@Bright_Ops@Sophrus@Ollumhammersong@BCTheEntity@Eisenhorn

Hive World of Ephron Five - ca. 020.M31, The Great Scouring

The very chamber itself shook with the shock-waves of explosive bombardment, rockcrete powder and shards of jagged metal dropping onto the kneeling figure below with little noticeable affect; for days, weeks, months even, the huge individual had interred himself within the darkened chamber beneath the lowest levels of the Ephron Hive without food or drink or contact with the outside world, and there he had remained ever since. In this period, when the galaxy was being torn apart by brutal reprises from Loyalist and Traitor forces alike, one more person was largely ignored; this was one 'man' who should not have been.

He was Ar Khanata, a native of Colchis and an Astartes of the XVII Legion, the so-called 'Word Bearers', a Battle-Brother who had fought to bring worlds and entire systems into the fold of Imperial Compliance, but now sought only to record the dictates of his Primarch Lorgar and the deities of the dark pantheon he followed.

Spread all about him in heaps and scattered here and there, the room empty save for the materials - parchment, dataslates and auto-quills mostly - that he required to finish his abominable task, were the fractured segments of four tomes. Each tome was dedicated to one of the four Ruinous Powers, mere quarters of a scheme toward apotheosis that he would never be able to complete...they were coming for him.

How they had discovered his whereabouts he did not know, all the Dark Apostle did know was that the Loyalist Astartes, his former comrades-in-arms, would show him and the planet on which he had chosen to abide not the slightest hint of quarter or mercy. The sprawling Hive City would be cleansed and most probably re-populated with loyal Imperial citizens, possibly even families of Terran stock, families that would never support Chaos of even the idea of it. Then, ten-thousand years from now, they would no doubt rise to become the ruling overlords of Ephron V and the very name of Horus would be gone forever.

Muttering passes from the Book of Lorgar to himself, one large fist scraping at the skin of his scalp where he had taken to writing heretical verses in imitation of his daemonic Primarch.

"Changing....last of the loyal...tr-true..." he was beginning to lose his concentration, to lose his very mind, only his superhuman physiology having allowed him to contain the raw energies being directed at him from the Immaterium for this long, "mussst finisssh," his eyes began to twitch and blood to flow freely from his ears, blocking out the continuing sound of Imperial bombardment, "I am coming, masters, I am coming!" In one motion he sat bolt-upright, flinging open his arms in time for three figures to enter the chamber.

"Shoot him!" Roared one of the Astartes aggressors, the blue and white of the Ultramarines illuminated by what little light there was in the cell, "we cannot allow him to live." A quick gesture bought the other pair of Marines into the cell, a flamer held in the clutches of one, and without a word he unleashed a raging inferno into a room hardly big enough for the four of them.

"You are too late, you fools!" Spat the once-loyal warrior of darkness, even as the promethium-fuelled flames began to strip away his blackening flesh, "so it is written, so shall it be done, as the Gods are my witnesses."

Before long he was naught but a pile of ash, the room forever scorched black, sealed by the Ultramarines upon their leaving of the planet; yet they were too late, for the texts which the heretic had been writing had been sent out into the ether at the very last moment. Even now, others - psykers, traitors and the insane - would be reproducing his works...yes, Ar Khanata would live on.

---

Hive World of Ephron Five - Present Day

Time had passed as it always did, and the fifth planet of Ephron did become an Imperial asset once more, supplying regiments for the Imperial Guard at regular intervals and generally paying substantial tithes to the Imperium and - as the traitor had first predicted - those descendants of the Terran colonists, the famililies to resettle its population centres after the initial cleansing by the Ultramarines, were now the highest and mightiest on the face of the planet.

What had happened on the planet during the Great Scouring, as with most everything about and immediatly after the Horus Heresy, had been abolished from Imperial records - even the Planetary Governor had no idea that his world had once been infested with the taint of Chaos, or that a powerful servant of their's had written four of the most blasphemous texts formerly known to the Imperium of Man somewhere in this very city.

Over time they had managed to track down and destroy every copy...or so they believed.

A time of change was coming to the Hive World, a time when things would be turned upon there head and the highest would become the lowest, when the pauper would become a king, and when the Corpse-Emperor would know the wrath of a planet in which the seed of heresy had been planted ten-thousand years ago.

