A heartbeat. Within a single span of a pulse of blood a thousand possibilities erupted into Ilana's mind. She could negotiate with the heretic, putting on false pretences to lull him to misjudged sense of security. Or be spurred on in a viper's strike, trusting violence of action to solve what words could not.
He wanted to live, that much she could see. If he didn't, then he would not bother with a hostage to stay her hand. What happened after his moment of passion what up to solely him, would he cling on to the delusion of survival, or realise his folly and execute his hostage out of spite. Countless possibilities ran through Ilana's mind in an instant, but the one she kept returning to made even her heart roil, of the innocent man's brains leaking out on that bare rockrete floor, accusing eyes looking at her all around her. They would be right to do so, as in that instance she would've failed in the most fundamental of her duties, to protect the Emperor's flock.
A second heartbeat, signalling the end of her respite, and with an effort of will Ilana unhesitatingly cast away her insecurities. The drill-abbots knew their business well, and instilled in her the awareness that anything less would be weakness. She had to choose and follow through with it, or an innocent man would die regardless of anything she did.
Her eyes tracked the floor, mentally comparing it to the distance permitted by the arming fuzes of her bolt rounds, yet another thing to thank the drill-abbots for. She crushed the urge to curse as she found it just short, she'd need to move forward. That would give him further time to react and interfere with her aim. One chance. One chance to make this right.
"…Be kings, not slaves!"
Emperor be praised.
Her knees slightly bent, bolter staying unerringly on her target, then pushed herself forward.
Boom.
OOC: +20 fate for that opposed agility test.
You launch yourself forward, bolt pistol snapping up. The heretic's eyes widen, spittle flying from between his broken teeth as he cries out. Before he can do anything, your bolt pistol booms, a thunderclap roar that runs down your arm and makes the people in the room yelp from the noise.
The engines kick in, the howl of the bolt round screaming the scant meters right into the heretic's face. There is no secondary detonation, merely the sound of shattering bone and ripping flesh. The heretic's head disintegrates with a wet
pop, chunks of bone and brainmatter flying through the air. A chunk of jawbone bounces off your visor. The man's body sways, not realizing its dead, thick arterial blood spraying up from the shredded neck, coating his robes and the hostage in red. Misfiring nerves cause the trigger finger to tense, the revolver discharging a round into the floor and kicking up shards of plascrete. Then, as though jolted by the recoil, the body finally topples backward, slamming into the ground with a fleshy slap.
The armed civilian lowers her gun, as the hostage falls to his hands and knees. Whether from terror or the gore he's coated with, he begins to vomit onto the floor. You step back to ensure none of it gets on your boots. The woman steps over, resting a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright Alexander...You're safe now...You're safe."
It takes a minute for the commotion to die down, a small crowd standing in the hallway, some muttering their thanks-others turning quite green at the mess and hastily leaving the area. Alexander and the woman step toward you. "Thank you so much, Sister. I never thought to see one of you...If you hadn't been here..." She shakes her head. "Leanna shows her mercy. May the Emperor bless you."
The hostage's face flushes red as he wipes the tears from his eyes. "T-thank you so much. Forgive me for..." He trails off, swallowing. "I thought I was going to die. Never see my kin again. Thank you, thank you."
You leave the thanks of the crowd, making your way out of the building, meeting the curious gazes of civilians staring from the shacks and tenement windows. Two of them look at you gravely as they step toward something drawn on the wall in black ichor, something that wasn't there before you entered. The still drying image of the eight pointed star of Chaos, after images haunting your vision as you turn toward the dripping text daubed beneath.
Old Night Cometh.
Welcome the Fall
Praise the Lost
A message that they are watching. As you return to the convoy, you feel eyes at your back every step.
Maria glanced back over her shoulder at the moaning heretic. "Sister Anna, hold." Servos hissed and mangled flesh crunched as the retributor drove a swift elbow back in to the would-be bomber's detonator hand.
"Would that we found deaths so noble, you deluded ingrate."
She continued on double quick, waving to Sister Caelia as she did.
@greendoor
"Sister-superior, we have restraints in the Viatorem. We can secure the package and prisoner within if you wish."
Caelia shakes her helmeted head. "Then why did their cowardly sniper attempt to shoot him? Fear not citizen-this man will die a painful death-but not before he is of use to the Imperium. Please seek cover and protect yourselves."
