissaries of the Imperial Church, Astartes, and any other powerful individuals. It had at this point been hired out by Edmund Livingstone (with some influence from his old man) and it was here that the small group of 'exceptional persons' he had decided to speak with were to meet.

It was a most spacious room, a large spread of foodstuffs and drink laid out over several white-cloth covered tables, and a variety of comfy chairs and seating made available, the whole thing being more like the lounge of a social club or the meeting room of some society or other than a room aboard an Imperial station.

At the rear end of the garishly wallpapered chamber - patterns of flowers, birds and spiral whorls made in gold adorning a field of deep blue - had been placed a holoprojector and a gene-locked case of notes, all in preparation for the moment when Edmund made his grand entrance.

With the tables of food and drink on one side, the other side of the room held a roaring fireplace and heated up the chamber quite nicely, two large armchairs sat before it.

All about the place were pictures of Imperial glory, of far off places, battles won and figures made divine by their actions in life, holobook shelves slotted in between a number of them.

All-in-all the chamber was a mix between a buffet, a personal library, a tavern common room and a well-to-do individuals lounge.

To here had they been invited, each one given a keycard that was to be swiped before entering, matched to their DNA only and valid for the day on which the meeting was taking place. After that they would become as mere material once more.

Twelve O' clock noon was the time for the meeting, and so a clock chimed in the chamber.

On the fifth chime of the clock the door to the chamber opened and a man stepped inside with a languid confidence at odds with the reality of his situation; he was a stranger stepping into a strange room about to meet a bunch of strange people he'd never met before. You wouldn't think so by looking at him, however. His back was straight, his hands were clasped casually behind his back and an easy smile played around his face as he cast his bionic gaze across the room, micro-devices clicking and whirring behind hiss artificial irises.

The room was empty. He was the first to arrive.

"Naturally," Apollyon Kaicero said quietly to himself and closed the door behind him as he put the keycard back into the pocket of his armored coat. The importance of punctuality and making a good impression had been drilled into him throughout his entire life, but the aristocrat had learned quickly that that wasn't the case for the degenerates he usually found himself working with. Many of them considered 'anything within the hour' to be close enough. He snorted at the thought, shook his head and set off on a stroll about the room.

It had to be said that he was pleasantly surprised at the tasteful upholstery of the space. It reminded Apollyon a little of home. "Ah!" he exclaimed softly at the sight of a table with food and, more importantly, drink, and he immediately poured himself a glass of amasec. These kinds of meetings were infinitely more enjoyable with a little buzz, Apollyon had decided early on in his budding career as a mercenary. He wondered where the Rogue Trader was and chided himself as he realized that the man must be waiting for the others to arrive before making a grand entrance. He'd do the same thing in his position, after all.

He had left the death-arc in his room -- it was impolite to bring such significant firepower to a friendly meeting, after all -- and therefore looked like little more than a highborn traveler taking a moment to enjoy the best that the station had to offer. His coat and clothes were dark, yet stylish, and his close-cropped blond hair almost seemed to glow in the warm firelight that emanated from the hearth. Apollyon swept his coat aside and made himself comfortable on one of the chairs by the table, crossed one leg over the other and sipped away at his amasec while looking around at the pictures of glory and honor that dominated the room, chuckling softly at their self-aggrandizing nature.

"Imperials," he whispered and shook his head.

Rupert hadn't been in the room to hear the chiming of the clock. The truth is he was running in order to get to it in order to avoid being late.

While their new captain had seen fit to bring on an influx of new personal, the task of where to send them was somewhat more... complicated then one would originally think. The nations of Pride of Praetoria were always generally welcoming of fresh blood after the the birth and short reign of King Charles the third of the Kingdom of the Portside gunnery decks proved the dangers of trying to 'breed pure' (He had actually seen a painting of the long dead king and it was a gruesome sight to see... if a well done painting. The fact that stories claimed that the painter had gone out of his way to clean up the King's portrait to make it more presentable only raised more questions about how bad the King had truly been to behold).

There were a number of problems with introducing fresh crew through. To start with, while the crew nations were more then happy to accept a wave of fresh blood to help replace losses and give a boon to the local gene pool, the competition to secure the best and brightest could get violent and a Janitor presence was needed to keep old rivalries from flaring up into war. There was also the issues that always arose when introducing new people into the established political world of the nations of the Pride of Praetoria, the boarders between the nations and the various traditions and laws that each individual nation maintained and lived by.

Rupert had spent most of the last twenty four hours managing situations before they could turn into full on fires that would require being put out. The fact that he needed to leave his home had nothing to do with the situation being resolved; the new Captain had requested a meeting on the station they were docked at and his training for his position had made it clear that the short term benefits of missing a meeting with the captain rarely outweighed the long term problem of letting them get ideas on how to try running the ship on their own.

So he had left the Pride of Praetoria, gotten lost on the station at least twice and was somewhat breathless as he finally arrived at the right door. Taking a moment to catch his breath so that he could at least look like he had arrived when he intended instead of having rushed, Rupert took a moment to run his hands down the front of his yellow jumpsuit to brush out any wrinkles, took a second to adjust his carapace breastplate and breathed deep as he checked his laspistol and chainsword were secured at their holster and at his side respectfully. It had felt weird to be so stripped down for a formal meeting, but he felt like the staff on the space station might have taken offense if he had come on wearing his protective goggles and breathing mask... and the flamer seemed a little much.

