WARHAMMER 40,000: A Thousand Tiny Suns (40k Dark Imperium Quest)
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It is the 42nd Millennium.
For more than a hundred centuries, the God Emperor of Mankind has sat immobile on his throne - carrion lord of earth, sustained by the worship of a billion billion souls.
That light had gone out.
The Astronomicon has dimmed to a guttering ember, sputtering in the night. The Imperium is riven by a vast warp storm - the Cicatrix Maledictum - and hope seems lost. It is the darkest of days. It is the end times.
You are an Imperial Guardsman on the world of Cathexias II.
And in 32 hours, you are going to die.
--- Lets get some grimdark in this grimdark! This is a 40k quest, using the Only War rules set! Write ins are allowed! There may be sex scenes, who knows. I kinda doubt it, but who knows!
The sky above Cathexias II was smeared with an orange-brown smudge. Tiny from a distance, it's true and horrific scale only became apparent with planetary context: the curve of a continent, the bulk of a moon, the glittering of city lights.
The smudge was the sixty eight thousand meter wide flaming wreck of the Happy Grox, which had managed - through guile and daring, elan and well trained gunnery crews - to sustain a naval engagement so lopsided that it should have been finished in under sixty seconds for more than three standard solar days. The Sword class frigate, with nearly sixty eight thousand souls aboard, had taken advantage of the evacuated megalopolis orbital infrastructure that sprawled around Cathexias II like a crown of thorns. Darting in and out of orbitals long since left to rot, turned into mine fields and fireships by the solemn, red robed priests of Mars, it had fired a quick salvo here, a shot there, harrying the Word Bearer battlefleet that had come to claim the world below.
The Word Bearers, trapped between their strategic goals and their tactical problem, had sieged the Happy Grox for those three days, sending teleportation squads every time they caught her thrust plume. A few Legionaries there, a few Legionaries here, slaughtering dozens before retreating into the vastness of the ship, their powered armor blending into duct and air vent, their power signatures masked by a ship's sprawl of over five hundred years of life. There, they set melta charges, plasma bombs, and foul shrines that drove men mad to look at them.
The slow bleeding and time caught up with the Happy Grox, and two battle-barges both managed to corner her, then bring her down moments before the Legionaries aboard evacuated in stolen salvation-pods.
The Word Bearers waited then, for a day.
In that time, the smudge faded. Vanished. And people asked, why did they wait?
Was it to salute the crew that had so bedeviled them?
Was it to say a prayer to their Gods?
Who was to say.
Because, on the tolling of the Hour of Mourning on Cathexias II, the battle-barges maneuvered past the orbital infrastructure, planning to drop their armies.
And the Governor-Elect of Cathexias II set the sky on fire.
***
The hatch squeaked open with a groan and a clunk and a wafting stink of burned air and you slowly slid out, the first to taste the surface air in almost a week. If your Commissar could see you now...you were pretty sure she'd have had you shot purely for the uniform. You weren't in a uniform exactly. Your normal colors and flak vest had been replaced with layers of cloth and metal plates scrounged up and cobbled together by a tech-wight who knew some little about radiation and pollutants. Add to that the goggles and a makeshift filter and the fact you could taste the surface at all was bad enough. You slowly looked around and...and felt sick.
This had been a city once. You were pretty sure it had been called Tanthar - but you hadn't had too long to really take in the local culture before Plan Retribution had been put into effect. Your days had been spent working with the other regiments placed here by Command to stem the tide of invasion building up fortifications, transporting the civilians who made the checklists into the bunkers, and...
Well.
God Emperor be praised, you hadn't been picked to protect the hatches when the plan had started.
The landscape around you was uniformly chaotic - craters and slagged buildings, pyres and pillars of smoke, and a blackened caul overhead. The only things that looked even remotely like they had survived were the void shielded facilities that Plan Retribution had decided were of maximal required need: Food synth and manufactorums. They looked like silvery pebbles stuck into a painting of the ten hells - black ash and bones everywhere, surrounding their eerie perfection.
And in the sky, hovering like a pregnant mangla shark, was a Chaos battle barge. Smoke wreathed it, and crackling void shields shrouded it, but it remained in the air in an utter defiance of gravity - its ventral thrusters blazing like tiny stars, pinpricks against its dark red and black paint. Fleets of flying machines were coming off the sides, and drop pods were being fired directly into the ground. Booming across the crackling wasteland, you could hear a distant voice.
"Rejoice! Rejoice, children! Your salvation is at hand!"
You nodded, the swung back down the ladders.
The other man - he was from the 45th, you thought - who had been selected for scout duty used a long pole with a hook to swing the hatch down.
"We good?" he asked.
"No," you said.
The 45ther sighed. As the hatch finished locking, he tugged his cloth covering aside, then stuck a lho stick between his chapped lips.
"Fuck," he said.
The two of you clanked down a narrow tube-corridor that had once been a sewer duct, then came to the catwalk that stretched over the staging ground for your regiments. You peered over the railings, shaking your head slowly.
It had been three months crawling through the warp. Three days watching the flowers and the firegrass bloom between the city streets. Three weeks of digging. Then, a week of waiting as the world burned above you. The bitterest thought?
It didn't even work.
"See you topside," the 45ther said, then made a gesture you didn't recognize. Might have been good luck. He stomped down the catwalk, while you collected yourself, looking for your regiment.
Ah, there they were.
--- What's your regiment?
[ ] The 309th Krieg Cavalry - the Death Riders (a regiment of cloned, gas mask wearing depressives, riding genetically engineered horses into battle)
[ ] The 2nd Vashuden Grenadiers - the Drowners (a regiment of heavily armed, heavily armored close combat specialists from a water world)
[ ] The 10th Mordian Heavy Reconnaissance - the Steel Chariots (a regiment of professional, serious minded soldiers that all drive heavily armed walkers)
[ ] The 4th Shrike Void Special Service Regiment - the Helldivers (a regiment of light infantry specializing in orbital drop tactics)
[ ] Write In
Author's note: There's gonna be some faint continuity hiccups, please ignore them. Downfall of wanting to show the world's surface before the vote, ah well...
They they were. You breathed out, feeling the backpressure of your breather against your face. It was why you had been sent up first. You had gone without complaint, even if you felt naked without Gitta. You stepped away from the catwalk, then hurried to the ladder. Taking it one rung at a time, you came down to the thronging mass of humans and tried to not cringe away from the strangers: Their naked faces, grotesque and flabby, or unnaturally sunken, or strangely hued, all made you think of braying grox in a pen. They didn't know any better. And worse, they still believed in life before death. You didn't speak to any of them, and appreciated the way that they cringed away from you as you stalked towards the formation nearest the ramp.
