>>5950613> If I conduct some research on the Church's schola order - will I learn something that will help me leave a better first impression on my instructors?[WEAK YES]
>>5950618>Would (that random official-looking chapel person) be helpful and have useful ideas for how to cultivate my unique psyker traits?[UNCERTAIN]
>>5950645>Will the deacon help me with the storage or sale of Zlatino Fluids without scamming or any other outright financial scam towards me, including refusal?[YES]
>>5950669>Will it be in my best interest use the General Fat Imitation Oil on Aleta?[EXTREME YES]
>>5950679> Has the Schola Progenium been infiltrated by any Enemies of the Emperor?[NO]
>>5950715> Is the food going to be decent?[UNCERTAIN]
>>5950740>“Can we try and find a safe place to train our psychic powers?”[YES]
>>5950748>Do our psychic powers have any potential for independent precognition?[WEAK NO]
As mentioned before, I don't allow you to Schrodinger yourself new abilities, but you are indeed allowed to ask these questions and I will respond ex cathedra. It just happens that this one rolled the correct answer anyways.
---
The Deacon generously allowed you to store three barrels back in the chapel's underground storage for now. You were left with the General Fat Imitation Oil - the one the Tarot practically screamed at you to use with an "Extreme Yes."
But the thought of Aleta as a chubby mess left you cold. "Could it just go... like, all to your boobs?" you grumbled.
Aleta's monotone voice chimed in, "Negative. Localized application is not possible. It is general only."
Sigh. "Is it reversible?" you hoped.
"Yes" she began, "but permanent stretching will occur."
Ugh. Scam. Double sigh. But the Tarot... With a resigned sigh, you ordered, "Alright, Aleta. Apply the whole thing. This whole barrel. Go."
She produced a collapsible tube from her metallic depths and attached it to the barrel and a port on her back. The barrel tilted, the golden liquid gurgling as it filled Aleta's synthetic form. Her once sleek figure stretched and bulged, morphing into a caricature of human obesity. Just as the last drop drained from the barrel, a guttural roar echoed through the air – in High Gothic, which you could somewhat parse, coming from outside, at the building next door.
"PURGE THE GLITTERGLOBE MUTANTS! PURGE THE MUTANTS OF THE ELITE! PURGE THE MUTANT! THE MUTANT!!!..." the voice bellowed, followed by a terrifying string of unfamiliar words. "PRAISE THE GOD-EMP---!"