As the door slid open and he stepped into a room that... honestly boggled the mind a little as far as unused space went, Rupert blinked dumbly for a second before shaking his head and refocusing. There was at least one person in the room beside himself, but his gaze quickly glanced over to the clock in the room to check the time. One minute past twelve. "Sorry I'm late, but helping the new crew adjust to the ship is a time consuming process." He apologized, hoping that at least having a professional reason for not being there early would have been acceptable as he walked over to the food table. Most of it he ignored; He had no idea what it was and it looked to rich for his taste anyway. Instead he helped himself to some of the simple looking but hearty stew.

@Hank

_{featuring the magnificent @Bright_Ops}

“Apologies accepted,” Apollyon said, following Rupert around the room with his eyes. They glowed faintly in the half-gloom of the firelight. His smile widened. “Though you don’t answer to me, I believe, so there’s no need to apologize. Come, sit,” he said and gestured for a chair on the other side of the table. The aristocrat sat up straight and placed his elbows on the table. Rupert looked gruff and common, but there was a touch of pride to him. It looked well-earned, a hard worker’s pride, not the soulless vanity of upperhivelings.

“You help the new crew adjust? How interesting,” he continued and rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “I know very little about the workings of such great ships, I’m afraid. Perhaps you can tell me more? My name is Apollyon Kaicero. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He inclined his head gracefully.

Rupert… didn’t seem so sure of himself as to take a seat, despite the bowl of stew in his hands. However, after a moment he found himself accepting the invitation as he respectfully answered “Rupert O’Donald. It’s not so much helping the new crew adjust as it is… well, keeping everything in order. The nation crews are prone to fighting over those new personnel who are considered the creme of the crop… and since the new guys don’t know what the rules or boundaries are there are going to be a number of minor incidents for a long time.”

Getting settled into his seat but before he started on his meal, he politely asked “I’m guessing you’re one of the new hires that the captain is bringing on. If you don’t mind me asking, what duties are you being tasked with?”

“Nation crews,” Apollyon repeated back to him, tasting the words in his own tongue. It only made sense, given that the ships were crewed by tens of thousands of people, but it had never occurred to him that they would form something akin to nations to organize themselves. He’d simply never given it any thought. “That’s fascinating. You must be an important man.”

Apollyon leaned back and draped an arm over the back of the empty chair next to him. In doing so, his coat fell open and the laspistol and its power cells that were holstered there became visible. “Security,” he said, his voice a slow drawl, as if the answer bored him. “I suppose our lord and master considers me a cut above the common rabble, considering he invited me here.” Apollyon gestured at Rupert with his glass of amasec, gently sloshing the amber-colored liquid. “Just like yourself, Rupert.” His smile tightened into a smirk and he tapped his index finger against the rim of the glass; it chimed like a bell. “To us, important men.”

While the compliment about him being an important man was taken with a humble smile, when Apollyon mentioned his profession Rupert almost choked on a chunk of meat. Thumping his chest a little to clear his pipes, he took a second to calm himself down before he answered what had shaken him. “That… is going to be somewhat problematic.”

“You see… long ago in the ship’s history, the last head of security launched a coup that rocked the ship down to its foundations. While he failed, the nature of the fighting that took place between security and the rest of the crew causes the crew to view the position in a… very negative light, even to this day. Honestly, it was after the mess that the first of the nations was formed and the Janitor Union took over most of the duties that were normally tasked to the now gone security... “ Pausing for a second in thought, an idea quickly came to him.

“Tell you what. I’ve already got most of the internal stuff of the ship taken care of as far as security goes… but I can be the first to admit that my ability to keep our captain safe outside of it is… somewhat lacking? I’m happy to give you status reports on anything that you need to tell the Captain about if you’re content to let the Janitors take care of internal matters.”

Apollyon listened with rapt interest and had to resist the urge to laugh at the end of Rupert’s tale -- there had obviously been a misunderstanding in communication. “My dear Master O’Donald, my apologies. I never meant to imply that I would be in a position of authority over the crew of the ship. I was trying to be… polite about my profession, but I see that I should speak plainly.”

He put the glass of amasec down and made sure that his face was free of any visible tracers of humor. “I’m a killer. It is indeed the captain’s security, and his alone, that concerns me. If it is the… Janitors, you say? The Janitors’ job to maintain security aboard the ship, then by all means, as you were. My job is to keep the captain alive and to… well,” he explained with a shrug and a languid grin, “kill who or what he commands me to kill. I hope that clears up our little misunderstanding.”

It was rather clear that Apollyon’s answer had a calming effect on Rupert, since he leaned back into his chair as a relaxed breath escaped him. “Oh good. I’m glad we got that sorted out here and now before any misunderstandings happened. I’m already going to have enough trouble with that when it comes to the bloody tech priests.”

That drew a raised eyebrow and a chuckle from Apollyon. “The Mechanicus, eh? My father would complain about them at length as well. What are they doing now? Insisting on blessing the whole ship before anyone is allowed to step aboard?”

