M'arīísū: Displanet Drift

**This vox-graph-novel is approved by the Office for the Propagation of Pertinent Information as part of the Continuing Utnapishti Training, Tactics, and Educational Resources (CUTTER) Program**

Four battle-craft converge at insane speeds together from cardinal directions towards the same point.

M'arīísū slams on his front brakes and skids his motorcycle to a stop, throwing up a huge miasma of powdery dirt. The other three pilots converging at insane speeds have just a moment to respond. While the Iron Warrior uses his trans-human speed to bail, the dirt blinds the ork pilots of the two oncoming racer-sleds, who crash together right in front of M'arīísū’s bike. Detritus sprays everywhere.

He hears the low hum of power armour activate as the Iron Warrior rises from the wreckage of his bike. M'arīísū is familiar with this inferior-Astartes; still a scion of the Shackled-Emperor’s seed, but no Qarnu Anšar, even if they now claim an alliance. This one turns an ice cold gaze towards him and M'arīísū registers no fear, but perhaps sees an opportunity for more murder.

M'arīísū’s abs and calves, now coated with a mixture of fresh blood and motor oil, ripple in the hot sunlight.

“Some pickle you’ve gotten us into this time.” says Sister Krimsa Bloodthrust. The tattered remnants of her octuple-cursed Imperial Sister of Battle uniform cling to her thighs, gripped so tightly against the back seat of the motorcycle they ripple in the heat. Her curvaceous bosom is pressed hard against the bolter rifle held against her chest.

“Good thing I like pickles.” says M'arīísū.

“Well,” a voice joins in. The motorcycle’s armoured side car holds a woman in all ways identical to the one sitting behind M'arīísū. Her hair ripples in the smoky wind and her vivacious bosom is held tight against the pintle-mounted heavy stubber attached to the front of the sidecar. “I can’t help but think of your pickle in a situation like this.”

“Now now, Lustra, my beloved twin sister,” says Krimsa, “You may have to fight me for him. I did beg M'arīísū to come here and rescue you from the depredations of these cursed xenos, so I owe him a reward.”

M'arīísū barely registers this and surveys the scene. A massive gladiatorial arena, the largest on Displanet, holds the facilities where the Speed Freak sub-caste of the Greenskins conduct the largest demolition derbies ever conceived.

Any lesser mind would be seduced by the cunning brutality of the Ork. They would have joined in and become lost in the wanton slaughter, MPM optimization be damned. But M'arīísū saw the orks for what they truly were - brutally cunning. And this made all the difference.

Just then, M'arīísū sees the solution -- a large pile of skulls from previous battles heaped up near the wall of the arena.

“Iron Warrior” says M'arīísū, “I will take you if you join us.” The Traitor Astartes has already made his decision. M'arīísū knows this flavour are renowned for their siege tactics and calculations. It can’t help but understand that M'arīísū offers the best path forward.

The Iron Warrior provides a simple, single nod - and in that moment M'arīísū knows he owns this entity. He tosses his Eliminator rifle to the Iron Warrior with a simple instruction. “Clip in.”

That sorted, M'arīísū uses his perfect sight to judge the distance. It’s about a fourth of a quarter mile away. Typical, thinks M'arīísū. While the rest of his beloved Empire thinks in half-quarters, M'arīísū thinks in quarter-quarters. That’s what gives him his edge. One could say he lives his life one quarter-quarter at a time.

“Don't worry ladies,” says M'arīísū. “There's enough of M'arīísū for both of you, ‘as long as it's officially sanctioned and under the social and physiological conditions most likely to produce more warriors for our glorious state.”

Before the twin sisters can reply he turns the handlebar and accelerates to 64 mpg.

Not enough.

M'arīísū activates the rage flux capacitor, smashing ritualized gel into the intake. The engine screams and guns the speedometer to 88. M'arīísū smiles.

The reformed Sisters of Battle screams of confusion turn to joy as the motorcycle hits the skulls and they realize M'arīísū's plan. The skulls act as a perfect ramp over the coliseum wall!

As the motorcycle blazes up the ramp, using his perfect battlefield calculations M'arīísū realizes there just aren't enough skulls to give them the ballistic trajectory they need. If there’s one thing a Pactsman understands, it’s ballistic trajectories. And just like the throne of his master, this pile is going to need more skulls.

M'arīísū looks around with the perfect amount of urgency and sees the Ork Mega-Boss sitting in the stands, enjoying the spectacle of his Speed Freaks. As M'arīísū and his motorcycle climbs up the skull ramp, a slow but deep animal intelligence begins to glow in the beady red eyes of the Mega-Boss that something is amiss.

M'arīísū’s chain-axe soars through the air, flying true and biting deep into the neck of the rancid xenos. The head tumbles and falls precisely onto the top of the skulls.

Krimsa Bloodthrust explains “By Khorne, that was amazing!”

“Sometimes you just need to get a head.” says M'arīísū.

Lustra Bloodthrust faints in blood thirsting ecstasy.

The motorcycle - passengers, side-car and all - hits the large brutish forehead of the slain Ork Mega-Boss and soars high over the wall, rage exhaust rippling through the ionized fumes. The entire contraption slams into the ground and speeds across the desert wastes.

“M'arīísū. M'arīísū! Can you hear me!”

M'arīísū turns around and sees the Iron Warrior attached via a long rope and paraglider to the tow hitch of the motorcycle. The Iron Warrior’s armour ripples in the fading sunlight, his voluminous chestplate pressed tight against the Eliminator rifle providing sniper overwatch. M'arīísū likens the Iron Warrior to a recently-whelped blood wolf, found along the way and perhaps worth training.

“Yes.” says M'arīísū.

“M'arīísū,” continues the Iron Warrior. M'arīísū can see the agony of open rage emanating from the Astartes who had, before this point, no use for emotion.

“Hey, M'arīísū,” continues the Iron Warrior, “I’d… I’d love to join you. My father and I… well, my father… let’s just say we have issues. If I were to join you (complete with holy Khornite conviction), what would I need to do?”

“Kill more good.” says M'arīísū.

And the Iron Warrior wept.