The Bloody Gates

[greendoor]

@Shephard @xjax1 @Easter @Svend

Jerad scrambles through the semi lit darkness, slipping past where Ramona sits in the gloom, watching him with a stare that reminds him more of a family's watch-Daemon than a human being.

He reaches just outside the Platoon Sergeant's command post to find Doughty shouting fruitlessly into his microbead. "We need lights up here! We can't see shite-"

It takes him a moment to see Jerad, another to crank his head over, hand on his pistol. A third to realize what he's saying.

"A voxcaster? That must be all the racket she's putting out over the vox channels." He says. "Lead me to her, Corporal."

Jerad leads the Platoon Sergeant to the Squad's position, scrambling in the dark. The Platoon Sergeant straightens up on seeing the Voxcaster, then nods. "Sergeant! I have need of your voxcaster, if we're g-"

The Sergeant is suddenly interrupted by a rapid fire series of Cracks from the west, and the ruby lightning of lasbolts cutting through the night air, slashing into the advancing crowd of refugees. Screaming from wounded, dying. A flash of ruby light, an old man in an adept's robes goes down, a smoking hole blown through his gut-then darkness again, the scene lost. More red glare, a woman goes down screaming, her leg severed at the knee.

"What in the blazes are they-" Doughty begins, but his voice is swallowed by the thump, and then the ear shattering detonation of a frag grenade somewhere in the darkness.

Cheri tries to steady her Stablight, even as the Platoon Sergeant is scrambling for the vox reciever, trying to focus on the oncoming tide of refugees, on the shooting, on to many things at once.

The vox channels are clogged with even more panic and confusion. "In the God Emperor's name, stop firing!" Colm is shouting. "Those are refugees out there! Murderers!"

"Where are the bastards! Boyle, give us a damn target!" Hansen is shooting, and even between the shooting, one can hear the charging handle on his squad's Heavy Stubber being racked back.

Sergeant Boyle-who must be firing, and whom nobody among the squad knows (probably a promotion after the gates), is screaming into his vox. "They're coming, oh God Emperor, they're coming! Fire! FIRE! EVERYONE OPEN FIRE!"

Cheri steadies her hands on the flashlight, and observes the oncoming refugees, trying to find enemies among them. They still just looked like civilians, stumbling forward in the dark. It takes her a long second, staring puzzled as Doughty' is fumbling with the vox handset, to realize what's bothering her.

The ones in the back still weren't panicking, even as the ones in the front were screaming, begging, crawling, pushing, and dying. The ones near the back were stumbling forward at a slow, measured pace, even as lasbolts slash through the darkness and another grenade thumps from it's launcher, like they were stolling down a calm avenue in peacetime.

Like they weren't even aware they're being attacked.

(OOC: From your Awareness 0 DoS success last time)

"We need lights up here!" Sergeant Doughty finally manages to reach the command post. "We can't see anything and elements of the platoon are engaging targets we cannot aquire! Emperor's Sake, get someone down here, now!"

(OOC: This is your chance to try and assist Doughty with that.)

@Kensai @Sir_Travelsalot

The two comrades squint at the screen of the Auspex, carefully adjusting it's dials and whispering to the machine spirit to adjust search mode to look for sources of electricity, active machine spirits. After a minute of fruitlessly sweeping, finding laspack batteries and voxes and all manner of other military electronica behind the Imperial lines, they sweep the device over their current environs.

After a long arc of sweeping, they find something-an electronic source in a nearby ruined building-which Celine's knowledge of hive layout tells her is likely a junction box for the local electrical grid-where the spirits of the region's power systems lay in their electric conclave. The positioning was central enough, and she had looked elsewhere enough.

(OOC: Local Lore retry success, with assistance from Smoop)

The two women stumble through the dark to the ruined building slipping in through a shattered pair of doors-Celine's glow globe giving her just enough light to see the rune indicating certification by a certified Lay-Tech. They slip in, fumbling in the dark for the junction box. While Celine does so, Nyla can see a few forms in the darkness of the building, sheltering. She almost raises her laspistol when she recognizes the cloth of gold and elaborate (and now quite stained) robes that had to be a noble. Next to the noblewoman is what of all things, looks like a Hive Ganger, bone charms hanging from his ears, collar, and cybernetic eye. More, civilians all huddle in the darkness, fear appearent in their eyes.

Celine gestures her over. The Junction Box. To be certain, both women had some experience with technology-one didn't grow up in a hive without it, but they can immeadiately tell this won't be a simple matter of lighting some incense, commending the spirits, and flicking t he appropriate switches. The damage that had filled this place with rubble had left several of the spiderweb of cables leading out of the box damaged, corroded, or simply disconnected. The Junction box had power, but it's readout was spitting out lines of gibberish that might be dread code corruption, or simply a local coding variant that neither woman knows.

If they had a few hours, this would be a simple problem of sorting out the power lines, reconnecting the undamaged, salvaging the savable, and removing the beyond saving, then figuring out how to command a system Reboot. But they had minutes, stumbling in the dark-perhaps less, with the thump of launchers and sudden cracks of lasfire in the distance.

What one would do for a Techpriest, right about now. Celine cranes her head over, to the civilians hiding in the building. A poor substitute, but if if they were locals, they might know better.