That meant picking your way through the racks of Russ tanks from the 65th Cadians. Their tanks had once been painted standard issue Cadian colors, but since the news had broken on ship, they had painted them black. The Cadians still looked resolute, despite the stories that circulated and whispered through the camp. You walked as softly as you could, jackboots clicking on steel, as your greatcoat brushed against the ground.
You got to the edge of the Cadian encampment and to your people - the 309th. The Death Riders had constructed a small stable using prefabricated structure units and their own hands. The horses waited inside, being tended to by your attached Magos Biologis.
You didn't like the Magos Biologis, Scu-Tau 41.
You found your commanding officer, 9-19. She was hunched over a box covered with hopelessly outdated maps, which she had been scrawling on - her estimation of artillery impact and shell damage had translated remarkably well to habitats raining out of the sky. She lifted her mask up, goggles glinting. "Report," she said.
You came to attention, lifting your chin slightly. "Sir," you said. "The enemy have brought their space assets into low orbit and are deploying along line-42 and 39. Air units. Tanks. Powered armored infantry. Traitor marines. Annoying loudspeaker, too."
"Hurm," 9-19 said, looking down at her charts. "Thoughts?"
"Good battle," you said. "Hopeless."
9-19 nodded. "To your mount, soldier."
You saluted, then turned and left the commander to her thoughts. You pitied her - she had to remain at the back, to focus on orders and commands. She didn't get to taste the death-wind that blew through the battlefield, the tang of sweat on your lips. You had to see to your equipment. The order was supposed to be lance, armor, rations, mount - for the mount was seen by the Priests of Mars and you were to trust them. You mentally edited the order slightly, for after all, you had checked your lance, armor and rations before heading up to the hatch. That was fine.
You just...
You walked to the stables, then stepped inside. The mounts were in their stalls, their feed-tubes hooked up, their heads bowed. The magos was at the far end, far from your Gitta. You hurried to stall marked 41-22, then opened the inner door, sliding in quietly. There she was. Gitta the 22nd cloned horse of this line of mounts. She had been not the first, nor had she been the last, to go through the automatica line - but she bore the scars of her augmentations with the same pride you would hope you would. Once...you got any. Your gloved palm slid along her neck, slowly, and you whispered softly.
"We're going to have a battle today, Gitta."
The armored face-plate of Gitta swung towards you, and her bright red eyes - shimmering like ruby stars - pierced yours. You looked away, feeling your cheeks heat under your mask. "We might get to die for Him," you continued, gently, checking to make sure the feed tube wasn't grinding against her cheek. Augh! It was! You reached around, adjusting it, and Gita shifted, her claws scraping happily on the metal grating. Her head shook then bumped against your chest. You were almost knocked over. Your cheeks heated more and you risked a quick hug around her neck.
"Are you excited?" you whispered.
Gitta let out a muffled whuff and then a whirring click as some internal augmentation settled.
You sighed, then brushed your gloved hand along her flank, slowly. "I..." you paused. "Am concerned. I want to be...to..."
The words failed you. Your people did not have the tongue it. You tried to put it all down into that palm touch, and you felt Gitta settle under your touch.
"What are you doing here!?"
The creaky, rattling, inhuman voice of Scu-Tau 41 made you jerk and spin around, coming to attention despite her not being in your chain of command. Remembering that, you went back to stroking Gitta. The furious, mostly metal face of the magos glowered over the door, her hands gripping the edges of it.
"Those mounts are property of the Magos Biologis - we bred them, we designed them, we put the augmentations into them! What's your name and rank, soldier?"
"41-22-H is my mount," you said, firmly.
"Oh I'll get your damn commissar if you don't get out of there right now and let me check it over!"
You hesitated. Commissar Telas scared you - the idea of dying before a battle even began, on a disciplinary firing line, was the worst thing you could imagine. You shuffled a bit, then stepped to the door. Gitta bumped her head against your shoulder blades, as if to say go go and you emerged. The magos glowered at you, her opticals narrowing and whirring as a thin tendril of metal extended from the grille above her neck.
"Well?" she snapped. "Name and rank!"
You came to...at ease. The closest you'd provide.
--- Well?
[ ] Private 2nd Class 41-22 (heavy weapons: carries the biggest guns and weapons)
[ ] Corpsman 41-22 (medic: specializing in healing allies and repairing damage)
[ ] Lance Corporal 41-22 (operator: best at piloting - both critters and vehicles)
[ ] Sergeant 41-22 (Sergeant: leader of men in battle)
[ ] Private 1st Class, 41-22 (weapon specialist: basically 'what if you were a normal guardsman, you were just the best normal guardsman')
"Hurm," the Magos seemed unimpressed. "What passes for the medica for your cavalry?"
"No, Magos," you said, shaking your head. "Naval medic. Given to the rough riders so they have a doctor." You felt your gut twinge in guilt and sorrow. To be assigned to the navy had been a shame all its own - as navy either died all together or never, and the very idea of passing tour after tour without testing yourself beyond distant laser lances and flashing macro cannons made you want to snap your glove. Your fingers fidgeted, almost doing the instinctive motion, but you kept them still.
Not just navy, but a medic too.
The Emperor gave his trials to...
You felt a strange sense of weight on your chest. A depression. A religious thrill shot through you. Was...had your stray thought been heard by Him on Earth? Then, foolish. The feeling was a change in pressure. The grinding sound of massive gears and the shifting of air made you realize what it was. The door was beginning to crack open and the vault was going to spill its forces into the battle. As if to catch up, a trumpet started playing - the tune said...saddle up. You nodded to the Magos.
"Need to get ready, Magos," you said.
Scu-Tau 41's optical tendril retracted beneath her hood and she let out another 'hurm.' "So it seems," she said. "Go and die gloriously for the Emperor. I've already deleted your designation from my long term and short term memory banks." She turned and waved a hand - you thought to dismiss you...but then with a jolting series of POPS, the feeding tubes came free from your mounts. Gitta tossed her head and you reached out, rubbing her chin gently.
"it's okay, Gitta," you whispered.
Then.
"I just need to find 55-95," you said.
Your fingers fidgeted. And with no one else to see, you reached down, hooked your fingers on the thin elastic that kept your glove flush to your wrist, tugged back, then let it slap against your wrist with a fierce, stinging pain. You snapped three more times, then hurried from the stables, boots thumping.