A sigh escaped Rupert as he shook his head. “It’s another one of the duties that the Janitors took over. Maintenance and the like. Didn’t have a whole lot of tech priests left after the failed coup and by the time the ship got more it had become one of our standard duties. Historically, almost every time we get new Mechanicus staff, it becomes a struggle over sovereignty… people have died in the past because of something that should have been repaired and sorted out sooner was left to get worse because the bloody cog boys refused to let anyone else who knows what to do actually do the job.”

The topic was clearly a sore one for him, but he recovered enough to ask “So how do you and the captain know each other? I doubt he would trust his personal safety to some random mook.” before he went back to sampling the stew.

Rupert wasn’t looking at him when Apollyon stiffened at the suggestion that he was some ‘random mook’ if he didn’t know the captain personally. “I don’t know him,” he responded levelly and tilted his head as he watched the High Janitor eat, like a raptor observing a mouse wandering through the grass far below. He took a deep breath and smiled again. “My reputation must precede me. Truthfully, I don’t know exactly what purpose the captain has for my skills. I can only guess that it must be something more intimate than making the rounds on the ship,” Apollyon said and rapped his fingers on the tabletop. His brow twitched. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Don’t you think?”

Looking up at the slight change in tone from his companion, Rupert took a moment to look over his former conversation and quickly review it for any blunders he may have made… and found it fairly question. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to offend. From what my predecessor told me about the former captain, his personal bodyguard was from a vassal family who had a long and proud history of serving the Livingstone family. I had assumed that if the current captain invited you personally it was a similar arrangement and I’ve made an ass of myself because of it.”

“Still, at least I can trust that you’ve been hired for your merit and skill rather than just because of who you are related to.” The fact of which seemed to increase the standing of Apollyon in the Head Janitors own eyes a bit. “For what it’s worth, I’m sure you’ll serve the Livingstone family well… if for no other reason then a deadstone pays no wages.” A dark, morbid joke, but an attempt at humor nonetheless.

It took a second for Apollyon to realize that Rupert had made a joke and he was pleasantly surprised -- the man had seemed like too much of a stoic, honorable sort until then. He laughed and raised the glass in appreciation. “Quite so, my friend, quite so,” Apollyon said and sniggered. “It is indeed in my best interests to ensure the captain’s safety, though I have to admit that it’s not the wages that concern me terribly,” he continued and finished the last of the amasec. He put the glass down and leaned forwards again, interlacing his fingers beneath his chin.

“You see, I find this prospect of traveling by a Rogue Trader’s side to the far-flung corners of the galaxy greatly exciting. I suspect that you and I come from very different social climates, as it were,” the aristocrat said, and for the first time during their conversation, an authentic sense of passion crept into his voice. “Well, I am bored of mine. Adventure, glory and danger, my dear Rupert, that is what I am after. Something to make me feel…”

The words hung in the air for a second as Apollyon inhaled sharply through his nose. “Alive.”

Rupert shrugged a little at the rather passionate speech the man was giving. “I don’t know so much about glory or adventure… to me, this is just a way of life. Between you and me…” He actually learned for a little and lowered his voice, as if sharing a major secret “...This is the first time I’ve ever left the Pride in my whole life. It is… honestly going to be a little humbling when we go to board the ship and I’ll be able to see the whole world I grew up and lived in for all of my life from an outside perspective…”

Apollyon was astonished. To live and die a whole life aboard a vessel… he could not imagine a more perfect microcosm that captured the meaningless lives of the riff-raff. No, not meaningless, he reminded himself as he looked at Rupert. Without him, and men like him, the voyage they were about to embark on would not be possible. He nodded slowly to himself, as if weighing the newfound appreciation he had for Rupert… and then it was gone. Short-lived, like all of Apollyon’s feelings.

“I shall be sure to be respectfully silent for the occasion,” Apollyon said in his most reassuring tone before flashing Rupert a winning smile and nodding towards the tray of food and drink -- he was seated closer to it than the aristocrat. “Say, be a good man and hand me that bottle of amasec, would you?”

The smile that Rupert offered back wasn’t a winner, but it was a solid second place… maybe a bronze depending on who was running. “Thank you.” He muttered back before turning towards the table with its many, many offerings of bottles to pick from. “Which bottle is the amasec?” He asked, slightly confused by the wide selection.

@Bright_Ops@Hank

With a drunken skipping, Maxie paraded his way through the the station, bragging of his imminent freedom to any that would listen; willingly or otherwise.   He went from bar, to bar, paying off his many tabs with what little money he had saved; though as boisterous he may have been for the years they'd known him, many were sad to see such a perpetually happy face go, as such a friendly figure was exceptionally rare when the living in the drab conditions of Bakka.  Slowly but surely, making his goodbyes, the disgraced former knight eventually reached the part of the station that led up into the more pristine districts, the entrance to which was always guarded by a pair of Arbites, as to prevent the lesser rabble from disturbing the more important and wealthy figures.  The local Arbites knew Maxie well, commonly having to drag him back to his small apartment after the man's frequent drinking binges.  A large, gruff figure of the the two lawmen stepped forward, meeting the drunk with a "Hey there Maxie, shouldn't you be planetside right now? Simmons is gonna be pissed if he doesn't have his best heavy machines operator, and you know how he gets when hes mad."