To the northwest, barely audible over the sounds of lasfire, grenades, and distant shouting, Nyla's ears pick up something else. Footfalls on the rubble, close now. Shifting stone as broken bits of masonry tumble out of the way of feet. They could only be attracted by Celine's light-whatever they were. The civilians were cowering, muttering aprehensively. Nyla knew well they must be from an early wave-if they knew what was coming, they'd be running by now.

Whatever the approaching intruders' intentions, she and Celine were almost out of time. They had to get this done now-or get out.

(OOC: 1 DoF failure on Tech-Use and TN 42. Got a hint on how to improve your TN for the minor failure.)

 

[Easter]

Albert watches the mass of darkness in the distance, his brain trying to work through what is happening. The only conclusion he could come to was that they were sending a mob absolutely filled to the gills with drugs, that's the only time he'd ever seen something like this before. Where a man or woman can walk into their impending death with barely a reaction, but even that didn't fit since people that high weren't what one would call cooperative, how the enemy could have gotten so many together and going in the right direction without fighting he hadn't the foggiest.

But it didn't matter, the enemy was here, and while he couldn't only barely make them out that would be enough to let his stubber roar, and he did just that. Laying into the unreacting masses behind the refugees with heavy lead.

(Fire into the mass of bodies that obviously has something wrong with it, avoiding the actual reacting people.)

 

[Shephard]

Jerad Sophon
​

"By the Emperor," Jeradresh hissed, plates clattering as he shook in his ill-fitting flak armor. "We need to-"

The roar of a heavy stubber tore the words from his mouth. He flinched as a line of tracers screamed over his head and ducked down, grimacing as his kneepad slipped and drove his bony knee against several hard pieces of gravel. Emperor's Teeth and Kings' blood, was that Albert?

"What in the outer dark is he-" Jeredresh grunted, head jerking to the side to squint futilely into the dark. He grimaced, and tore his eyes away back toward the platoon sergeant, shaking the man by the shoulder pad. "Forget about that. Sergeant Doughty! That is Captain Martyrdom on vox, yes? Tell him-Tell him that we have comrades lost in the dark! He wants us to die martyrs, yes? If they die of wandering off and collars going off, no martyrdom for us, only cowardice!"

He swallowed, voice dry. "Tell him his favorite Celine is out there! If-if that does not work...We had tech priests and those-" What were they called? What were they called? "-Adeptus Munitorius sorts in the back, yes? Without light, they may die! Get him to tell command that!"

Or maybe they would fend off some ill-equipped heretic night raiders. But the night was dark and full of terrors, and Jeradresh was not going to take the chance it was a small terror and not a big terror. They needed light. Physical light. Not just the Emperor's spiritual light.

 

[Sir_Travelsalot]

"Please. I need you all to be brave, and hold the God-Emperor's light in your hearts, and with it, banish this pall of darkness. Is there anything you can tell me of this junction box? Its make and model, the binharic dialect it is versed in, even just where the inputs for the hab-block's lights are." Celine makes her impassioned plea to the civilians, even as she wracks her brain in search of those self-same answers. Light, light, if only this infernal darkness were not so all-consuming! Nyla, them, the rest of the squad, the entire line was in peril, the Hive's very salvation was in peril here and now, and could not keep foundering in the lightless depths.

Emperor, guide Your servant's hand.

 

[greendoor]

@Shephard @xjax1 @Svend @Easter

"Sir, we're sure to die in infamy, not Glory, if we don't get some lights up here! Men dying as martyrs from cracking their skull open stumbling in the dark isn't in any sermons I've heard of!" Doughty shouts into his radio, listening to Jerad's pleas. "Darkness corrodes men's souls-Yes, I know that's Spiritual Darkness-but-Thank you sir. Understood sir."

The Platoon Sergeant sets the vox set down. "The Captain's sending some runners up with what lights he has available at the Command post. Along with himself." Doughty says. He somehow sounds defeated at that, as if it was a bad thing.

It doesn't take Jerad nor Cheri long to figure why-if Captain Suicide Mission was coming himself, that means he wasn't screaming to someone even higher up about those lights. He was only bringing with him what he directly has at his command post.

Any such morose thoughts are interrupted as the chattering of fire at the frontline is redoubled and joined by Albert's stubber. Forms in the darkness ahead, the refugees, shudder under lasgun fire, the rare hits slipping through the dark taking limbs, blasting off apendanges, and leaving bloody chunks blasted out bodies, but somehow they keep coming on, stumbling forward for their place in the que.

The dead, after all, have infinite patience.

The terrifying thought enters Cheri's head, as her shaking hand illuminates the frontlines-and as the first of the 'Refugees' come into the light to be seen in their full horror and glory. They are corpses given ambulatory momentum, walking colonies of bacterium, insects, and rot inhabiting the shells of human bodies. Flesh is palid and grey where it is not mottled and green-brown, bones sticking out from the ragged flaps of flabby skin, or else invisible under corpse-bloat. What had no doubt once been dozens of people's church best have already been stained with blood, rot, and other unidentifiable fluids.

Each and every single on of these nightmares given motion has a taught, rictus grin stretched across their face, as if they work of a particuarly insane mortician arranging a grotesque showing.

Worse still, only audible as background noise against the shriek of lasguns and earsplitting thunder of the Stubbers, a low, rolling noise escapes out of the oncoming tide. It takes long seconds of exhausted, disbeliefing terror to even register it, much less understand what it is. A thousand throats letting out what their rotted vocal cords could call a moan. As if in response to the gun fire playing over them, the noise wraps over the defensive positions, the abrasive noise leaving eardrums aching and hearts dropping, any remaining delusions of hope abandoned.