When all four are bought as one, when all are bought together, there shall be no force in this realm of mortal man that can stop them from ascending to greatness - blood shall flow, lust shall ensnare, the weak shall grow sick and die, and change will come to all. O' weak and foolish servants of a false God, do you not see? You are as nothing, and to nothing you shall return, to pain, despair and torture for all eternity. The loyal and true shall inherit all.

In the dark depths of the Underhive, light was something to be feared. While the lights were operational to various degrees in the upper levels, once you got down far enough such systems had been broken for so long that some might have assumed that they had never been there in the first place. The only source of light that existed down here was fire and the powers that be had long ago made sure that those who lurked in the depths of the hive held a healthy fear of it.

A quick burst of burning death engulfed someone who was going to regret the last few moments of their life regretting the fact that they had never learned such an important lesson. While he couldn't smell the smoke or the scent of cooking flesh as screams howled through the echo prone tunnels around them through the breathing mask that covered his face, Johnathan couldn't help but smile wickedly to himself with satisfaction at a job well done. There was just something about watching the fire dance so beautifully that lit a spark in him that he had never really felt from anything else in his life and it was just so... breathtaking... every time he saw it playfully tease him with its display he felt his heart race so wildly...

A firm shaking of his shoulder broke the spell of his beloved enchantress. Muffling an annoyed groan, Johnathan turned away from the smoldering corpse as he got back to the task of following Jacob through the tunnels. There was an entrance way to somewhere safe for those that rejected the Emperor nearby and considering that the two of them were meant to be dead with the rest of their squad, the sooner they got into such a shelter, the better.

Izrah disembarked the rusting rouge trader ship, carrying a thick staff that he used as a walking stick. With each step he leaned heavily on the staff to support his weight, he was weak from trying to hide in his passenger quarters during the travel to the planet. He knew he would have infected the crew if he was allowed out among them for too long and had spent weeks confined to his quarters in a self made quarantine. While he cared little for the crew on board, he wanted to get to the planet unmolested by daemons in the warp. Though this meant he was half starved and desperately stir crazy, and his isolation had not helped his waning sanity.

Izrah was wrapped up in a thick and heavy robe, and between that and his staff he looked to be a very very old man but was hardly 35 yet. as his feet hit the level plane of the landing pad he looked out and observed the Hive. It was a towering monstrosity standing miles above him and, judging from the view he was probably several thousand feet off the surface and still in the highly lawless area of the hive. Though he was not as impressed compared to others disembarking because he was from a Hive city in his brief childhood before he was taken away by the Black Ship and remembered seeing the whole of the hive from the shuttle taking him away.

As he glanced around he noticed hive gangs watching passengers mill about and where ready to pounce if they noticed anything valuable. Izrah didnt have anything except for his old and dodgy las-pistol and his chaos warped brain, assuming those where valuable. As he watched the hive gangs he slowly realized that he was talking to himself, "... the flies and fungus descend on the corpses, consuming them and giving them over to the father N-" he cut himself off before he said the name of his patron. He was speaking quietly so it was unlikely that anyone overheard him but he was surprised at his mumbling. Without waiting to be shaken down by hive gangs or Arbites he left, still mumbling to himself, he couldn't stop it but he could stifle it so he just seemed to be a mad man from a lower part of the hive.

He was looking for a way to get into the deeper parts of the hive, The filth and pestilence in the lowest parts calling to him like a beacon, but the place was confusing to navigate and his weakness made the distances traveled difficult and slow. He had to eat, or steal the strength he needed from another. An ability he had not yet fully figured out, since his touch of the Nurgle plague he had not been able to heal others as he had before, what he could do now was leech the strength of others into himself, healing wounds and bolstering his strength. It was terribly inefficient, stealing the whole of someone's life and leaving a stinking and rapidly rotting corpse only to heal minor bruises and cuts.

"And his plague shall sweep across the Galaxy consuming all in its path, giving them the greatest gift of N-" he bit his tongue again, this had to stop. Before long he would sound like a deranged cultist, if he didn't already. While he was busy scolding himself he wandered into the territory of a Hive gang of little renown and only a danger to the tiny section of the city they occupied. The Gang was mostly young men and teens from the hab blocks on either side of the street trying to keep some of the more ruthless gangs, and mad men apparently, from their families. Izrah was yanked down into an alley, he yelped in surprise as a huge bruiser of a man shoved him into the darkness.