Looking up at the Arbite,  Maxie recognized him immediately and wrapped the stuck up bastard in a drunken bear hug as he chuckled,  "Jamseh ya big bastard Ima miss ya lad! Fuck Simmons, that posh uppiteh little twat can go suck ah cheap whore's taint fer all ah care." waving off the rookie Arbite that had been ready to club down the unnecisarily friendly drunk, James broke the embrace of his years known drinking buddy and laid down the law; as this was not the first time Maxie had tried to get into the upper districts, "Look Maxie, for the last time-- I'm not allowed to let you past if you don't have probable cause to enter the district. I don't care how many times you claim you've got another vision from the emperor himself and whatnot-"

"But ah do!" Maxie proudly exclaimed, cutting James off as he produced the key card and summons from the the Trader from the singular breast pocket of his jumpsuit.  Looking over the paperwork; now smeared with grime from Maximilian's filthy hands, James nodded, and stepped to the side as he handed the paper and key card back to the filthy fellow before him.  "So you're going with the Rogue Trader eh? Well Maxie, it appears everything is in order. You may pass."

Exchanging final goodbyes with perhaps the only Arbite on the entire station that didn't thoroughly dislike Maxie, he then approached the Winsor suite.  The sights and smells that filled the hallway were like that in the houses of imperial nobility, very nearly reminding Maxie of-- As if it were a reflex, ingrained in muscle memory, the man brought his half empty bottle of Amasec to his lips, immediately forgetting what it was he had been thinking about. But that didn't matter, the was a celebration to be had! Just had he inserted his key card, before the mechanisms of the door had even begun to move, he heard it.  A single word, spoken not with much volume, was drawn to Maxie's ears with the precision of a fenrisian wolf hunting the ragged whispers of its prey under the howling winds of a storm.

The man burst through the door with zeal, hoisting his beverage of choice triumphantly above his head, reminiscent of one of the legendary thunder warriors holding their standard high atop mount Ararat after their final victory of the unification wars.

"DID SOMEONE SAY-- AMASEC?????"

The former Imperial Guard Sargeant had worn his best attire for the meeting with the Rogue Trader. He had woken up a number of hours earlier this day just to prepare his parade uniform and even used his fanciest and most expensive lubricant on his bionic arm. Goose looked at the dark blue blazer that proudly displayed the accolades he had earned in his years of service. A number of ribbons decorated the breasts of the coat including a handful of medals. The Eagle Ordinary, The Medallion Crimson, The Steel Aquila, and The Hellhound's Skull. All of which he held with great pride and honor. All but one. He carefully grabs and inspects the one medal he wished he never had. The Tripple Skull medal. A reminder that he was one of the last hellhounds of the 78th. He quickly shook off the thought and pinned it none the less on the blazer. This was the first and possibly the only time he would be able to make a good impression with the Rogue Trader as well as the others that the Rogue Trader had requested to meet.

After Goose had finally polished all of his medals and straightened his coat he decided that he looked and felt prepared for the meeting. That is until he saw the clock. He was lost in preparation that he failed to realize that he had only half an hour left to reach the suite. "Ah crap." and with that, the man dashed out of his quarters and into the halls of the space station. One would think that the muscular Gustave would be as agile as a Taurox APC. Well, one would be wrong. The well-dressed man navigated himself through the crowded passageways of the space station almost gracefully. Almost. One misplaced fruit peel sent him careening through a glass window of one of the numerous bars in the station. The patrons seated where Goose landed were not happy. Goose was even more so as his attire was now stained with various foodstuffs. Goose attempted to be the better man and apologize and pay for the damages, but a fist to the face threw that option out of the window just as quickly as Goose threw one of them out of one.

---

Thirty-two minutes and one partially destroyed bar later, Goose finally managed to reach the station in between the more wealthy parts of the station. The Arbites squad stationed there eyed up Goose suspiciously. For good reason, no doubt. Gustave's once pristine and clean attire was wrinkled, torn, and stained by both food, drink, and some splotches of blood in some areas. His face bore a few fresh cuts, bruises and scratches. But he still looked rather presentable...kind of. "Uhh...looking to go somewhere?" An Arbite said as he placed a gloved hand atop his shock maul cautiously. "Yes. To the Windsor Suite. I have a meeting with the Rogue Trader." the somewhat dishevelled man hands over his papers and key card. Even as they read through and confirmed the validity of the papers, they still eyed the man with distrust. Goose taking note of this, reassures them. "Ah, don't worry about the blood. It was from a little misunderstanding from earlier...It's not even mine." He chuckles as he glances around to look for a clock and sees that he is already three minutes or so late. Things were already going downhill and he wasn't even in the meeting area yet. The Arbites talk among themselves before finally one of them approaches Goose and returns his paperwork and keycard. "Your papers are in order. You may pass, but if you cause problems...Throne have mercy on you for we will not." Goose, seemingly not understanding the gravity of the threat, simply gives the Arbites a smile and a nod before heading off to find the Windsor Suite.