Beside Cheri, someone empties their lunch on the ground-the Platoon Sergeant coughing and retching instead of issuing vital orders. Gorm, hands shaking, can barely raise his lasrifle. Jerad stares into the horde with the infinitely worse fear of recognition. The new guy, whose name is still unknown, simply sits in his foxhole, eyes wide.

Ramona looks bored.

(OOC: Everyone but Ramona fails their Fear tests, loses a Half Action and is disoriented)

The Penal's response up and down the line is ragged, as terrified, disgusted soldiers fire ragged volleys into the oncoming horde, the darkness and the fear making two shots in three miss. Worse still, no longer alive, the things simply have no worry about injury. One that looked to have once been a fashion concious mid-hiver walks forward, smilingly guilelessly as a lasgun shot blasts her hand from her wrist, another burns a fist sized hole through her gut, and then finally collapses to her knees as a third raking blast vaporizes her kneecap and sends her to the ground-where she simply pulls herself forward by her elbows, uncaring for the pallid flesh scraped away with each sickening motion.

Others step forward over her, and the disorganized, fearful volleys cannot stop them. Heavy Stubber tracers play over the horde. The squad watches in horrified fascination as what was once a Gene-bulk worker, fattened by bloat, walks forward into a wall of stubber bullets, each round taking a fist sized chunk of flesh from it's body, one step at a time. It manages to get perhaps within a meter of the defensive line before a stubber round whizzes through it's left eye socket and blows it's brains out through the back of it's skull, and the whole cadaverous pile of flesh collapses at the foot of Colm's squad.

"Headshots!" Colm shouts. "They can die from headshots! Focus on-" His words are lost in the tumult, and the squad can see several of his squad vanish-whether pulled into the hordes stumbling over his barricades, or else fleeing into the dark can't be known. Only three men still stand, Colm among them, and the sergeant is bellowing, screaming, demanding his men stand in the name of the Emperor, even as one man is pulled into the horde, and his left back to back with a single survivor.

To the east, Sergeant Hansan shouts. "We run, we're dead! They reach us, we're dead! So that only leaves killing them faster! We made it through the gates, we'll make it through this!" His squad, still terrified, steadies their aim, and their vollies into the horde encroaching onto Colm's position intensifies. In ones and twos, the things go down. It seems insufficient to describe them as dying-more appropriate to describe them as simply too damaged to continue. Sustained Lasgun beams slash what was once men and women in half, and for lack of muscles to pull them forward, they lay twitching on the ground. Lucky beams and bullets find necks, heads, and hearts, and destroy the rotting nervous systems animated by dark impulse, sending the grotesque parodies fo life to the ground, spasming.

Perhaps, for a moment it feels like hope. The next rolling series of moans from the oncoming horde, as well as the sudden shifting of battlefield conditions, seeks to rob such from the desperate hearts of man.

To the southeast, down the main street running through the platoon's position the squad turns to see a distinctive flash of fire, and a scream, the briefest impression of a man's head turned into a pillar of fire and gore by a detonating explosive collar. A headless body collapses, and the rest of the half dozen men and women fleeing alongside their former sergeant turn to fight, knowing what fate lies behind them. Their lasbolts and the flash of their grenades are vastly closer-sometimes inside the defenses-than anyone would find comfortable. To the far south, blinding light clicks into existance, and the form of Captain Ansalm is framed against a trio of stablight beams from men following just behind him-and more importantly, a Commissariat Enforcer, one hand holding a Shotgun, the other the controlling Dataslate for every Explosive Collar in the Platoon. "Stand, soldiers of the Penal Legion! This is our chance to die with honor!"

The only consolation in this nightmare is, framed in the light of Ansalm's reinforcements, the refugees-only alive for the efforts of kind and brave fools like Colm, Jerad, Cheri, and Celine, run south, the crumpling defensive lines buying them time to flee to safety. Perhaps they'd live. Perhaps not, but for a short moment of decency in this night and millenium of horror, they had that fleeting chnace.

Nothing else about this seems like honor.

Especially, as if in response to his suicidal proclemation, several more lights hiss to reluctant life, streetlamps and hanging light fixtures. Only a small fraction of those had been operable before, certainly a mere shadow before the passing of the main Hive Lumens-but it is enough to provide a dim illumination to the battlefield.

And the thousands more of the dead that flood fourth from the Hive's interior towards their positions. Dozens upon dozens in the current wave front slamming into their defenses, hundreds more crowded behind them, unknowable amounts more waiting behind them. It was a chance to fight, illumination enough to aim by, to know their targets-but it was still fighting in the shadow of the light, against the overwhelming dark tide.

It is for now, merely the luxury of knowing their own doom.

(OOC: Map has updated. Squad Status to follow)

+++++++++++++++++​

"Please. I need you all to be brave, and hold the God-Emperor's light in your hearts, and with it, banish this pall of darkness. Is there anything you can tell me of this junction box? Its make and model, the binharic dialect it is versed in, even just where the inputs for the hab-block's lights are." Celine makes her impassioned plea to the civilians, even as she wracks her brain in search of those self-same answers. Light, light, if only this infernal darkness were not so all-consuming! Nyla, them, the rest of the squad, the entire line was in peril, the Hive's very salvation was in peril here and now, and could not keep foundering in the lightless depths.

