Stukov went to fire the autogun and put this madness to an end, and yet as much as his mind and soul wanted, his body rebelled and remained frozen, shuddering subtly as he fought to force the finger of his trigger hand down enough to discharge the weapon, but no matter how close he got it wasn't enough. A grimace spread on his face as he forced his head far enough to see, in his perephrial vision, the one behind him that was apparently causing this. Gold mask, the bitch from the servo skull recording. So the two events were linked after all, couldn't call him surprised in that regard. The cloud of smoke revealing a daemonette certainly didn't help matters at all as he strained against the invisible bindings on him, the unseen chains tormenting him and preventing him from acting against his target so close in front of him, the strain would be noticed by Astrid as abnormal, since it suggested a sheer determination to never give in or buckle. The perfect kind of man that Chaos loved to break, when they could, but he would not submit lightly regardless of whatever they attempted to do. He could feel the strain was not doing him any favors, but that wasn't going to stop him until his body physically could not operate any further. Straining still, he watched the cultist leader order his men to execute him, and before the Daemonette stepped in, those near him would hear his muttered defiance. [color=9e0b0f][i]"Bold talk for a traitor that will be changing his robes later."[/i][/color]

Both obvious and subtle insinuations aside, when the Daemonette stepped in, Stukov only increased his straining against the unseen bindings. The warp spawned abomination loomed well over him, the damned creature's hand smearing the blood that had been running down one side of his face and interrupting the otherwise symmetrical lines of blood loss down his face. It defended the interference, claiming something that the Armsman refused to believe. He was no psyker, whatever damned lies the thing was spinning was none of his concern. A Daemon would always lie, just to get its way, and if that meant whatever liking it had taken was satiated, he had seen better men than himself break and crumble under their ministrations. He would not be going anywhere with this lot, and even as the daemon had pushed the autogun aside like chaff before a scythe, the tension and fight to raise the weapon at the cult leader was palpable, even obvious to those observing. The warp spawn asked for a name, moving ever closer, and he made a desperate ploy, tension loosening in a false surrender.

[color=9e0b0f][i]"My name...."[/i][/color]

His left arm dropped back, following the way the unseen chains had been pulling, falling to his side as he was apparently pulled upright, autogun's sling tugging the thing at an awkward angle, bayonet pointed towards the ceiling as it slipped off his shoulder, barely not falling out of his grasp but no obvious threat.

[color=9e0b0f][i]"...is Senior Armsman Alexei Stukov and I will not..."[/i][/color]

Within a split second his eyes went from their natural hues to the burning, sapphire blue that was fueled by sheer hatred and spite for the Warp spawned abomination and those that would consort willingly with such beings, and with the damn creature so close there was no avoiding his move, unaware of the unchecked powers surging forward, amplifying his actions and speed by magnitude, all a subconscious survival instinct to catch this Astrid off guard and as the autogun fell down, an echoing, keening howl backed fueled by the pain, suffering, and spite that welled up for the Warp and its agents, amplifying his latent powers. Coupled with the thin boundaries to the warp, the action could be comparable to a Banshee's Wail, with far more force and the closest to be affected would be the warp spawned freak and her handler, the renegade Psyker.

[color=9e0b0f][b]"SUBMIT"[/b][/color]

It was not a finished phrase as the word blasted outwards with warp power and Stukov wrenched with all his might, breaking the bindings enough for his hand to blur towards the autogun as the two grenades next to his left hand fell to the deck, his last flashbang and concussion grenade, both missing their pins as he yanked the bayonet blade off the autogun that now fell in slow motion, arm whipping not at the Daemonette but past her, launching the blade hurtling towards the cult leader Maltheus in the desperate last hope to at least cripple the heretic bastard. He could feel his vocal cords, damaged as they were, be torn asunder by the foreign forces, completely crippling any means of even whispering and coughing out what little he had already, and he kicked off towards the far wall. If things went well, the concussive force would slam him into the wall with enough force to kill him so he could not be taken alive. Second best, it bought the others time to hone in on the sudden noise and violence breaking out. At worse, he could try to force them to kill him by not submitting, he still had his pistol yet as the autogun tumbled out of reach.

The concussive force would throw him into the far wall with considerable force, cracking the carapace plate he wore and forcing him to wretch up splatters of blood onto the ground as he slid to the ground in a sitting position, amplifying the previous impacts with even more blunt trauma. He was alive, vision unharmed due to the shades he wore, the ones he had picked up before making landfall from the Inquisitor's armory. Reaching into his coat, he dragged the Naval Pistol out of it's holster, struggling as he lifted it and aimed at anything that so much as twitched and would fire, whether it was in defiance of the Daemon or the Psyker, or making a few last spiteful strikes against the cultists and their leader Maltheus. He had made his last ploy, for whatever good it would be, and now it was in the Emperor's hands to either accept him, or deliver him from Evil.