The difference between the districts was as clear as night and day. The drab and gloomy atmosphere was completely replaced with a bright and elegant one. The veteran guardsman was in complete awe and did his best to burn the sights he saw into his memory as this may be the first and last time he would be able to see this. Majority of the district's denizens looked at him in a mix of confusion and disgust. How could a person who looks and acts like him be even allowed a kilometer of the district? Much to their awe and disbelief when Goose approached the Windsor Suite and actually entered it. As he went past the doors, he did his best to make his attire a more presentable and tried to rub off the stains of the food, drink, and blood that stained his person. Safe to say that it did next to nothing, and likely just stained his attire to a further extent. Three people were already there but none of them looked like they matched the Rogue Trader title. So he assumed that they were the others that the Rogue Trader had requested to meet. Well time to make a good first impression with his colleagues.

Like the thousands of times before, Goose stood tall and gave them all a firm salute and introduces himself. "Sargeant Gustave Boucher of the 78th Bristonian Hellhounds! A pleasure to meet all of you!"

Roald had never really been one for high society, but this was an opportunity he was loathe to muss up with his usual weaknesses. He had set about cleaning and pressing his best clothes and preparing his papers and the card the night before. All plans had been prepared. He would wake up well early in the morning, arrange himself just so, take command of his unruly hair, and show up to the Windsor Suite neigh unrecognizable as the miserable cur he was. It was a good plan.

It hadn't quite come out that way, he mused, as he hurried naked about his small room in a rush to get himself presentable. He'd gambled that a little drink would help him get to sleep early, but as it so often did a little drink opened his eyes to opportunities for debauchery. Plans were changed, promises made, asses pinched, and now with no time to fix himself up and arrange himself just so he did the next best thing; he jumped up onto the sink, stuck his head under the faucet, and drenched his head. Snagging a dirty shirt from the floor he pressed it against his head to dry and flatten his thick uncooperative Ratling hair then got that same shirt halfway buttoned up before realizing it was the wrong one.

A few minutes later he slipped out the window and hurried out onto the rooftops, no time to take the streets. He would be late, there was no helping it, but taking to the roofs might make him fashionably late rather than obnoxiously late. Fashionably late was still a thing a Rogue Trader would appreciate wasn't it? Sure it was. It would have to be. Taking the rooftop route allowed him to cut a straighter path and saved him vital minutes. As he neared the Windsor Suite he saw below him a meticulously dressed man in parade uniform speaking with some Arbites, he would serve as a useful distraction for Roald. While the metal armed man spoke with them Roald scampered across the rooftops in a low, even for him, stance to get nearer the doors to the Windsor and out of sight.

After he heard the man in the Imperial Guard uniform enter he checked once more to make sure the Arbites were looking the other way and climbed down. The heavy doors moved slowly as Roald pushed steadily against them, and as he entered the antechamber gave himself one finally round of adjusting. Dusting off his shirt, pulling the sleeves and legs down, adjusting his cloak so that it falls just so, and flexing his feet uncomfortable as they were in the dress boots. Finally Roald hurried in behind the man, Sargeant Gustave Boucher, and made his own much less professional introduction.

"Roald Cliffbloom, Ratling, Trailblazer, Mechanic."

His eyes light up as he notes the food, the booze, and that other's have already began drinking. Rubbing his hands together eagerly he asks a vital question.

"What are we drinking?"

There was a single light in the store room when his vox bead began going off. "Ensign, you've been summoned... we will send someone to escort you now."

"Wait, escort me?" he asked but the bead was already off. He shrugged the message off and continued to work. Twenty crates of rations, two crates of lasrifles, nine crates of laspacks." the door behind him opened, and closed soon after, "four crates of spare tooling and parts... Is that a crate of explosives." he was taken from his feet as he looked around, "Can I at least get my things?" the ensign asked as he was shifted down the halls, and he was then put on his feet with a few bags in front of him.

"Oh... I guess I have my things..." he said as he lifted the bags onto his shoulder, and he looked to his sides, "Well, let us go." he said as he was marched forward with the two men, in a shuttle bay he was given, and several hours later he was on a shuttle to a higher class station, one where someone of his families wealth and prestige should be. The two guards had left him, and he was then left with a PDA, and he was given instructions on where to go next.

Upon the station, he would travel the length of the station before he found his needed area, the Windsor Suite, well someone must have finally recognized the person standing in the naval uniform with a bag full of items, and the perfect timing of smell hit him.

"I smell something other then nutrition paste and rations..." he said as he entered the room, and he looked around, and found his target. The full buffet, to which, he made sure his things were secured on his side and he began to fill his plates with things to eat.

Speakers hitherto unseen upon the topmost parts of the chambers ceilings suddenly flocked to life; from all around (surround sound you might say) the blaring tunes of brass instruments launched into life in a fanfare of musical grandeur - the sounds of trumpets, trombones and more filled the place as if there were a marching band present in the room itself. This was swiftly joined by strings and, perhaps most odd of all, the wheezing drones of Drookian bagpipes until it reached a crescendo of noise... Then fell once more into utter silence.

After a crackle of static, a voice one may find in the robotic throat of a servitor or floating servo-skull made itself known.

"Welcome honoured guests to the Windsor sweet, please be upstanding for the arrival of Rogue Trader Sir Edmund Hildred Livingstone of the Livingstone Dynasty."