Outside, you could see that the far end of the stables were already emptying and the lower numbers were donning their gear and swinging up. Despite the change of pressure, the door hadn't really begun to swing wide: It was just a thin crack. You hurried to your tent and found that 55-95 was kneeling at the bedroll, his combat knife in his hand. He was holding in the other a blunt tipped explosive lance-head. He played the knife along the edge of the lance-head, rasping gently. You hurried forward, kneeling down and grabbing his wrist. "What are you doing?" you hissed, softly - fury tight in your throat.
He lifted his head, looking up at you. "I...don't know..." he said, uncertainty. "The...Emperor says-"
You shook your head. "You've been into the meds again, haven't you?" you asked, grabbing the heavy weight of the diagnosticator and the injector-unit. The unguents that were pre-loaded in the injector sloshed and slopped within the glass vials, and you checked the stims to make sure that 55-95 hadn't been imbibing them.
"No...no, I haven't," he said, in that dull monotone of his. He started to stand, and you saw that his glove was half off. He tugged it back on, fidgeting. "I just...I've been having bad dreams. And the dreams come when I'm awake too-"
55-95 hadn't been like this when the troop ship had left Krieg. He had been just like everyone else. But the Commissar said that he was still fit enough to fight - and you were getting increasingly unsure of that. You buried that worry deep, deep, deep in your belly and instead took 55-95 by his arm, shaking him gently.
"The Emperor says it's time to be the choosers of the dead, 55-95," you said, firmly.
"Choosers..." he whispered. "Yes. We're the choosers of the dead."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Do you hear the voices too?"
You were about to reprimand him...but then you heard them. A voice was coming from your micro-bead, on a low, hissy, grainy volume. Your finger went to your microbead - about to turn it up, in case it was orders. But then a shout came from the nearest sergeant, 31-32.
"Shut down all com equipment under pain of death! Immediately! Shut down all com equipment!"
Your hand went to the microbead - but before you could pull it out, the whispering voice got loud enough to make out: "...fallen, and soon, the Imperium too will fall. You will not be saved by the Emperor, for he rots in-"
You dropped the bead on the ground and smashed it under your heel - and you weren't the only one. Crunching sounds came from across the camp, while a tech-priest hurried by, shouting. "No! Don't smash...ah, by the blessed spirits of the Omnisiah, don't smash them, we don't have any more of those!" he said, hurrying past, like a man who had had his favorite boots stolen. As he left, you swung your pack on over your back.
"Lets find the sergeant," you said.
"...yes..." 55-95 said. "Do you think-"
"It was lies, 55," you said, firmly. "The Emperor is all that speaks true, not that filth. Got it?"
55-95 nodded.
Fit to fight.
Right.
As you found your sergeant, 39-40, and the rest of your squad, the whole regiment had managed to form up and the tech-priests were gathering up the microbeads that no one had smashed. The Commander had found a box to stand on, and she shouted. "As our communications are impacted by the tech-heresy that the enemy are broadcasting, I will need volunteers to run communications between other units in detached duty."
You trembled. You immediately wanted to thrust your hand up - volunteering was next to godliness, after all.
But you were a medic. Would the Commander even notice your glove if you raised it? Touched, as you were, by sin?
You kept your hand down and quivered slightly. But you were a medic. Not a courier. It'd be...wrong to try and cleanse yourself of sin anyway short of death. Your eyes flicked beneath your gas-mask to 55-95, but he was just ducking his head, nodding to something only he could hear. You sighed, feeling the counterpressure, and slid your finger along the wrist of your glove.
The platoon mounted up and divided into squads. Your sergeant, 39-40, and the rest of your ten man squad were precisely where you had waited. None of the others talked to you - but they did talk to one another.
"Did you know that they were trying to get into the bunker right up to when the sky fell?" 12-12 was saying, her voice incredulous. "Why?"
"Wait, the civilians?" 8-81 asked, shifting his lances in his container.
"Yeah," 12-12 said.
"The civilians were trying to get into the bunker? Were they on the approved list?" 8-81 asked.
"No, that's the thing that got me so confused," 12-12 said. "I wasn't on guard duty. But I saw three of those Cadians came back and one of them shot herself. So, maybe there was a mixup?"
"She shot herself?" 7-7 piped in.
You slung your saddle over Gitta's back, wishing you could join in - you had a theory about the strange events, but...
"I didn't think Cadians would be so wasteful." 7-7 said, shaking her head. "Wait, maybe it was an execution - but she was a skilled soldier, so they let her take her own life? As...a reward? Like 01-01."
You all considered that. The legendary 01-01, the first true Kriger. There were so many stories about him that they had to be confabulations, or assigned from other Kriegers. But since being famous was...in and of itself, something you had to shy away from - even if everyone wanted to do things that would make you famous - it really worked to have 01-01. What better honor, to do something so grand that 01-01 did it when the next crop rose from Krieg and were marched to war? The idea made you happy. Then it made you want to snap your wrist again. Since when had 01-01 bandaged a wound or injected a...a...an antibiotic unguent?
"Maybe-" you started. "Maybe the-"
"No, she seemed...upset, like she hadn't gotten to die," 12-12 said, looking at 7-7 and 8-81, over your head. You started to scramble into your saddle.
"Do you think the civilians wanted to get in...despite not being on the approved list?" 8-81 asked, his voice just a bit nervous.
12-12, 7-7, 8-81 and even 55-95 all stood very still at that moment.
You had the insane urge to say: Well, yeah, I know how they felt.
You couldn't take it, at times like this, being...you. It was easier during flights, when there were other corpsman, or when you were on the navy. Everyone there was awash in sin, you could pray and do penance together! But here, you were alone - and you wanted to fling yourself at the others, and scrabble at them until they...they...they just...
You snapped your glove, once, twice, three times.
"No, this world hadn't fallen to heresy," 12-12 said, shaking her head.
"It must have been a mixup," 7-7 said, nodding. "And that's why the Cadian was executed. She messed something up."
"That does make sense," 8-81 said, his voice somber. "Well, at least she gave her life for her fellows - that kind of thing keeps everyone more in line. More focused."
The rest of the fire team nodded, while the other half of the squad rode up and shifted into positions, the claws of their mounts scraping on metal. Sergeant 39-40's mount, Trudy, reared up and kicked her forelegs, then settled down as 39-40 looked at the lot of you. "Why is it that the only one of you that's on her mount is the damned medic?" he snapped.
The others didn't apologize, but they did flinch and scramble up onto their horses.
You settled into place - beside 7-7 and slightly ahead of 55-95. You had the badge of shame on - the bright white and red armband that marked you as a medic - and as you settled, Gitta turned and restively bumped her head against 7-7's mount, Otto. Otto let out a muffled snort and click, and 7-7 snapped her head around. "Keep your beast under control, medic," she snapped.