Emperor, guide Your servant's hand.

Click to shrink...

@Kensai

Reluctantly, someone comes forward. Certainly not, as one might hope, a certified Lay-Tech or even an honorable fab-worker. A man whose flamboyant mesh jacket, styled hair, and crude Cybernetic eye-as well as the chunky Stubber stuffed haphazardly unto his breaches tells you was almost certainly a Ganger.

"I ken it's spirit." He says. "We're all like to be meat for hive-ghosts like this."

He steps up besides Nyla, and he starts typing in diagnostic-prayers into the Junction Box's runepad, while Nyla sorts out which of the power cables were still viable, disconnecting and reconnecting them with a combination of her own home's prayers and those offered by Ganger, as well as those offered by another Hiver, who steps up to offer advice. All the while, the sound of hammering at the walls outside continues, as well as the gunfire outside. They didn't have much time.

It is fortunate, then, that the work is very quick-hastened along by desperation, three sets of hands, and the local expertise, and as Nyla nods to confirm she has all of the power lines connected, the Ganger enters the 'Activate' Command into the runepad, and demands 'I commend ye, Spirit! Bring forth Light!"

Light, just in time for the door leading outside to slam open. A woman stumbles forward, through the door, bleeding from a half dozen wounds. It seems almost relieving-merely another refugee. Until she opens her mouth. "Help...they're...right behind.." She stumbles and collapes to the floor of the building-and then her pursuers flood into the room.

THey are certainly no shock for Nyla, but Celine stumbles back in horror as the things flood into the building. They were human once, certainly-no more. Rotting corpses, given horrible motion by some terrible dark force, killing grins stretched across their faces as if by death's own sculpting knife.

Four were once ordinary hivers-one armored in heavy industrial protective gear, the rest wearing their church best. Another, a hulking Gene-Bulk whose muscle is at once bloated by rot and melting off his body in trickles of black slime-and finally, what was once one of the Hive Militia that had been their enemies, stumbling forward with a bayoneted autogun clutched in her skeletal fingers. They are into the crowd of Civilians before anyone can react, rotting fingers and hands grasping at those who yet live, begging them to join their danse macabe.

The injured refugee who'd let them rolls to the side out of a tangle of grasping limbs, still alive, and starts desperately crawling away, even as those who yet are new to this nightmare are born down under the horde in minature.
At the south side of the building, Nyla and Celine were safe, at least for a few seconds. They could turn and run, abandon all of these people to die, and probably reach back to their own lines, the dubious safety of wire, lasguns, and mines. Who would ever want to die here, for the relatives and friends of traitors?

A decision would need to be made-as the creature's death moans are matched by screams of terror and panic, and as the Ganger fumbles for his big Stub Automatic.

A pauper's honor, or living another day?

Spoiler: OOC note for SirTravelsalot and Kensai

Celine is currently at her Corruption Threshold, and Nyla isn't far from it either. Any further corruption-of which, you can likely surmise, is currently a likely battlefield threat-will lead to potential risks to mind, body and soul. Nyla can survive another point or two, but beyond that, she's also in trouble.

However, you do have a recourse-the Dark Gods are willing to offer mercy upon your souls, if you turn, run, and abandon everyone in this building-including your comrade, should either of you choose to stay, to die. If either or both of you do so, you will lose 1 Corruption Point, keeping you away from the edge of damnation.

Your choices, as always.

Spoiler: Squad Status

Disgusted, as a note, is a Fear Condition, and can be removed by a character rallying the squad with Command (only if they don't have it themselves), using the Psyche Up Action, and passively at the end of each turn, so long as you're not in melee. It gives -10 to all non Toughness tests, loses you a half action in the first round (already accounted for this combat), and -3 Initiative.

-Albert: 12/12 Wounds. 0/5 Fatigue, 152/200 rounds in belt, Disgusted (2)
-Jerad: 16/16 wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests)
-Cheri: 11/14 Wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to All Tests), Disgusted (1)
-Gorn: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue, Disgusted (4)
-Ramona: 14/14 Wounds: 0/7 Fatigue
-Celine: 7/13 wounds. 5/6 Fatigue (-15 to all Tests, will make a Resolve test vs. KO for each additional Fatigue), Disgust (4)
-Nyla: 13/13 wounds. 0/6 Fatigue, Disgusted (2)

 

[Easter]

Albert didn't pray, he didn't let out a warcry, nor did he remain silent as his Stubber let out an echoing drumbeat of lead. A low metallic roar echoed from his cybernetic jaw, a robotic screech that was barely recognizable as human. This was to release the pent-up terror he felt and to try to rally his disgust into a more useful rage and aggression. His shots ranged out to blast into the largest group of corpses that he could see, hoping that his Stubber's rapid-fire and his own experience with the weapon would allow him to do as much damage to the encroaching groups as possible.

(Essentially trying to break my disgust and hit any groups of undead wherever possible to try and break them up into a more manageable trickle. If there aren't any groups than I would like to support the panicking penals on the left side where I can.)

 

[Shephard]

Jerad Sophon​

For a long moment, Jeradresh stared at what the light had revealed, and wished for the return of the dark and the blissful ignorance it had brought. Then he could hope it was just a heretic with a preysense visor, or more mad fanatics.