"AHHh! Leave me alone" he shouted, he had only been on the planet for maybe an hour and he was already being mugged, 'Damned hive worlds' he thought. The hulk of a man was joined by two smaller men, they looked like children in comparison but they where the right age to be drafted during the next tithe. The big one started at Izrah "Wot youz doin' in Death Skull terr'tory" he said. Izrah rolled his eyes, 'Wow, death skull. how original, and terrifying.' he thought to himself. He was in danger however, his little pistol wasn't reliable enough to bring down all three of them before they got their hands on him. Not to mention he was so weak he wasnt sure he could show off his talents. Izrah was becoming scared, searching for solutions to his problems and finding none.

"Go away!" he shouted again, something was wrong. His senses where being bombarded with input that didn't make sense. The scent of decay, the buzz of flies, his skin drying and dessicating, but there where none of these things happening. His control was slipping, he started to panic knowing a major loss in control could spell his demise."No, no, oh no" The three goons stepped back as they realized they had started trouble they where not prepared for. A blood vessel burst in Izrah's nose and a started a steady stream running down his mouth. The goons noticed the paint on the side of the buildings they where between discolor, plants that had grown up in the filth between the buildings whithered and blackened. The two smaller goons ran off, they had encountered a psyker and a crazy one at that so they ran for their lives. The big man had backed off but stood his ground thinking there was still a chance he could take the psyker, but he was especially dim witted.

The big man stepped forward and tried to grab at Izrah, The attempt startled Izrah pumping adrenaline into him. The adrenaline actually helped reassert control, but he had slipped closer to the immaterium and was being fueled by chaos more than he was used to."Fool" he said more calmly "Your life and body are forfiet" when he reached out and wrapped his frail hand around the big man's throat he also called on the power of Nurgle and tapped into his victim's life force. Izrah drew out the man's life force quickly, like a starving dog feeding. As he stole this strength he felt control reestablish itself and he could stand easier like he had grown in strength and eaten well. The man he was stealing from was dessicating before his eyes, the skin tightened and mummified while flies and beetles from near by where drawn to the power of Nurgle. "A gift from the Father Nurgle" he whispered at the corpse even while he was assaulted by carrion insects, but it was more in thanks to his Dark God for giving him the power and opportunity to heal and strengthen himself.

Once his dark deed was done he fled with new found strength trying to escape into the depths of the hive before Arbites or Inquisitorial agents started to track him down. He managed to decend into areas where power was a luxury of the few gang leaders who managed to jury rig something to steal from the upper areas, otherwise Izrah only had the light of fires and what little filtered in from upper levels to navigate by, he knew that he had to get a light source of some kind before he descended any deeper into the hive. However the residents of this level knew Izrah, or knew his kind. A wandering mad man talking to himself. He even ran across several other truly insane, but they rambled on about the Emperor or some local diety rather than the gifts of Nurgle.

Darran's first patient for the day had arrived in his office, a plain affair with minimal decoration in spite of the funds he had available to him. It was the Countess del Arheidt again. She'd been one of his earliest patients, after his first foray into surgery for the sake of modification rather than saving life, and one of the more frequent attendees of his services. To many, she was naught but beautiful, absolutely stunning even, possessed of flawless pale skin, and gorgeous red hair, and a figure to kill for; to Darran, she was plastic in form, albeit not literally. Each surgical nick, every spot he'd touched up here and odd feature he'd put in there, all were easily located by his quick and familiar eye.

'Good morning, Darran! And how are we today?' the Countess asked.

'Just fine, thank you, my lady,' Darran responded, flashing a smile, 'but I should really be asking you that question. How long has it been, a couple of months? Are you sure you aren't burning through your funds too quickly?' It was best, he found, to keep pretending he cared about long-term customers personally. He was good at that.

'Oh, trust me, my funds are still plentiful,' she shot back, grinning in her turn in a manner that others would consider sultry. 'Certainly more than enough for what I've got in mind today, especially considering the advance payment...'

'And pray tell, what did you have in mind?' Darran asked, the door to his room closing automatically, and the security pict-recorder surveying the scene recording slightly modified visual and aural data, indicating no particular misdemeanour on either of their parts. Others were more subtle about their true desires. The Countess was not.