"Leave her alone," 12-12 said, her voice firm.
You felt a strange twinge in your chest.
"But she-"
"No one chooses to be a medic, nor lancer, nor officer," 12-12 said, firmly. "Even 01-01 didn't choose his fate. The only people who choose, who can choose, are the dead and the Emperor. There's no...special sauce that makes you a medic. It's all what the cogitation machines spit out when you reach your designation day. To think that she's worse than you because she was given a medic designation? That's the first step on thinking you are special because you got assigned a lancer's place."
7-7 was quiet.
12-12 was so wise. You ducked your head a bit. You didn't deserve those words.
Every Kriger was born the same, and they all wished to die the same...but...
The klaxon alert rang out and the door started to truly move. It swung down with a ponderous slowness, wide enough, large enough, that the entire regiment could ride across it. The smeary, orange-brown sunlight, filtered through pals of smoke, started to spill in, transforming the comforting sterility of the white lights within the bunker into something dreadful. Then the trumpets began to flare, the flags lifted, and the first line of cavalry rode out - their mounts climbing the ramp up with ease, then plunging down into the debris and rubble. Sergeant 39-40 lifted his chain saber and then wheeled off to the left, following his directions and objectives. You rode in formation, and for a moment your mood began to lift.
There was a glory, coming out of that bunker - a wave of brown and silver, of flashing sabers and lifted lances. The Word Bearer starship remained hovering in the distance - and artillery was beginning to bloom and thunder in the distance. Then the chaotic terrain that surrounded the bunker swept up, folding around you. Gitta leaped and surged under you and you clung to the reigns, leaning forward to press your own slender weight to her. The power between your thighs was intoxicating - and you wanted to whoop and cheer. But you kept your jaw tight and locked, and a wild intensity burned inside of you.
The Emperor was with you today! He was!
The Sergeant lifted one hand and slowed to a canter. Sounds of las-fire and crackling booms were echoing from up the line - other elements had made contact. But in this wild chaos, there was no chances for a mass charge. So be it. You had been through the same basic training and knew in situations like this, rough riders were to split into small units, find targets of opportunity, strike, wheel away. It was a trench fight, but spread to vast scale by the speed of a mount and the sprawl of a planetary battlefield.
The Sargant's hand signs flashed: ten, ten, ten, infantry, two, armor.
You nodded. Your fireteam was going to charge the tank, while Sergeant was going to lead the second to cut an opening. That meant you had to wait, nervously, as the second fireteam bunched around the Sergeant. 12-12 drew her lance - affixed as it was with a heavy, armor piercing explosive charge.
You reached down to grab your lance - but then a hand grabbed yours.
7-7 leaned in, her voice hissing. "Don't you have something important to do, medic?"
---
[ ] ...she's right. Keep ready to staunch wounds.
[ ] Draw your lance silently while glaring at her.
[ ] write in
You looked right into her goggles. "Are you wounded, 7-7?" you asked. "Do you wish to break off and receive treatment?"
Your lips were tight behind the mask.
7-7 watched you and you could read the tiny slump in her shoulders, the shifting of her position in her saddle. Even her horse, Lukas, could feel it - he pawed at the ground, leaving black furrows in earth. Then she looked away, muttering under her breath. "Merde!"
You breathed out, then whispered to 55-92. "Stick to me, just like we trained."
"Elan, yes. Boldness. Fearless. Bravery. Death." 55-92's voice had a faintly sing song edge to it.
You shifted in your saddle.
Then your Sergeant gave the word - a fierce jerk of his hand. The second fireteam rode forward, thundering over the ridge. You looked to 12-12, your fireteam leader. She waited a beat...then kneed her mount. You kneed Gitta and she leaped forward, with 55-92 sticking right to your flank. You tugged one of the lances out of your riding saddle, holding it under handed, your heart in your throat. You crested the ridge and saw that the battle was already a confused, chaotic mess. Sounds hammered into your ears, and sights seared across your goggles.
Lasbolts - illuminated by the smoke, drawing sizzling patterns through the air - streaked and slammed into the ridgeline you were clearing. You saw several hit the Sergeant, some hit 7-7, some hit 48-88, the man who rode beside 7-7. 7-7 twisted and squirmed, her armor hissing and bubbling, but her comrade staggered as his shoulder-pad exploded with a flare of red light. But still he rode on. The enemy were fanned around a heavy, snarling beast of a tank. It had a blunt turret on the roof, long and thin, and a pair of sponson mounted heavy bolters - it was like a Lemun Russ, but...wrong. May be it was perverted by Chaos? It was painted in Word Bearer colors, you could tell that much.
12-12, brave and resolute and skilled, charged forward, lance held overhanded. It was less important to add force to the blow, more important to get the target and then ride away. She thrust and the tip of her lance exploded against the side of the tank with a flash of orange light and spray of molten metal. She wheeled her mount away, and 7-7 came up as well - her lance thrusting home against the side of the turret. Both impacts scored the tank, leaving smoldering holes...but they didn't kill it. Instead, the tank started to back away, treads throwing up muck and mud and mire.
The heavy bolter swung around - and opened up with a hammering roar. 7-7's mount reared as explosions bloomed around her, but then you saw 12-12.
Her arm exploded in a spray of blood and bone.
She wobbled, her mask knocked slightly off. Then she fell off her mount and into the muck.
Your heart leaped in your throat. You expected to feel joy for her - that wound was fatal, your manuals said.
Instead, you just felt sick. You wanted to throw up, but you clenched back the bile.
The sergeant's mount leaped over 12-12's body, while her beast went running back to your lines, as had been trained. The sergeant thrust and his lance swept towards the tank, but it jinked suddenly, twisting to the side with a rumbling roar - and muck sprayed into his face from one of the treads. The sergeant waived off.
All this had taken the same time it took for you to clear the ridge.
The tank loomed, so large. And there were so many heretics - and they wore such oddly familiar clothes. Tattered civilian rags, in cuts and styles you had seen weeks, months before, in gardens, as you had tried to follow your Comissar's order to take a walk and relax a little. They glared at you with hatred.
What had Chaos promised them?
You didn't know. You couldn't understand.
12-12 was dead.
--- What do you do?
[ ] Charge the tank's side.
[ ] try and wheel around and come at it from behind.
[ ] Go for 44-88, he was wounded and, unlike 12-12, can be saved [ ] Run. Why are you here? What are you doing here!?