He had seen dead bodies before, more in the last few days than the rest of his life combined. And these, he told himself, were just dead bodies, no matter how ambulatory, scarcely as bad as the mechanical abominations the Imperials used as machine-slaves. That was a lie, one of the many the nobleman told himself as those rotted, festering bodies staggered forward like marionettes on strings, but it was a comforting lie. For the moment, he could focus on the horror of the physical: The way his throat burned from swallowed back bile, the hands reaching out to pull him down, the horror of exposed muscle still moving.

It helped him ignore the deeper fears that clutched at his soul. Whispers from home of spirit bloated revenants seeking vengeance, or lost souls bound to the materium to never know the afterlife. Or worse yet, the scripture he had read, of all the legends of martyrs and saints returned from the dead to prophesize or bring the Emperor's wrath upon the faithless. The heretics had spoken of a Risen Emperor. Were these the Emperor's holy dead? Were they, in truth, the ones who were on the side of heresy? Miracles did not have to be beautiful.

No. No. No. The Emperor loved him. Had seen him through the stars, through the bloody gates, and all the horrors he had seen. He refused to doubt his every step upon Rorscha Mundi was anything less than ordained. He would not doubt the Emperor's will, not at the last.

He snapped up his lasgun, spraying bursts from the hips into the dead, and rose his metal fist into the air with a roar.

"We already killed them once, my comrades! Just kill them again! Simple!" Jeradresh bellowed over the din of gunfire and panicked cries. He tried not to look at the dead too closely, swallowing back down another wave of nausea. "Stop looking so sick! You have all seen worse Servitors before! These are just servitors without the metal! Cut them down like the meat they are! For the Emperor!"

(OOC: Rally to try and end the debuffs, and semi-auto into the hordes)

 

[Svend]

Gorm looks upon the hordes of the dead and feels fear. A great amount of fear as corpses that shouldn't move somehow lumber forward.
And then he speaks the Litanny against fear, first barely a whisper, then a murmur, then a shout, and soon he is screaming out prayer at the top of his lungs, trying desperately to rouse the others from their horror and disgust and take a stand against these abominations in the name of the master of mankind.

His hands are shaking, not from fear, but from rage, as he unloads his lasgun into the mass, hoping it might inspire the others to do the same.

(Gorm tries to use prayer (or whatever skill is most appropriate) to end the disgusted condition on as many of the players and soldiers as possible)

 

[Kensai]

Smoop looked upon the oncoming horde with a mix of terror and disgust. Her eyes seemed drawn to odd details of the rotting foes, how one had a snaggle tooth and another's pustules were an oddly pretty purple. The effect was mesmerising, and she spent far too long staring in dumb fascination.

But something held firm within her soul still, some spark of stubborn humanity, the will that even the weakest had in common with the Emperor Himself - the ability to decide, to make a moral choice. Only when that spark died was a soul lost; as long as it burned, the Emperor would protect.

And in a flash of understanding, Smoop made her choice. There was no saving everyone here: most of them were already dead, and she and Celine would only add to the numbers assaulting the lines of the faithful if they stayed. Sometimes there was virtue in remaining defiant to the last; sometimes the best you could do was to conserve the Empire's resources for the struggles ahead.

Smoop screamed to Celine, "We have to get back to the lines, now!" and pushed herself to her feet. She extended a hand to her comrade; but she was ready to run for it regardless, if Celine didn't take it.

If it was cowardice to keep one's body and soul from falling to heresy or worse, then better to be a coward. Smoop would rather fail than fall.

 

[Sir_Travelsalot]

"Go, then. And let the line know of this place." There was a choice to be made here, and Celine had made hers. In all likelihood, it would claim her life. But the enemy could not be allowed to take away the lights a second time. They had had time to adjust their eyes to the darkness before the enemy attack the first time. But if they cut out again, mid-combat, against foes who would not care...

Death was a likely result. Perhaps even damnation, mired in the profane as she was amidst these horrors. But she could not accept fleeing here. Not after so many better, worthier souls had perished to see her here. She would not spit on their martyrdom, by proving too weak for her own.

Her blade is back in its sheath, the chain-grinder revving in her hands. Catastrophic damage would be most likely see the day through here, if anything. Her voice rings out in prayers she is not certain she herself can truly hear in all this bedlam.

Besides...

Trembling in fear, or running away, just sounds too exhausting right now. Celine is ready to rest.

 

[greendoor]

@Shephard @xjax1 @Easter @Svend @Kensai

Along the Company's line, the condemned fight for a few more minutes of life.

If one was to be comforted by solidarity, Celine's vox might well be a balm in dark times-but for most else, it speaks only bad news.

"This is Lieutenant Gunther of 12th Bolwerc Shock! Targets do not appear on Preysense, and its so dark most of our bloody photovisors ain't even working here-something about minimal light amplification? Stache me, can't even use our flares properly with the ceiling. We'll hold the ground by bayonet and halberd, but we need those lights back on! We're fighting blind here!"

Click to shrink...

Ahead of the Squad, Colm and his remaining soldiers fall back, shooting every step of the way. The dead step over the remains of his position, relentless, uncaring for the bullets and lasers that stab into them. They fall in ones and twos, limbs blown off, decapitated, torsos smashed, but even the most direly wounded keeps coming-and to the sick fascination of the squad, even those whose torsos have been smashed to pulp still twitch with unnatural life, even if they cannot advance or make their dreadful racket with destroyed tendons and pulped lungs.