The first figure to enter the room as the doors slid open was not surprisingly Livingstone himself, no, this was a male figure approximatley six-feet-and-four-inches in height, his back ramrod straight and his broad frame filled out with hard-earned muscle. Clad in the scarlet uniform of the Praetorian Guard regiments, three white chevrons showing the rank of Sergeant on one sleeve, the polished boots stepped into the soft carpet of the room and were followed by a sweeping glance from the glinting green eyes of a professional killer. Beneath the mutton-chops and moustache of brown hair that worked their way over his face, Sergeant Richard Williams allowed himself a brief smile, taking off his stunningly white pith helmet and placing it beneath one arm before standing aside and speaking out into the corridor for a moment.

A brief pause passed before the second individual made their way into the room, slate grey eyes instantly assessing the room and those inside it, bushy white brows rising and the glorious white moustache twitching slightly, the Rogue Trader visually disappointing to say the least; Edmund Livingstone was around five-feet-and-seven-inches-tall, his head covered in a puff of white hair combed over to one side, dressed from head-to-toe in a kahki shirt, a pair of khaki shorts that revealed his knobby knees, and then a pair of long white hose rolled down to his khaki walking boots. In one hand he carried a pith helmet similar to his military counterpart, and in the other a black and brass-ended walking cane. Over his eyes were a pair of round brass-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose.

"Gentlemen," came his reedy voice as he moved past them and toward the projector at the other end of the room, Williams following at the usual distance for a bodyguard, "please take a seat, take some food and drink, and make yourselves comfortable."

With leisurely but measured movements he took his place next to the projector and produced a clay pipe from a breast pocket, fingers working quickly to fill the bowl with 'bacco and ignite it in time for a long inhalation.

"Thank you all for presenting yourselves here; I am Edmund Livingstone and, since you have made your mark, I am alos now your employer."

Even as he spoke it was obvious that his mind was processing what he was seeing - aspects such as Gustaves torn uniform, Maxies obvious drunkenness and Rupert's simple prescence - his breaths producing a thicker cloud of smoke about him.

"In case it was not obvious, you are to form something of a 'retinue' about me... although I do so dislike that term. I believe 'team' or 'group' would be more appropriate. Any matter, you each of you possess skills, abilities or pasts which make you more valuable to me than your average press-ganged drone."

Williams stood stock still on the periphary of his charge, taking in everything in silence as Livingstone leant against his cane and allowed an expression or earnest honesty to wash over his features.

"I will be honest, genetlemen, I am mandated by the God-Emperor himself to travel to the farthest reaches of the galaxy and beyond. Where I go there are mutants, there are heretics and there are xenos; while I do not deal with all of them, of course, but if you are of a particularly religious upbringing I implore you to make yourself known."

A further pause and more leaning, with a slight swaying, it was clear that Livingtone was only just getting into his stride.

"I have seen things you people would not believe, I have hunted Tyranid bio-creatures through glacial wastelands in order to claim it's skull. I have founded colonies in the name of the God-Emperor on the edges of known the Milky Way. I have fought Greenskins larger than three men standing atop one another, and I have seen warp trickery that would melt the minds of lesser-willed men."

The holoprojector took this moment to turn itself on, the picture flung up showing a smiling younger Livingstone in what appeared to be a trophy gallery; on the walls behind him were the skulls of all manner of creatures, from sleek Eldar heads to square Orkoid skulls, to saurian Tarellian craniums and blatently obvious humanoid heads.

"We will be going beyond the reaches of the Imperium and into places unknown, uncharted and full of hazards and dangers. If you are of a weak composition, or simply wish to retract your contracts, then speak up now... Or, should you have any questions before we get underway, I shall give you a moment to ask."

For his part, Rupert had kept his expression relatively blank as more and more people came into the room. The fact that the first one whom had managed to make their way through the door after him was clearly intoxicated had caused a degree of... concern to swell within, but still he managed to keep a stern and mostly unreadable expression.

Then Livingstone himself arrived. Some might have been awed or inspired by such an entrance but... for Rupert, the 'showmanship' that the man whom he would now be following actually served to turn him off a little bit. The man was a glory hound and a bit of a fop. Yet, he was going to follow him anyway because this was the gentleman whom commanded his ship and his duty to his people was to make sure that they outlived Livingstone (and not just because the bridge exploded first). Still, he was going to be professional if nothing else.

@BangoSkank@Hank@Guy0fV4lor@Bright_Ops@Jamesyco@Searat

Even as he had been show-boating, the monocle pressed firmly into his socket had began doing its job; from the moment he had entered it had started formulating data, recording faces and voices, expressions, everything that Livingstone needed to get to know his new entourage. He had decided to turn the targetting reticule off before entering, as he had no desire (yet) so kill any of them. So it was that, in spite of his erratic movements and apparent lack of any focus, Rupert's expression – or decided lack there of, though none could cover all micro- expressions – was well noticed.

“No?” Queried the elderly gentleman then, the bristling moustache flickering from one side of his mouth to the other, before an exasperated breath was drawn out of his mouth, “William,” he chuckled to the straight-faced soldier nearby, “I do believe I found the perfect crew – no questions, no nothing. Indeed, each seems as one ready to propel themselves into the Warp and back for me.”

For a moment he leant on his cane, eyeing each of the rooms occupants with a look of natural inquisitiveness, locking them on to Maxie foremost; there his eyes remained even as he lifted his cane and gave the six-footer a nice jab in the ribs with it.