[ ] Write In
They ride up, Sergeant 39-40 takes 2 and 2 damage from a truly doleful spray of lasgun fire, but then 7-7 takes 5 and 3 damage from her shots, taking her down to 2 wounds. However, 7-7's cohort, 48-88, takes a wound.
12-12 charges the tank and smashes the hull - taking it to 39 wounds
7-7 charges the tank, also gets a hit and drops it to 29 wounds.
Then the tank goes. It reverses and then fires its bolters at 12-12 and 7-7, getting 4 DOS and a miss. 12-12 fails her dodge! 12-12 takes 9, 11, and 14 wounds, the last two bringing her down to -5 and then -10. She's knocked off her horse and, had her lance been intact, it would have blown. Instead, she's turned to red mist. RIP, 12-13.
Sergeant 39-40 uses the "get them" order, suceeding - everyone gets +4 damage - then he charges the tank as well. he misses and waives off as the tank backs away.
You kneed Gitta forward, heart hammering. You rushed up to where 48-88 was harrying a man with a saber and 7-7 was reaching down to grasp a new heavy lance. The other half of the squad was at work among the infantry, shouting their battle cries - "They shall not pass!" and "Glory and Death!" - but you couldn't see them through the swirling mass of bodies, the mud being kicked up, the smoke. You focused in on 48-88's shoulder: He had a nasty burn and had to be distracted from his sword work.
"Your arm!" you shouted.
"My what!?" he shouted.
A las bolt sizzled past your ear - and 7-7 jerked out of the way of it with a writhing jerk. It wasn't really dodging the shot - it was more that it hadn't remained on her long enough to harm her. She hacked down with her cutlass, shouting.
"Don't you have some-"
"Your arm!" You grabbed onto 48-88's arm. He hissed through his resperator as you slammed a medpatch over the burn, then injected stimm. The hiss of the injector was shockingly loud over the shouting and the squealing of tank-treads, the rattling of gunfire. You jerked the stimm out, then shoved him away.
"Go! Go!"
"Come, we have work to do!" 7-7 shouted. She wheeled her horse, her lance sweeping out as she twirled it, clearly excited to charge the tank again. Five men in the mud popped up, their makeshift armbands and civilian clothes so splattered with muck you hadn't even noticed them. Their lasguns rippled and a wave of ruby red light suffused 7-7. Her head burst into flames. Your resperator filtered out the burnt-stink of blazing rubber, and for a moment, you could see her hair escaping her hood and helmet. She lifted her arm, throwing it up to try and stop the blazing heat of it.
Her arm exploded. The bone snapped in half and flames swept over her body. Her screams were so loud and piercing, almost animal. SHe hit the ground, smoking, hissing. The mud put out the fires and she sobbed, dragging herself away as her mount stepped over, nosing at her with clear concern. "Not...not yet! Not yet!" 7-7 gasped out.
"They shall not pass!" 48-88 shouted. He kneed his horse forward, rushing towards the five men that had gunned down 7-7.
"Not yet!" 7-7 was shrieking, her head lifted up. You saw her respirator had sloughed off, revealing cracked and bleeding lips.
Heavy bolter fire ripped through the air. You snapped your head around.
The sergeant, calm as a vat, rode past the slowly turning sponson, bolts exploding behind him. His second lance was in his hand and he tossed it, overhanded, straight into the join between sponson and hull. The roar of the explosion silenced the bolter and ripped a gaping hole. Chaos cultists reeled within the vehicle, jerking away from the hole as the whole vehicle rocked on its heels.
You looked back down at 7-7, then at the hole.
The tank was open.
7-7 was sobbing.
--- What do you do?
[ ] Unsheathe your lance and charge!
[ ] Get off Gitta and help 7-7 [ ] Get the fuck out of here, now!
[ ] Write In
8-18 charges and lances the predator and hits the flank for 13 damage, bringing it down to 16 wounds.
Minion Mob One and Two open fire on 7-7 and the Sergeant! getting 5 hits and 1 hit! 7-7 dodges one! She takes 6, 0, 4, and 0 wounds, bringing her down to -4 and then -4. She gets all her hair burned off and takes 2 fatigue and is blinded for 3 rounds, then looses an arm. She takes enough fatigue to be outta it.
The sergeant takes 0 damage
7-7 remains out, while 48-88 attacks ineffectually with his saber
The Predator opens fire on the sergant and 8-18 with its heavy bolters and rolls remarkably poorly, getting ho hits.
The Sergeant draws his second lance, stabs and gets 23 damage, bringing the predator down to -7! and blows a hole in the side of the tank, reducing its armor by half!
The swirling madness of the moment crystalized into a shameful knot in your belly. But you had a duty.
Chooser of the living.
You swung off Gitta and dropped into the mud. You screamed at 55. "Kett!"
He rummaged in his pack, while past you, several Kreigers charged straight at the enemies firing at you. Las-bolts sizzled and puffed into the mud, spurting up superheated splatters of black glop, which smoked and steamed on your shoulders and greatcoat. Through the thin portholes of your respirator - the thing you'd seen your whole world through - you could see 7-7. She scrabbled at her mask, trying to keep her resperator on. "Morpha," you whispered, then injected her. A bolt whistled overhead and blew against a chunk of rockcrete jutting overhead. The painkiller caused 7-7 to lapse back into the muck. You could reach up and tug the mask off, but you looked aside. No. No. This was your duty.
You forced yourself to look at her face.
Her eyes were closed and her nose and cheeks and forehead all showed first and second degree burns. Bits of the durable plastiform that made up the resperator was burned into her skin. Minor injuries. Her lips and jaw had third degree burns, splitting her lips. Her arm was gone - the lasbolts had cooked it off her body. There was no place to apply the torniquet that 55 handed down to you. Damn. You applied a gauze to her arm, and the fabric - blessed as it was by the Machine Cult - tightened and formed around the jagged stump, then plumped out with a soft hiss you swore you could hear over the screaming battlefield.
She'd live. You attached a plasbag to her shoulder, tucked it in, then threaded the wires to her throat, before performing the Rite of Attenuation - adjusting the feeders so they'd be aligned with her humors. Once you had done so, you breathed a quiet prayer.
Behind you, something blew up. You jerked your head back and saw the Predator tank was burning merrily. Your squad rode around, formed up. You called out to 55. "Help me get her up onto Otto!"
55-95 was muttering quietly and you couldn't hear his monotone. For that, you thanked the Emperor. But as the two of you worked to get the weight of 7-7 over her mount, a sudden shrieking sound filled the air. Two Valkyrie fighter-bombers screamed by at nearly the height of a house. They whipped up and a rumble like the end of the world quivered through your feet. YOu shook your head, focusing on Gitta. Your mount was standing stolidly, and you saw that several lasbolts had scored her flank - revealing burned fur and her thick, subcutaneous armor plating. She didn't complain as you swung yourself up onto her, though you had never felt more furious in your life.