"God Emperor..." Sergeant Doughty manages, in between heaving out his breakfast and desperately firing his pistol over the sandbag barricade. "God Emperor protect..."

The only answer is moans and the vox.

"Emperor damn it! Those Vankillan scum are running! Pop every collar in the 22nd company! That'll put spine into the rest!"

Click to shrink...

Nyla turns and runs from the doomed building-fortunately, the refugees are not fools, and most turn to run with her, sprinting into the safety of the night.

"Cursed Abominations! Back unto the sump where ye belong!" The Ganger shouts from the door, firing his pistol into the oncoming horde. He waves a hand towards the door. "Out, out! Run!"

Beside him, Celine fumbles for her Chaingrinder. The huge, bloated former Genebulk steps forward, axe swinging, and the last of the fleeing refugees, the woman who'd fled into the building nad let them in, is cut down in an arc of blood. She falls, whimpering to the ground, gore pumping from her sundered arm.

Celine pulls the cord, and pushes forward toward the horde. She watches as one collapses, a kneecap blown out from a shot from the Ganger. "Time to run! Lights are up!" The Man shouts, but Celine can barely hear him-doesn't see as his pistol's slide locks back on an empty magazine, and as he reluctantly takes the oppurtunity to run with her distracting them. "Emperor Speed!" She hears, and the man is gone.

Nyla runs into the night-and absurdly, narrowly escapes death again, as a penal squad along the perimeter opens fire. She winces as a shot deflects off her arm plates, and barely ducks as a hail of stubber round screams past. A sergeant shouts "Hold fire! She's one of ours!"

She however, cannot escape barbed wire-so focused on avoiding the main front, she forgets the wire lain along the flanks of the position, hits it, and trips, entangled in it's coils.

Over the sound of shooting, and Sergeant Hansan, up ahead shouting. "Shite, it's Smoop! Someone help her!", she can just make out the sound of Cheri's vox, and the distant sound of exploding collars.

"All units this is Tempestor Mika. Hostiles are not incapacitated by conventional kill-shots. Either destroy the head or annihilate them entirely, over."

Click to shrink...

At the squad's position, the creatures keep coming, as do the endless moans from a thousand mouths. One of Colm's men suddenly falls prone, bleeding from his ears, a beatific smile stretched across his face. He mutters something no one can make out, then goes still.

"Traulk?" Colm asks, bending to check on the downed man even as he fires another burst into the incoming horde.

Jerad barely has time for the concious thought to enter his head before he's shouting a desperate warning. Colm manages to leap back-but the now dead man's arm snakes forward and grabs Steed around his ankle and pulls itself towards the man. Two more creatures stumble forward, grasping limbs settling around the soldier.

Steed struggles, trying and failing to shove the former men off of him, having no luck. Colm, the enemy baring down on him, desperately tries to line up a shot, even as the rest of his squad keep falling back.

Steed reaches onto his webbing . His hands hold a pair of fragmentation grenades, and he uses his thumbs to flick the rings away even as one of the dead rips his helmet off. "It's ok." He says, tears in his eyes-hysterical fear, happiness, and resolve. He looks his former sergeant in the eye. "We are the fire that purifies."

Colm manages a nod before ducking away, and Steed releases the levers on both grenades.

The detonation is blinding and deafening at this range. One of the dead is cut in half entirely a spray of organs and guts splashed across the rubble. A second stumbles and keeps moving forward, it's entire chest cavity spilling out of it's sundered guts, rotted intestines and organs sliding out with each step. The former member of Colm's squad barely seems effected, it's uniform torn, face ripped to shreds, but it stands up unsteadily and starts stumbling towards it's former squadmates, moaning the entire time. Behind, the rest of the horde continues.

Steed's body is flung against the barricade, outside the wire. His armor is shattered, one eye socket a cloud of blood, his hips twisted at an unnatural angle, his torso caved in-yet, he breathes in a shallow breath against the ground.

"He's dead!" Dormer shouts, as her sergeant turns back towards Steed. "Just keep fighting!"

"...From plague, temptation and war, Our Emperor, deliver us..."

Click to shrink...

Nyla struggles against the wire to the sound of the Vox, expecting dead hands to grab her at any second-a living hand does instead. One of Hansen's squad grabs her arm, and working together, the two of them manage to get her extricated from the wire. "Good job with those lights!" The soldier who'd helped her shouts. "Your squad's that way."

Nyla stumbles through the dark towards the squad's position, sliding into posiition next to Jerad. Gorm is belting out prayers as he fires into the horde. Cheri is mostly just hunkering down in cover and fire her pistol over the sandbags even as her vox babbles out more and more messages from elsewhere.

"What the kark is going out there? I'm hearing the bloody dead are rising, someone tell me what the hell is going on out there! Someone respond! No? ...Kark it. This is Captain Solomon to all members of the Hezean 73rd 4th company. Prepare for full advance! We'll not let the front line fall!"

Click to shrink...

Nyla has to duck as a burst of fire comes down from Albert's position, taking another dead man's arm off, blowing two exit holes through another's chest, and chewing a third's right leg off at the knees. Jerad's lasgun joins them, and puts two smoking holes in the flak vest of what looked like it had once been a hive militiaman-but now all there is behind her gasmasks' eyeholes is dark, unidentifiable fluid.