“You, sir, are clearly inebriated. This would ordinarily be a shooting offence, unless on my say so, but as this is our first meeting I shall let it slide. Do see that it does not happen aboard my vessel, or you may find yourself quite cold in open space without a blanket.”

He passed over Apollyon and Isaiah, noting them mentally nevertheless, going straight to Gustave and once more letting his gaze linger.

“Ah yes, the Bristonian.” Older than those in the room he may have been, but Livingstone missed nothing... Not that the state of the Guardsman was hard to miss, “medals aplenty you may possess, and I am glad of it, but come to me in this state again and William over there will make sure you understand not to do it again.” After a moment he leant in close enough that only Gustave could hear, “are you not ashamed?” His eyes never left those brown opposites until he turned and strode to where Roald had positioned himself.

“Roald Cliffbloom, is it not?” It was a rhetorical question, of course, and Livingstone did not wait for an answer, “thief... lecher... and Trailblazer.” He gave a smile then, some amusement contained within it, “yes, you remind me well of the Ratlings of Crinatera Fifty-Six.”

Having had his fill of assessing each of his newest acquisitions, for that is most assuredly what they were, and in more ways than one, the Trader returned to the holo-projector.

“Believe me when I tell you gentlemen, I have allowed you all into somewhat of an 'inner circle' – your skills, your talents, I will be needing and will one of these days make use of them all. I will treat you fairly and with respect, and I should hope you will have the common decency to do the same.”

“Nionus Seven-Twelve,” he announced suddenly, the holo image shifting to a floating orb, “this will be our first stop. There we shall stop, resupply, and begin the first stage of a longer journey.”

The world appeared to be one primarily of desert or wasteland, as far as one might see with the naked eye, larger settlements – hives most likely – dotted about the place as it rotated on an axis in front of them, the image flickering and dying nearly as fast as it had appeared.

“Right. Bring yourselves and your possessions to the Pride, and then to the bridge. I shall see you all there once you have found your chambers. Good day.”

The pale-skinned man gulped anxiously as the Rogue Trader approached him and gaze upon him and his dishevelled uniform. Sweat had begun to accumulate on his brow as he did his best to display himself proudly in front of the older man. His heart sank, the pit in his stomach grew deeper, and the first few beads of sweat dripped down his brow as he was chided for his dishevelled appearance. "Are you not ashamed?" Oh Goose was. Lesser men would be blushing as red as a tomato by now. Not only was this their first meeting with one another, but this was also going to be the lasting impression he would give to the Rogue Trader. And by the Emperor, he screwed the pooch on that aspect.

"Apologies, Lord Rogue Trader. I will do my best not to do this again." The statement was completely and whole-heartedly true. This was akin to his first day of training when he was still a fresh recruit. Unprepared, dishevelled, and disrespectful. He was lucky that the training officer thought him more valuable alive than dead. She only had him beaten bloody and senseless in front of the others for an hour and a half. A far better alternative considering he saw some other schmuck act up later that day and he got a laspistol blast to the head. Though one thing was for sure about the two events.

Goose learned from it.

As the rogue trader explained their first stop was some dustbowl planet named Nionus - 712. Great. Of all the conditions he had ever fought in, Sandy environments were only second to places with salty water. To normal folk, sand was simply something course and mildly irritating at times. Not for Goose. Having a bionic arm meant that it was routine for him to maintain, clean, and lubricate it three times each week. Not only is sand a difficult substance to remove from the nooks and crannies of his bionic arm, but it also causes malfunctions when they get into the more delicate parts of his arm. Random contractions/extensions, delayed reaction, and even outright failure of response. Shit on a shingle, this was going to be a rough first mission.

The rogue trader then finishes his briefing and tells them that they will meet in the bridge of the ship once they have found their quarters in the ship. And with that, the veteran guardsman leaves and heads back to gather his belongings. Once he was sure that he was out of sight and mind of the Arbites guarding the junction, the man bolted and ran straight back to his rented room. There he finally relaxed and removed his medals and ribbons and returned them to their case before removing his parade uniform. It was barely the echo of the pristine condition it was an hour ago. Goose let out a disappointed sigh before sitting down on the bed and takes out a sewing kit from the large olive-coloured duffle bag at the foot of it. He was surprisingly dexterous with his hands, both organic and bionic, as he stitched up the tears and cuts of his uniform. In a few minutes, the physical damage sustained was now near impossible to notice unless you actively looked for the stitchings. The stains could be cleaned on a later time.

Satisfied, Goose tucks the uniform away and brings out his BDU and begins to don it. Admittedly, the former guardsman felt more comfortable in the standard-issue uniform than any other clothing he owned. Afterwards, he gathers his things and heads out to the Rogue Trader's ship. There was a map given along with the paperwork to help them locate and navigate the ship itself. Good thing Gustave was taught how both read and write back when he got his first promotion. Can't have a squad leader who can't read orders and write reports, you know? It takes the man longer than he wanted to but he eventually finds the docking station for the ship. Now the hard part: Navigating a ship itself and finding his quarters and the bridge.

Seeing the, almost literal, labyrinthine halls and corridors of the ship discouraged the man. "Emperor, guide me..." Gustave uttered as he steps into the ship and does his best to understand the map before promptly getting lost for the next hour.

