#like a necron version of “steel is heavier than feathers”

[nevesmose]

A PURPLE-DRAPED MEETING ROOM SOMEWHERE ABOARD THE PRIDE OF THE EMPEROR. A BORED-LOOKING DAEMONETTE IS STANDING BEHIND A LECTERN WITH THE III LEGION SYMBOL ON IT. SHE IS IN THE MIDDLE OF A SPEECH.

D: and so while it's true that Primarch Fulgrim has taken personal control of the Medusan alloy's production, I can promise you, chitinous claw on heart, that he has taken that decision based solely on what's best for humanity with no thought at all regarding how the hot, weighty fluid might feel as it was pumped uncontrollably into his quivering, sweat-soaked body. I think we've been very open and pliant with you about that fact. Next question, please.

AN ORK IN A POORLY FITTING HAT AND OVERCOAT STANDS UP.

ORK: Krog Readzanritez, Daily Gorkanmorkian. Innit roight dat da big 'umie has once again made da choice to contrib... contry... do more of da increasing deckydence and corruption wot some 'umies say is affectin' da Fird Legion? Fank you.

D: Well first of all I want to go on the record and say that there is no evidence at all of any decrease in decadence and corruption within the Third Legion and I would argue that if you could see what was happening under this podium you would agree.

SHE WINKS AND DOES A FINGER-GUNS GESTURE.

D: Secondly I think you need to keep in mind that looking directly upwards and clenching your fists has been widely thought to...

A CHAIR SUDDENLY FLIES INTO VIEW, MISSING THE LECTERN BY SEVERAL FEET. PAN RIGHT TO REVEAL THE ONE RESPONSIBLE - A SPACE MARINE OF THE IMPERIAL FISTS.

IF: The filthy greenskin described increasing decadence, not decreasing! Even just in the course of this press conference I personally have been offered illegal narcotics rendered down from captive civilians multiple times!

D: Well, I...

IF: By you!

A CLAMOUR BREAKS OUT AMONG THE ASSEMBLED JOURNALISTS DURING WHICH A SINGLE BOOMING VOICE DECLARES "LEMONY BOY CAN'T HANDLE THE GOOD STUFF."

THE IMPERIAL FIST LOOKS OVER, FURIOUS, BUT IS KNOCKED DOWN BY THE BLURRED SHAPE OF AN IRON WARRIOR FUELLED BY BITTERNESS AND ENTITLEMENT. THEY ROLL OUT OF FRAME SLAPPING INEFFECTUALLY AT EACH OTHER. PAN BACK TO THE DAEMONETTE.

A HIGHLY SUSPICIOUS GREEN-EYED METALLIC BEING IN THE BLOODSTAINED, OBVIOUSLY STOLEN HOOD AND CLOAK OF A TECHPRIEST SPEAKS UP. DESPITE WEARING A FALSE ROGAL DORN MOUSTACHE HE IS CLEARLY TRAZYN THE INFINITE.

Trazyn: When will your fellow "humans" in the "priesthood" of "Mars" receive a sample of the alloy?

HE MAKES CONTEMPTUOUS AIR-QUOTES AS HE SPEAKS AND VISIBLY STRUGGLES TO HOLD BACK LAUGHTER. THE DAEMONETTE STARES AT HIM WITH DEEP HOSTILITY.

D: This press conference is over.