To the west, there is sudden detonation, a blast of green-black fluid, screams. Lit up by the Captain's flashlights, the squad is able to see in terrible detail as a soldier stumbles out of the detonation, armor covered in dark fluid. He falls to his knees, coughing out blood and black fluid, even as more of the enemy bore down on his and his squad's position. Just eight men left there against the numberless horde, and even Ansalm's shouts of "The Emperor disdains a man who dies with a charged lasgun!" can do much to help them.

Then, the Captain is suddenly joined by another voice. Sergeant Doughty, suddenly, steps up from where he'd been cowering. His voice is shaky at first. "We have to hold...there are other units on our flanks." Before his voice grows steel. "Penal Legionaires! This is our chance for redemption! Others depend on us not breaking!" He shouts. "I will personally shoot any man who breaks ranks!" He punctuates that with a shot from his laspistol that takes a dead woman's head off and plunges her now still corpse into the ranks of the horde.

"Hold the line! Colm, pull your men back behind Cheri's squad! Hansen, keep covering us! We'll pull back by sections! Steady!"

The appearence of steady leadership can only be counterbalanced by bad news. Amid the horde, Nyla spots two of the enemy-a huge genebulk, and a fat former gangster-both bloated with rot along the midsection, stumbling forward. She was willing to bet those must've been the same type that exploded on the western flank. They needed those dead-especially if they were going to manage some kind of fighting retreat.

The vox continues to leak reports from elsewhere.

"This is Sergeant Durenz of the Tellios 101st. My lieutenant-Throne he just started vomiting and...He's dead, and my platoon has sustained heavy casualties but we are holding ninth avenue by Talon Street...We will hold until the last round and the last man. Make it bloody count, in the Emperor's name!"

Click to shrink...

Celine fights with every ounce of strength she has left.

It is not enough.

A dead hand catches her wrist as she tries to bring the heavy grinder down, another wraps around her stomach. She is born down under the weight, too tired, too wounded, too hopeless to resist. All she can hear is the moans, as even the roar of the grinder dies away. Cold, wet hands fumble at her helmet, ripping it off, cold, dead breath at her neck.

She looks up, and all she can see is blinding light. She tries to raise a hand to, reach for it, ward off the attacks, and the light fades.

She stares up into the face of a man. A Gene bulk, an axe slung over his shoulder. An underhiver, proud. An armored factory worker, a former member of the Hive Militia, and others. All wear Imperial aquillas sown into their clothing. They smile, and the Genebulk rumbles. "Welcome, Sister."

She accepts his hand, and stands up. "Welcome to the Emperor's Faithful battalions. Will you march with us?" The Hive Militiaman asks, and Celine finds herself nodding. She stands up, grabs her grinder with now stiff, clumsy hands, and a smile stretches across her face.

She turns to march against the Heretics, as the Risen Emperor commands.

"They were right! By the Throne, the Emperor sends His Risen Martyrs against us! Repent! Repent!"

Click to shrink...

"Shut that off!" Sergeant Doughty shouts at Sergeant Cheri. "Steady! They're just corpses! The Emperor has granted us his divine firepower! Fight!"

And so they do. Lasbeams and bullets and grenades claim the enemy, but more just keep coming. Colm, and what remains of his squad pull back to beside the remain's of Cheri's squad, prpearing to fire another volley before retreating as ordered-but Colm gives the squad a look. "Please." He voices, and glances over to the broken, dying Steed.

Whatever choice they might make, they are distracted as more enemies stumble from the northeast-enemies flowing out of the building Nyla had retreated through.

"Our firing lines are jammed! Refugees are heading through!" Hansen shouts-for all his previous bluster, unwilling to turn his guns on Imperial Citizens. At his position, the survivors from the building are struggling to get through the wire, a Ganger taking up the rear, fumbling to reload a handgun.

"Ellias squad, support them!" Doughty shouts to the squad on the far east flank, who had so far done little-but they were poorly positioned, a wrecked vehicle shielding the oncoming dead until they'd be right on the refugees and Hansen's men.

But the soldiers of Cheri's squad can hardly spare a thought for that. Amid the small horde stepping out of the building is a form in Penal Legionaire flak, a chaingrinder clutched in one dead hand, a lantern dangling from the other.

Celine's dead mouth hangs open, and unleashes a moan to join the rest of the enemy marching forward against them.

(OOC: Celine is now unfortunately, if not quite dead, no longer playable.

@Sir_Travelsalot As a note, you suffered the same fate as Traulk and were overwhelmed by the dead's infection. You failed a Piety test to resist malignancy-manifesting in this case, as dying and joining the Emperor's Faithful Battalions. If you had not, you would have had your throat torn out by their teeth regardless.

The goods news is nobody has fear conditions anymore thanks to Gorm, Jerad, and Sergeant Doughty, and now you have coherent leadership at least.

