Yarrick fell silent.
Confronted with an issue so vast, he had no idea how to begin.
What exactly did this mysterious big shot want?
Yarrick's mind began to dissect the question on its own.
What did he hope to hear?
The daily embellishments and padded battle reports of the Departmento Munitorum? The honeyed words of Hive nobility? Or the criticisms of idealists who still care?
What would happen if he spoke?
Would the Custodes behind the man hack him into mincemeat on the spot?
Reading the struggle on Yarrick's face, Adam shook his head and spoke up to ease his doubts.
"It's fine; you don't have to answer now. Just think it through. I want your personal view—nothing more."
"All right, then I'll—"
Yarrick hesitated, fumbling for words.
"No—think harder."
Adam seemed to sense his worry, frowned slightly, and cut him off crisply: "I mean speak freely. Without exaggeration, Commissar Yarrick, you're one of the top three Commissars in the entire Imperium in my book; you've earned the right to speak your mind."
Wasn't that overstating it?
Such blunt praise startled the Commissar.
Yet Adam still wasn't finished.
"Rest assured, whatever you say, I won't touch a hair on your head."
"Even if you declare, 'Terra is paved with High Lords' bones, the palace treasuries burned to brocade and ash,' or 'Down with the False Emperor—chaos shall rule the stars,' or even 'High Lords of Terra? Not worth a single Tau Ethereal,' you'll walk away unharmed—so long as it's your honest thought."
Such blasphemy made Yarrick's hand instinctively drop to the bolt pistol at his hip.
A pure reflex for an Imperial Commissar.
Behind Adam, Custodes and Living Saint alike stiffened sharply.
Yet Adam never flinched, keeping his gaze fixed on Yarrick.
"Well? How about it?"
"Fine."
Yarrick sighed, a fierce emotion surging inside him.
Perhaps that rush gave voice to words long dammed up by the Imperium's madness.
He drew a deep breath.
"I think the Imperium is one giant ****ing *swear-word*!"
"Good—exactly like that!"
Adam beamed. "Go on!"
Finding himself still alive, Yarrick steeled himself and continued:
"Information is a mess; the Departmento Munitorum sends us to the stupidest battlefields and couldn't care less if we die. Accurate intel doesn't exist—frontline Commanders just muddle through."
"The Adeptus Mechanicus is ****ing insane—their rules are anti-human."
"Once, the arrogance bastion took minor damage. I had a couple lads patch her up so we could stay in the fight. Later, that Tech-Priest tried to turn the two boys into Servitors for touching the ship!"
"I pressed my bolt pistol to the Tech-Priest's skull before he dropped the idea."
"The Administratum is trash! Mid-battle, out of ammo and supplies, their Valkyries landed on our lines to collect tithes—forced us to bayonet-charge the rebels!"
"And the Imperium's common folk live in utter misery—numb, ignorant, owning nothing. Even I, an Imperial Commissar, must admit the Emperor's faith is just an opiate for them."
Yarrick had roamed the galaxy, led an Astra Militarum regiment through countless wars—his experience dwarfed Adam's.
Now his floodgates had burst open.
When the torrent finally ebbed, Adam's eyes sparkled. "So—do you want to change the Imperium?"
"I can't."
Yarrick deflated. "I'm only a Commissar; I can do little beyond driving out the hated xenos."
"You can do far more than that."
Adam asked, "I intend to change the Imperium and need your strength—will you join me?"
"And the wars ahead will make that skirmish with the greenskins feel like a holiday stroll."
Without hesitation Yarrick's face turned grave.
"I agree—though I'm no coward, I doubt I'll be of great use. Your praise is too generous; I'm just an ordinary Commissar with some talent for command."
"No—I already need your help. Look at this."
Adam flicked his wrist; a white orb floated out and hovered before Yarrick.
"This is—"
The words formed a question, yet his tone was certain.
Instinct skipped every explanation and grasped the truth.
"An Ork Waaagh Field? How—"
As expected of you—recognized at a glance!"
"Exactly what you think."
Adam nodded. "I stripped it from the Warboss we killed, twisted and magnified it far beyond its original strength."
"Accept it and you'll become the first human Warboss in the galaxy, wielding the Orks' 'I Reckon' power."
Yarrick fell silent.
"Fine."
Without hesitation he calmly accepted.
Adam showed no surprise.
After all, this was the man who would one day graft the mechanical arm of an Ork warlord onto his own body.
Despite his hatred, Yarrick could stomach greenskin tech and turn it to massacring greenskins more efficiently.
Once more Adam drew the Caladbolg; thanks to a certain spendthrift's lavish gifts, the holy blade now held full Reality Intensity.
Flame once more washed from the sword and cloaked Yarrick entirely.
No pain came—only a sensation like a leap in life-form hierarchy.
"Then good luck to you."
With that, Adam waved his hand; the pale orb shot forward and sank into Yarrick's brow.