"Merde, Merde, Merde!" You muttered.
Sergeant 39-40 shouted, loudly enough even you heard him.
"To me, squad! To me!"
You kneed Gitta into motion, 55 reaching back to snag onto Otto's reigns, 7-7's mount moving obediently, even if he seemed like he wanted to chomp onto 55's glove. You got to the Sergeant, who shouted. "We're going back to rearm! Come!"
You nodded.
The squad rode back through the lines - past trenches being thrown up by Calixian natives. Scintillians, you were fairly sure. They were digging wildly and you had to admit, their fortifications looked relatively passable. They had put up enough heavy stubbers and las-cannons that the enemies were staying distant. Earthshakers had rolled out and were being entrenched with a wild abandon by civilians who had made the gold list. They were less good at their jobs. You ignored them as you rode down the bunker and into the aid station that had been established. Cots were already beginning to fill up, and when you reached it, you placed 7-7 on one, while the Sergeant led the rest of the squad to the quartermaster.
You were caught in a moment of stillness, without someone to care for, feeling the numb ringing in your ears.
Laying in a cot near you was a Cadian. his face was wrapped in gauze, but he was already reading a data slate. He lifted one flint gray eye to you, then smiled, wincing at the tugging gesture. "Kreiger! You brought one back alive. I thought you fella's didn't do that."
His Cadic accent was aggravatingly common - not like the refined form of Low Gothic spoken on Krieg. You lifted your head slightly. "That is a common misconception. It is a sin to die stupidly, like Foolish 13, who died from stepping on a mine against orks, without firing his weapon once."
The Cadian snorted, then laid back. As he did so, his tunic shifted and you noticed more bandages across his chest. You wondered how much morpha he had been dosed with.
"I didn't know Kreigers had stories..." he said, wistfully. "We only have stories now."
You nodded. "My world was destroyed too," you said. "But it returned, and it returned better than it was ever before, without faithlessness or-"
The Cadian shot you a look. He had one eye to use, and it was the most withering look you'd ever received, and you'd once let your bayonet rust. You went silent.
"I have work," you said.
"What's your name?" the Cadian asked.
You didn't know why, but that rankled you beyond any measure of it. It was easily the least insulting question you'd ever been fielded. But a Cadian of all people should know better. You squared your shoulders, nodding to yourself - your squad was returning with more lances. You turned back to the Cadian.
He was looking at you with a sad expression. Wondering, almost. Wondering what?
--- What do you say?
[ ] ...41-22
[ ] I don't have a name, I have a serial designation, just like you. But unlike Cadians we don't need to aggrandize ourselves with needless affectations to stand out.
[ ] What's yours?
[ ] Write In
You were quiet for a moment. Then, squaring your shoulders, you lifted your head. "Corpsman 41-22, of the 309th Krieg Cavalry, Death Riders." You were silent, then placed your palm on Gitta's flank. Her nose whuffed through her respirator with a whirr and a click. "My assigned mount is Gitta."
"You named that thing?" the Cadian asked, sounding faintly shocked. You scowled behind your mask, then turned away from him, stalking off with your hand on Gitta's reign.
Then, apologetically, you heard his voice.
"Kit."
You turned back, looking at him.
"My name's Kit. Christopher," he said, grinning a bit at you. His one eye was sad. "All we have to remember is each other. The planet broke first, remember?"
You were silent for a long moment, then nodded. Kit. The name felt...strangely heavy in your mind, like a stone in your gut or a lance in your arm. You'd forget it by the time you were back in the battlefield, and forget how strange it was to look into someone else's eye. Forbidden, almost. It had been the hardest part of training, when the instructors had laid out how other worlds lived. There were no dark chambers, no home masks, no fair masks, no wedding masks, there was just naked, shameful faces everywhere. The first time you had needed to look at another person - an Administratum scribe, inducting you aboard the Happy Grox - you had managed to keep your eyes on their feet. But later, fascination and grotesquery had won out, and you had been forced to look at lips and eyes and noses.
So much variation.
So much sin.
Maybe that was why you'd actually talked to K...the Cadian. His face was mostly covered in gauze. It was almost proper, even.
You came back to 55, who was brushing his hand along his mount's flank, whispering softly. "No. It's not true. He's not dying. He's not. He can't be. He can't be. He's not. He can't." He lifted his head. "Oh God Emperor, how can he die? He can't die. Oh no. No! No!" His hands scrabbled at the sides of his head.
"55...what are you...uh, talking about?" you asked.
"Close your eyes, think of Earth!" he spun to face you. "Do it. Do it, do it!"
You reached down. Your injector had morpha - you could make him sleep. It would be easy. It'd be very easy, in fact. You didn't know how, but the portholes of his gas mask seemed like they were widening. You shook your head a bit. "Keep your senses, Corpsman," you said, firmly. "You're making us look bad infront of the other regiments."
He was silent for a long moment. "Okay. Sorry."
You sighed, then saw the Sergeant riding back. Your squad had three holes in it - but there was no mention made of 12-13, 7-7, or the man from the other fire team, 99-01. Instead, the Sergeant looked at your two lances, then grunted. "Good," he said.
You turned your mask down, shame burning on your cheeks. "I..."
His hand reached down and he shook your shoulder, making your head jerk up.
"I've been a Sergeant for six years," he said. "This is my second battle. Being a medic is a heavy burden - but I've seen wars won because of their efforts. You are doing the God-Emperor's work, 41-22. Don't ever let the others think otherwise."
You gulped. "Six years? You're...not part of our batch?"
"NCOs never are," he said, sounding amused. "You don't learn in a vat, Corpsman. Now, on your Gitta. We have to ride."
You felt your resolve firming and your shoulders squaring. You nodded, then grabbed onto Gitta and swung up, mounting and settling. 55 sidled his beast next to yours, and the rest of the squad formed around the Sergeant. "We're on another tank hunt," he said. "The push is going well - enemy forces are falling back. They're all scum so far - it seems the Traitor Marines are hiding on the barge. As they are no true angels of death, Command says that they lack the courage of our own blessed champions - and will allow their foolish followers to die by the thousands to defend themselves. Lets find another tank and show them the meaning of Krieg!"
The rest of the squad nodded, and the Sergeant turned his mount - and with a thunder of claws, the squad was on their way again.
