The practice of stakeout, I have learned, is exceedingly unproductive, depending as it does wholly on the actions of those other than one’s self, individuals who, it must be pointed out, are not motivated to act in ways that benefit you and would actively hinder you if they knew you existed in anything other than the most abstract form, viz. “There are inquisitorial agents out there somewhere and they would hurt me if they knew of me, however they do not.”
This unwanted equilibrium had to be punctured. I did so by means of sending a message of exceeding ambiguity, one that allowed its recepients to read whatever threat their minds most feared written therein.
This, then, is what I did: I purchased a common Imperium charm of slightly debased iron, depicting the twin-headed eagles of the Adeptus Mechanicum and its siamese twin empire, and proceeded, groping in the blessed dark of my ignorance on such matters, to turn it into a blasphemy.
I removed its heads and claws and replaced them, creating a curious inversion, and inscribed on it a symbol which I did not understand, but which I know to be of some significance to heretics and cultists of proscribed faiths.
The project completed, I then threw it at the gate of the heretic compound and retreated to the observation post, where posted I observed their reactions.
Then, of course, events went wholly off-course, and we are now on the run.
I am concerned.
We have had no contact with our immediate superiors since our assignment’s profile changed entirely from secret observation to a mad dash across thousands of kilometers of Hive, and though we are charged by an Inquisitor to deliver the data I safeguard, that Inquisitor is not Inquisitor Hekate.
We have no means of knowing whether she would approve of this, whether the information held so preciously close is some foul and base secret our impromptu recruiter would keep secret from his peers or vital pieces of a puzzle that will shed light on problems that have plagued their interrogators for decades. We do not know what goes before our actions. We cannot calculate the cost of our deeds in this concealed, clandestine economy of decisions.
We must establish contact.
We must remain hidden.
The horns of a dilemma have us. We writhe upon them, impaled as Savant Caobarach in the Garden of Induction. May we choose as well.