Spoiler: Squad Status

-Albert: 12/12 Wounds. 0/5 Fatigue, 112/200 rounds in belt
-Jerad: 16/16 wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to all tests)
-Cheri: 11/14 Wounds. 1/7 Fatigue (-5 to All Tests)
-Gorn: 13/13 Wounds, 0/6 Fatigue
-Ramona: 14/14 Wounds: 0/7 Fatigue
-Nyla: 13/13 wounds. 0/6 Fatigue

 

[Easter]

Albert eyes twitched, jumping from the center line to the left line as he tried to make a decision. Finally, after a long moment, he swiveled his stubber and opened fire along the left flank. Stitching a line of lead into the corpses nearest to the line who weren't actively engaged, hopefully avoiding any chance of friendly fire while also sparing the troops from being overwhelmed by the tainted dead. He winched slightly, as bodies without legs and arms kept moving, something deep in his hindbrain still ringing in alarm since the start of this battle, a feeling he has been forced to ignore as he committed to doing his duty.

(Try to take out the corpses closest to the western flank, at least the ones I can hit without risking shooting anyone.)

 

[Shephard]

At the squad's position, the creatures keep coming, as do the endless moans from a thousand mouths. One of Colm's men suddenly falls prone, bleeding from his ears, a beatific smile stretched across his face. He mutters something no one can make out, then goes still.

"Traulk?" Colm asks, bending to check on the downed man even as he fires another burst into the incoming horde.

Jerad barely has time for the concious thought to enter his head before he's shouting a desperate warning. Colm manages to leap back-but the now dead man's arm snakes forward and grabs Steed around his ankle and pulls itself towards the man. Two more creatures stumble forward, grasping limbs settling around the soldier.

Click to shrink...

Jeradresh didn't know what this was. Some Imperial bioweapon, Xenos plague, or other horror he'd been blessed to never known in his mother's court.

But he knew a curse when he saw one. Traulk was already gone. If there was anything beneath his skin, it was Not Traulk. "Colm! Ware! Ware, for Throne sake!"

And so they do. Lasbeams and bullets and grenades claim the enemy, but more just keep coming. Colm, and what remains of his squad pull back to beside the remain's of Cheri's squad, prpearing to fire another volley before retreating as ordered-but Colm gives the squad a look. "Please." He voices, and glances over to the broken, dying Steed.

Whatever choice they might make, they are distracted as more enemies stumble from the northeast-enemies flowing out of the building Nyla had retreated through.

Whatever choice they might make, they are distracted as more enemies stumble from the northeast-enemies flowing out of the building Nyla had retreated through.

"Our firing lines are jammed! Refugees are heading through!" Hansen shouts-for all his previous bluster, unwilling to turn his guns on Imperial Citizens. At his position, the survivors from the building are struggling to get through the wire, a Ganger taking up the rear, fumbling to reload a handgun.

"Ellias squad, support them!" Doughty shouts to the squad on the far east flank, who had so far done little-but they were poorly positioned, a wrecked vehicle shielding the oncoming dead until they'd be right on the refugees and Hansen's men.

Click to shrink...

The heathen's eyes were locked on the downed man, chest still impossibly shuddering for breath after those grenade blades, his armor charred and shrapnel scarred.

"If you've really got him on Terra's protection, here's hoping it rubs off on us, yeah? Looks like we might need it."

Jeradresh tried to groan, but nothing escaped his lips. No. No, no, no. It wasn't that Jeradresh cared for the genesmithed scum. No, no. It was just-He didn't want his investment wasted. That was it. Could the man truly be alive? Why must the galaxy dangle that cruel jest before him, the idea that the man could be saved. It was frustrating. Yes, frustrating. 'Kings' blood, stop dying you cowards!' he wanted to scream, but all that came out was an exhausted sigh.

An idea blossomed. He turned toward Sergeant Doughty, tugging at the man's pauldron. He grinned, manically.

"Sergeant Doughty, Hansen! We have mines in corner of building! Get a man on the right wall, above them! Draw the dead toward the explosives, yes?"

He half turned back to the fray, raising his lasguns, further plans swirling through his head. And they died as his eyes saw something new past the rows of dead, lit by a dangling lantern.

But the soldiers of Cheri's squad can hardly spare a thought for that. Amid the small horde stepping out of the building is a form in Penal Legionaire flak, a chaingrinder clutched in one dead hand, a lantern dangling from the other.

Celine's dead mouth hangs open, and unleashes a moan to join the rest of the enemy marching forward against them.

Click to shrink...

Jeradresh's hands were shaking. Celine was dead? It didn't seem possible, after all her mad, failed attempts at martyrdom. It was beginning to think it another cruel jest of the universe, but for her to meet death in such a perverse and twisted fashion? It didn't make any sense How could someone so faithful, so pious become one of these...He shivered. He did not want to further consider that line of thought.

Emperor damn the entire miserable, cruel galaxy that dangled hope in front of you, only to take it away. Emperor damn. Emperor.

He ground his teeth together, and threw himself forward, toward Colm and Dormer. He skid in the rockcrete beside the man, almost stripping over the sandbags, and jabbed his bayonet into the encroaching Not-Traulk, trying to drive them back. Really, just trying to hurt them. But maybe, just maybe, it'd give one of the two an opening to grab Steed. Maybe, just maybe, if he was near them some of the Emperor's love would rub off on them.

"Enforcer!" He shouted at the Commissar's man, desperately trying to leverage the length of his bayonet and the barbed wire to create some room.

OOC: Suggest to the sergeants to get someone on the wall to draw the rear undead toward the mines in the building corner.
Charge the dead penal by Colm and Dormer. Try to use reach and the barbed wire to my advantage.

Shout at the Enforcer, if possible. Celine's probably too far back to be easily spotted, even with the lantern, but Traulk is right there.