***
The sky overhead had gone dark - but the noise had gotten worse. The thumping of artillery, the distant rumbling, the rattling of gunshots, all of them were underlaying a voice that rang out, booming from the vast voidship that remained in the sky - an artificial star burning from her belly to keep her suspended in the air.
"It is by my hand that you will rise from the ashes of this world," a melodious voice crooned into the air. "For I am the redeemer of false words - the prophet of the true dawn. I am the Dark Apostle of all your desires. I am...Cartheniax. And I bring you the Word! The truth! The truth!"
"Damn all laudhailers," Sergeant 31-32 muttered under his breath as he took you behind a ridge. The horses were moving as quietly as they could, as if they knew as well as you did that in the dark, you had to move surely and with confidence and quiet. Quiet. 55 was shaking his head.
"No, no, no, no, stop the truth, I can't hear it, won't hear it, stop, stop, stop!"
The squad came to a thick ridge. Whump whump whump whump sounded from the other side - a pair of alternating autocannons, and the rumbling sounds of their distant explosions. And over it all, Cartheniax's voice continued. "The truth is that the Emperor...is dead. The light has faded from his eyes. Do you not wonder, oh poor benighted children, why your enslaved souls and mewling astropaths have all gone silent? Have you not wondered why your astronomicon has gone dark? Have you not wondered where the Navis Nobile have all scuttled off to, hiding in despair? The Emperor-"
"Ignore his lies," the Sergeant said.
You gulped and put your hand to your chest, whispering. "Emperor keep these falsehoods from my mind," you whispered. "Emperor see we all die in glory today, in his name. Emperor...protect." You ducked your head forward.
The planet broke before the guard did.
It was a good saying, even if it came from K...a Cadian.
Sergeant 31-32 gestured with one hand and the squad rode up, forming a rough chevron. He gestured twice to you and 55, and you realized...he was asking you to take your lance in hand. You lifted it up, excitement buzzing in your belly. You were a medic, but...then you saw why. There were a pair of heavy tanks, Predators, parked with their hull down and their barrels protruding just over another low hillock. Their backs faced your squad, and their infantry screen was arrayed ahead of and to the sides - somehow the Sergeant had led you around them in the dark and the chaos.
The Sergeant gestured and the entire squad burst into a gallop at once. With the noise of the battlefield, it wasn't a shock that almost no one noticed you until you were on the tanks. You thrust your lance - and the melta-tip going off kicked against your side like Gitta had decided you were annoying her. Your shoulder throbbed and your eyes were dazzled - and then your ears were hammered by a roaring gout of flame. More melta-tips were thrust into both tanks, each horse peeling to the side as their rider spun them away. You glanced back over your shoulder, grinning behind your battle mask.
The two tanks were burning - greasy smoke rising into the air, their infantry crying out in shock and terror. As if the exploding tanks had been a sign, bolters and lasbolts started to pepper them. The Sergeant led you away.
Overhead, the voice felt easier to ignore. "-the Imperium is no more. You fight for a corpse."
No. You were a corpse. But the Imperium would-
--- What interrupts you?
[ ] Ferocious artillery bombardment
[ ] Strafing run by Helltalon fighter bombers
[ ] One Traitor Legionaries
The Sergeant rolls a, I shit you not, nat 3 on his Command check to bolster 41's spirits. I hope I communicated that!
The squad rolls a collective stealth check, getting a total of 8 DOS versus 4 DOF and thus succeeding in their stealth
CHARGE for ambush!
The squad does 18, 24, 22 and 24 to one tank and 22, 25, 34, and damage to two predator tanks rear armor, taking one down to -33 and one down to -26 wounds. Guess what, they're dead!
"Hold!" Sergeant 31-32 lifted his gloved hand and the squad stopped on a drop, the mount's clawed toes digging into soft, slippery mud. Flickering flames crackled from some ruin you were riding past - inky black smoke spilling into the air. Your breather filtered it, like it always did. You paused, feeling a turn in your stomach...and then you saw the statue. It was tall and faintly blue, illuminated by flickering flames. It had curved horns that protruded up and away from a flat, featureless face and...gleaming eyes like a resperator and...and the backpack hummed and...
The figure was holding something. And the noise it made was overwhelming loud in a sudden, eerie silence.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
CLICK.
The statue's hand moved and closed the strange golden circle it held, and the ominous clicking noise stopped. It slid the circle of gold into a pouch strapped to its hip and stepped forward into the full light of the flames. The statue wasn't a statue.
Armor of blue and gold, with flame symbols painted along the chest and arm. A majestic headdress, rising between those horns. And held in his other hand was a glittering, blue-white blade.
"I'm seeking one of you," he said, his voice modulated and eloquent, speaking impeccable Low Gothic. "No name, you're very clever with that - but her hair is red, flame red. Her eyes are unto purest gold - perfectly forged in the heart of dying stars. She has a birthmark, in the shape of a small Aquilla. One might say she's been chosen."
Your blood went cold as ice. Then...no. It was impossible. It was impossible - there were other redheads in the army, you were sure of it.
Sergeant 39-40 reached down, drawing his lance, setting it. The rest of the Kreigers did likewise.
But what color are your eyes?
You didn't know. A mirror would be sin on sin.
But why do you feel the creeping dread in your gut?
"Ah..." The armored horror said, amused. "Kill the rest."
TH-SCREE-BOOM! TH-SCREE-BOOM! TH-SCREE-BOOM!
The sudden noise - like a bolter fused with a shrieking man on fire - jerked you and you shook your head, Gitta rearing and kicking nervously. The first bolt of purple light exploded from a nearby ridgeline - revealing in that hideous glow a second of the strange statues, a near perfect duplicate lit in garish purple. The bolt slammed into the Sergeant's chest. He jerked back...and then the second and third shell landed in and around him. A wave of brilliant, purple flames exploded outwards and he screamed, and 8-18 screamed, and so did 30-40 and 7-01, and so did their mounts. The lances exploded in their hands, in their holsters, and flesh and bone flew as the rain of horrible bolter shells obliterated all the squad, save for you, 55, 11-01 and the laagered 04-09.
"Lets not damage the subject," the melodious voice of the first statue said, and his hand lifted...and invisible hands closed around your arms, your legs. You kicked and screamed.
"Let me go! Let me go!" You struggled, but he lifted you into the air, your lance clung desperately in your arm. The strange being, the impossible statue...the Traitor Legionnaire, the Chaos Space Marine, the sorcerer, lifted his bolt pistol.
"You shall not-" 11-01 shouted, then charged forward.