Rupert might have been polite, professional and respectful, but he honestly had nothing worth saying at the moment so... he didn't. He just watched as his new boss pointed out several of the flaws that were clear to the naked eye with some of his new co-workers before announcing where they were going to be going next.

Truth be told, he didn't know anything about Nionus Seven-Twelve or why it was any different from any other planet in the universe apart from the fact that it was a brown color and (at least in theory) and made of dirt of all things. The very thought of walking on something so unstable and alien that wasn't the construction of human hands sent a shiver running down Rupert's spine, but that wasn't here or now.

While others departed in order to get their affairs in order, Rupert remained. Quietly, he walked over to the food table and helped himself to a rather plain looking meat dish because the idea of letting good food go to waste had long ago been burned out of his soul as a heresy on par with denouncing the Emperor, for rotting food opened the gateway to plague and famine and both of those wretched things opened the doorway to dark and twisted nightmares and horrors to put most ghost stories to shame.

It wasn't until everyone else had departed and it was only Rupert, Livingstone and his bodyguard William before he decided to speak up in the presence of the Captain. "Captain Livingstone,-" He didn't know exactly what title the man wanted to use, so Rupert decided to use the one that held the most value to him personally "- I'm sure you are aware but my name is Rupert O'Donald. Now that we have a moment alone, might I ask you about the request I sent you earlier?"

The request in question had been a simple message asking for the Janitors to continue to act as the Pride's internal security force, alongside a brief abridged history of the now vacant Head of Security post and why trying to reinstate it would cause needless problems that would eat up time and resources. Hopefully, he would have listened.

@Jb

@Bright_Ops

Livingstone had been waiting patiently for everyone to file out, and indeed most of them did, but it seemed that at least one of them had decided he would rather ask the Rogue Trader seemingly inane questions that he believed were important - Livingstone was more than happy to indulge him.

"'O Donald," breathed the Trader, walking over to where the man stood and leaning in to peer at him, "yes, I got your requests and I must say I was not too impressed with the tone." Slowly he walked around the Janitor, William looking on impassively, selecting a vintage of amasec and pouring a glass.

He took a moment to still himself, then poured another glass and placed it in front of Rupert.

"I understand the politics of the ship, not as much as yourself of course, but I knew your father - believe it or not - and he taught me a couple of things at least. Not least of all that the Janitors and the nations of the vessel are a quarrelsome lot."

The amasec burned down his throat as he took a gulp, his nostrils filling with alcoholically induced fire, and Livingstone waved a hand through the air.

"The Janitors can remain the internal security force, but I have already hired armed ratings to work alongside them. I hope there will be no unfortunate business, it would be unpleasant for many people."

After finishing off the glass he placed it back on the table and smiled, "as for a head of security, well, I suppose it's a fine thing that you are now the new Head of Security internally for the ship." One frail seeming hand tapped Rupert gently on the shoulders, that monocle measuring every twitch of muscle in his face, "I hope for your sake that you can shoulder the role... Now, I will hear no more about it. I shall see you on the bridge."

By his tone there would be no further words - Rupert could try to force the issue, but William was already looking annoyed and it wouldn't be advisable.

@BangoSkank@Hank@Guy0fV4lor@Bright_Ops@Jamesyco@Searat

The journey to Nionus Seven-Twelve, a seemingly backward and unimportant planet that Livingstone nevertheless wished to place his flag, would appear to those aboard the ship to take no longer than a couple of weeks - in real space time passed differently, and indeed nearly three months had passed by the time the Pride ripped a new hole in space and the lion-headed prow came into being once more.

Each of the hand-picked individuals were summoned to the spacious, well furnished bridge; like most Traders he had decided to personalise it, and in doing so it reflected the greatest bridges of the Imperial Navy - clean, spacious, and extremely efficiently organised - Livingstone himself sat upon a high-backed command-throne, smaller chairs surrounding a quite expensive planning table (non-standard issue Imperial tech, very hush hush...) in a semi-circle.

Human (as opposed to servitor slaves) eyes watched the percieved interlopers as they came and took their seats, most no doubt bored from their trip - in spite of the array of activities - Livingstone wouldn't know as he hadn't seen them during this time...

Anyway.

Once they had all taken their seats, and the eyes had returned to their stations to keep the Pride drifting along as it did, a gesture from the Trader bought the planet up into focus once more.

"Nionus Seven-Twelve was founded quite recently, technically speaking, colonists from Tallarn and Necromunda slammed together and scattered over the surface of this giant desert. When the 'settlers' - criminals and deserters for the most part - got there they found a xenos species waiting for them, this species they promptly destroyed. Half-a-dozen hive cities sprung up across the world, what structures remain are of pre-Imperial origin and it is these that concern us."

"Of specific interest is this site here," the map zoomed in to something a few miles north-east of a smaller hive city, "it is assuredly pre-Terran in origin, reminiscient of Ancient Gyptus in fact. Most of the structure we believe is beneath the surface of the planet, therefore we've no real knowledge of what to expect - resistance and so forth."

"We will be coming into orbit of the planet within the day, so I would advise preparing yourselves thoroughly."

The formerly hunched explorer now straightened his back and smoothed his beard with one hand.

"Questions, troubles, anyone?"