She looks out over the crowd, and sees Eriko having things well in hand-she had other duties to attend to.
"Sister Superior, I have the false 'Prophet' secure. Your orders?"
The bomber squeals in agony as bones crack and shatter.
"
Secure the prisoners in the Viatorem. We'll pass her along to the Arbitrators later. Make sure to gag them. I have no desire to listen to their blasphemies." Palais replies.
The prophet is still unconscious, leaving only the bomber to grate on your ears. She is beyond blasphemy, weeping and begging for mercy as you drag her through the crowd. "They didn't give me a choice! It was in my head, they were in my head! Please, please! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
She goes stock still as you bind her, tears flowing down her features. Then, as you collect a gag, she suddenly stills, not even making a peep. She looks at you blankly as you approach, her eyes cold and dead. Twin beads of blood drip from her eyes down her face. She smiles at you with all the emotion of a mannequin.
"It loves you." She states. "It loves Araxes. Its glittering spires. The boundless wealth. The pride of its peoples. But the faith most of all. It
loves you. The blood you spill. The lives you take. The zeal, the fury. Your care for Araxes' peoples. All in the name of your corpse."
"It feeds us. You feed us. You are the spirit of Araxes and you feed us." Her words are like those of a bored student reading from a textbook. "We love you."
She blinks away the blood in her eyes, staring at you with confused eyes. "Wha-I just-" Before she can continue, you place the gag in place and blindfold her. The squeals return, mercifully muffled.
Eriko blinked, an idea forming in her head, and she moved swiftly to the half-sunken fountain where the madman had previously stood on. She pushed past panicking civilians by the sheer bulk and techno-servos of her armour. "Sister Arina, remind me, how did Psalm 31 from the Book of Jerich begin?"
"The song sang every first week of the month of the Terran calendar? It began with a hymn" Sister Arina began to hum the first few verses. Her voice was calm though Eriko could see her contending with civilians doing a good job at simulating the beginnings of a stampede. Eriko reached the fountain and climbed it, her boots crunching on the rockrete that brought her even higher than anyone in the crowd, even her other sisters.
"Yes, hopefully we do not need to resort to singing."
She looked at the crowd, her vantage greater than any. Then she began to speak, her exernal vox-casters straining to carry her voice above everything. She was hesitant to take the role of a priest, when she clearly was not, hesitant that there would be those who called her out on this slight usurpation of roles. "Brothers and sisters, let us stand as one to sing the graces the Emperor on high has given us."
She spoke the familiar words every Emperor-fearing person would know. Though she had caught the attention of a few, her sisters included, most continued their panicked flights and fights.
She repeated herself, louder now, forcing herself to be confident. Let the God-Emperor be the only one to judge her this day. She spread her arms wide as if to embrace this impromptu congregation. "Brothers and sisters, let us stand as one to sing the graces the Emperor on high has given us."
(+20 Fate. Chosen From Among Billions: May reroll failed fellowship tests with common Imperial citizens.)
The crowd calms down, the familiar hymnals allowing for order to slowly return, for the crowd to relax...or at the very least, distracting the crowd from violence. Not wishing to seem impious, men and women turn from their accusations and violence against one another to sign the glories of the God-Emperor. Slowly, but surely, normalcy returns and order is restored. The crowd begins to disperse, collecting their dead and wounded, muttering their thanks to the Sisters or throwing themselves at your feet to beg forgiveness of the Throne for their obvious failures.
"Well chosen, Sister." Arina breathes. "That could have gone much worse."
"Yes." Sister-Superior Derosa comments, directing the crowd. "Which is what they hoped for, I think. They wish to use the commoners as a weapon against us."
The convoy rolls on, getting back onto the old highway. Riots are obvious, burning and damaged vehicles evident here and there along the road, passing crowds. The numbers of infected seem to grow as you move deeper into the city, flocks of black weeping figures shambling through the city, holding up signs reading 'Unclean' or scavenging for food. There are gangs on the street, armed militia and criminals alike-if there is a difference. Bodies swing from lamp poles and improvised gallows, and smoke rises from burn pits. At one point you even see a group of gasmasked militia firing into a crowd of Schenin infectees before your vehicles send the group into flight, leaving dozens dead in their wake.