The Chaos Sorcerer shot him in the chest. The bolt exploded. 55 and 04-09 screamed and reeled away, their bodies flickering and flaming, burned badly but not dead. Your legs kicked as the arms held you around your throat and your arms and your midsection - not strangling you, but also not letting you go.
The Sorcerer kept his hand held up, even as the other him started to saunter down the hillside. You didn't know how you knew it was another him and not just...not just...it was just knowledge, forcing itself into your head, cracks worming into your skull, you didn't want to know it, but you did, and you couldn't stop yourself. Your throat worked, trying to speak clearly, but all you could do was whisper. "Merde, merde, merde, merde!"
You still had your lance.
---
[ ] Throw the lance (-10 to hit from fear)
[ ] "Why me?"
[ ] "My eyes are blue!" (-10 to lie from fear)
[ ] Pray to the Emperor
[ ] Simply wait - wait for your chance to use the lance
[ ] Write In
...I rolled THREE fives in a row. The Traitor Sorcerer has a higher initiative bonus since he's using his intelligence
So, I was GOING to have him cast the really fun spell that duplicates you but A) the duplicate can't attack and B) that spell is Slaanesh only...so, instead, I repent 500 of his XP to get a major minion that represents his psionically created duplicate! Then said duplicate beat him for initiative, how annoying
44 on a semi-auto burst with two rounds of aiming and +20 for firing from surprise gets 4 DOS, which is enough for three hits on the Sergeant for chest, chest, left arm, doing 12, 13, 12 damage, with Blast (2) and Warp Weapon. So, 39-40 and his cohort and 8-18 and his cohort AND their mounts!
So, that's 8, 9, and 8 damage to the Sergeant, taking him down to 2, -7 and -15 wounds. His mount is taken down to 0 wounds. Meanwhile, 8-18 is brought down to 3, -6, -14 wounds. his mount is brought to 0 wounds. Their cohorts are taken to wounded, then dead. Also, their lances detonate and THAT one kills their mounts.
The Traitor Sorcerer then uses telekinesis to try and grapple you off your mount and into the air. He gets 1 DOS versus your 4 DOF, lifting you up and off Gitta! Oh no! Then he uses his other half action to fire a single shot at 11-01 and gets a hit. 11-01 fails to dodge, and takes 16 damage, bringing him down to 0 wounds and doing a righteous fury of 5, which knocks him prone, and unconcious and wounding 55 and his cohort (since he's in the blast range.)
You trembled and clenched your fists, kicking your legs, teeth skinning back. "You...You..."
"You are the one the Master of Fate has seen," he said. "The one that will truly break their spirits. The final straw, to break the grox's back. Something about your state, seeing you broken will break the Kriegers, if prepared properly." He chuckled. "I'm sure it will become clearer, once the counter-attack begins." He twitched his finger.
"You..." you whispered.
"My name, by the way, is Arkhen-Tut-Then," he said, sounding amused. "So you don't have to keep-"
"Shall not..." you managed to speak through quivering lips. "Pass."
"What?" He asked.
You lifted the lance that you held in your arm, your hand shaking, and threw.
The heavy tipped lance was not made for a long distance route, but the space marine seemed so utterly shocked that you had done anything at all that he stood perfectly still as the lance arced in the air, dropped like a stone, and slammed into his thigh. The star-bright flare of the melta tip triggering flashed and the ghostly hands that held you aloft vanished all at once. You dropped into the muck before the vile traitor as his legs flew out from under him and his belly slammed into the muck. He cried out in fury, his sword hissing and sparking in the mud. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his duplicate was half-stumped, grabbing onto a smoking thigh.
"You-" he snarled, pushing himself up with one hand. "Kriegers!"
He lifted his sword.
Gitta thundered forward with a whinny. Her legs bucked up and she kicked, just like her ancestors on Terra. Unlike her ancestors, when she raked her claws along his armored chest, there was a squeal of splitting metal and a spray of blood. The modulated voice of the traitor screamed out in a deep, bassy agony - and blood splashed onto the ground. But he was still alive - and his blade slashed out, and eldritch flames flashed and glittered along Gitta's body. The fires scorched and she reared back, kicking her legs. But she still lived.
"Damn you!" The Space Marine snarled - and you saw that his duplicate also had fallen, blood gushing from a rent in his armor. He lifted his hand and clenched - and a glowing portal seemed to appear behind him, sweeping around him...and he and his double were gone. You blinked, then scrambled to your feet, gasping.
"H-He's here, he's here..." 55 stammered, his body quivering as he sat on his mount. You looked around - and the rest of your squad was dead or gone. Rain began to drip onto your face and shoulders as you threw an arm around Gitta's shoulders, seeing that she was only lightly scorched, but his blade had slashed through her armored hide with ease, leaving a thin line of blood.
She nosed her respirator covered head against your shoulder, and you felt her warmth, her concern. You pressed your masked face against her, trembling from your head to your toes. What had...what had that man meant. You'd be the one to break them? No. The guard wasn't going to break.
A counter attack?
"W-What do we do?" 55 asked, looking around. "W-Where is...what do we do?"
You gulped, then stepped away from Gitta. "W-we..."
You paused.
There was where the traitor marine had fallen. There was the mud. And you saw, clearly despite the pattering rain that was coming down, a thick splatter of blood and footprints, leading away from the mud. Your brow furrowed. He had used a portal of some kind, sorcery to escape. Except your primer said that evil could delude minds as easily as it could twist souls.
There was a trail.
--- What do you do?
[ ] Return to base to report (-10 WP check)
[ ] Fix up 11-01, and send HIM back to base, then follow the trail (no WP check)
[ ] Write In
SPESS MAHRINE rolled a 76 to dodge your lance - and then re-rolled with an infamy point AND GOT A 96!!!!!!! *airhorns*
Gitta rolls a 24 to hit, striking his torso for 14 damage, pen 2, bringing it down to 2, which drops him to -5! He is suffering bloodloss and takes 1d10 toughness damage
The spess mahrine doesn't die of bloodloss, but he's badly wounded and slashes Gitta with his force sword! NO! Gitta rolls to dodge, fails! She takes 11 wounds, bringing her to 5, and they roll off, willpower to willpower! He fails, and she fails, so it is a stalemate! He's gonna be a petty dick and spend an infamy point to re-roll...and gets 1 DOS, dropping Gitta...to 1 wound!!!!!!!
Then he casts Compel and forces 41-22 to think he's invisible. He gets 6 DOS on his check and no PsyPhenom, and 41-22 gets a 3 DOF, so she thinks that is the case
then he exits the scene, bleeding profusely
27 on your awareness check, even with a -20 for darkness and rain, is barely a success