Ahead, rows of improvised barricades and threadbare sandbags mark out a checkpoint, and not a military one. Civilians mill about before a line of guns and blades held by men and women bearing gang tats and scars-many of them, you note, electoos and lumen designs on their clothing. You note an unusual amount of augmentations. The gangers' attention turns from the crowds toward you, the group of men waving. One man, a bulging figure with augmented arms and chem-grafted muscles waves at a car that serves as the improvised gate to the barricade, motioning it aside.
"Some of those marks are reminiscent of the Lumenator's. Connected to him, I suspect." Derosa comments over the vox.
"Dismount." Palais replies. "Just in case."
The convoy comes to a halt, surrounded by civilians and the shanties. Hovels spread out on wood planks over the flodoed streets below, spreading cancerously across rooftops to the highway itself. Crowds of civilians, shout curses and abuse at the gangers. A bit behind, you spot a pair of guild marked transports, one of which has smoke pouring from its engines. A line of armed guildsmen and several gangers stands between them and a cursing mob of civilians. There are corpses on the street, you see, torn to ribbons by bursts of shot shell or autogun. Nearby, an improvised gallows lies across the edge of the highway, bodies swinging in the breeze.
"
Two of those bodies look like they're wearing enforcer uniforms." You hear Greiland's voice crackle over the vox. "
What barbarity has come across this place?"
"
And one of them is wearing the sigils of the cult." Sister Liandra comments.
The barricades are manned by a large number of gangs, stub pistols, shotguns and autopistols evident across the line. A handful of rusty heavy stubbers are visible in key emplacements, other men and women bearing grenade launching crossbows. An old prefab tower bears what you take at first glance to be a heavy bolter, until you realize it's actually just a bunch of painted flakboard designed to mimic the heavy weapon. It'd probably work better if not for the magnification in your Sabbat Pattern helms.
The gang boss is nearly as big as you are, but even so he shrinks back as you near, staring at your armor and boltguns-a far cry from his handcannon and soiled flak jacket. After a moment of hesitation, he speaks. "Hail, O holy Sisters of Battle! Forgive us for slowing you from your sacred mission, we-We're a militia, here to stem the tide of the disease and corruption." He swallows nervously, keeping his hand far from the chainsword at his belt. "With the breakdown of law and order, me and my lads have been trying to keep some sense of discipline here and keep the infected from spreading."
"And that involved killing enforcers?" Palais asks, motioning her head toward the swinging corpses. The ganger frowns, then nods his head sharply.
"Don't let the uniforms fool you, milady, those two were thieves and murderers. Killed three innocents in cold blood before they swung." He growls, with what seems like legitimate fury. "They forgot their duty."
A man pushes out of the crowd, snarling and hissing. He wears ragged robes and possesses and equally ragged beard, but is laden with symbols of the Imperial creed and bears a purity seal stamped chainsword.
"Do not be guilded, holy Sisters! This man is a criminal, one who refuses to recant his blasphemous ways! He demands a toll of any and all that pass through, damned be those who cannot pay. Many have been unable to reach their places of work or rest, and forced to starve out here on the highway, or risk the wet roads." The man spits on the ground. "He condemns those proud enforcers of justice for murder, and yet he has shed the blood of the innocent."
The ganger smiles, showing golden teeth. "They were infected trying to get through our quarantine or struck first, you fake excuse for a priest. We're nothing but animals without rules, and animals get put down." He turns his gaze back to you. "Don't listen to this idiot. The man wants me to let through bloody infected. You look through his crowd, I promise you'll find a few with the Black Rot. Maybe even a few cultists. We had a couple attack us the other day. You can see we take our faith in the Emperor seriously." He motions toward the swinging cultist.
The 'priest' turns toward you, falling on his knees. "Sisters of Battle! I beg of thee, as a servant of the Righteous, strike down these recidivists!"
"Just...Ignore the man. He's mad." The gang boss swallows. An engine starts up behind him, one of the vehicles moving aside to give you room. "There. You're free to proceed on your sacred mission. Kill a few heretics for me, eh?"
Palais looks at him through her expressionless helm. "I'm sure you have time to answer a few questions first, no?"
"
Lotta contacts along the tenements and shanies around the flooded street." A sister comments over the vox. "
Couldn't tell a heretic from a civilian if they had horns. Too many damned bodies."