'Well, my dear,' she murmured, leaning in close, 'I've been feeling a bit pressured by some of my more, shall we say, aggressive rivals... I was hoping you might be able to fashion me something for my own defense, just in case I require it.' Of course, what she meant by that was "people are getting too close to figuring out my allegiance to Chaos, and I need a way to kill them if necessary". Not that a weapon as simple as a pistol wouldn't do the job, but apparently, this would be more appropriate for the wiles of the Prince of Pleasure. And who was he to deny her that? Only a surgeon.

'What were you thinking, then?'

'Well, the human ribcage is quite an interesting structure, isn't it? The lower bones, if you ask me, seem almost to be formed like spikes... I imagine six of those, around my right forearm, ought to suffice. Much sharper than usual, naturally.'

'Retractable?'

'Naturally!' the Countess uttered, seemingly a bit shocked. 'I'm not a fool, that I'd rather reveal myself than continue in the shadows. Besides, the pain that forcing them to extend out of my very flesh would inflict... mmhmmhmmm... well, it's certainly a tantalising thought, let's say.'

'Likewise that of impaling your foes, I imagine. Follow me, my fair lady,' Darran concluded, standing from behind his desk - a rare wood on this planet, as it happened, one of the few indicators of significant funds on his part - and heading out through the door the Countess had entered from. A few short minutes later had led them to Darran's operation room, with del Arheidt stripped and reclothed in a surgical gown beforehand (though despite her insisting that they had time, Darran did turn down her sexual advances in the process), and Darran's hands, face, and surgical tools sterilised and appropriately covered where necessary. With all that said and done, Darran had the noblewoman place her arm into a clamp, holding the limb in place at the wrist in order to keep it steady. It remained as tight as it needed to be, despite her requests for it to be tightened just a little bit more.

'Well,' she murmured, twice-rebuked now, 'do you think you could... perhaps perform the surgery without anaesthetic? I can only imagine how unique being awake whilst you're being operated upon is...' Her breathing noticeably increased at the thought, and yet whilst it was presumably intensely erotic for her, Darran could only stare at her with a mild mixture of annoyance and confusion, his artificial limbs unfolding from behind his back, in particular an extending arm connecting to a pipe of the anaesthetic in particular, complete with needle.

'But then you'd move around,' he countered. Not willing to waste further time on this argument, he inserted the needle into the woman's neck, the drug passing into her system and knocking her unconscious within seconds. With the patient out cold, he began the process.

Step one: cut away flesh from the operating area. Multiple tiny monofilament knives inserted themselves into her flesh just below her wrist joint, first cutting a circle around, and then in straight lines downward, around the major blood vessels where necessary, before pulling the muscle away to reveal the bone beneath.

Step two: acquire sample of operant tissue, and use it as the base for the implant. A hollow drillbit inserted itself into the bone beneath the wrist, creating a tiny channel down to the center before drawing out a plug of the substances it had cut through. The drill promptly pressed into a device at the side of the bed- one that Darran had yet to figure out a way to miniaturise suitably for attachment to his body- along with six pins to form a mind-impulse link. In his head, he brought to mind the form desired of his artifice, a number of curved points that would remain hidden within the arm when retracted, and would move out past the tip of a held knife when extended, and all extremely sharp at their tips... though perhaps the bones themselves ought to be serrated on either side, as if they were blades? Since they were intended for combat, after all. Once the design was finalised, the machine beeped once, before stem cells began to bubble within, forming the structures for the individual blades as needed.

Step three: rebuild the muscle and nerve structures in the forearm to accept new implants, and control extension and retraction. This was a simpler matter: spindle-thin actuators extended from one of Darran's arms, each able to manipulate individual threads of muscle and nerve, whilst miniature optics scanned each in detail to determine exactly how it functioned. Threads were split, realigned, spliced, and overall moulded to form. By the time the bone blades were complete, what I had seemed to be quite sufficient.

Step four: attach the new implants, ensure they work as intended. A simple enough procedure. Same process as before, only with direct connection to the implants themselves. Their arrangement was such that once the flesh was fully restored, the arm would appear barely different from its unaltered counterpart, yet testing via electrical current showed that the blades would emerge quite forcefully, one set of muscles forcing them out, and the paired set drawing them back in. Which would be necessary, of course, to properly unsheath themselves from within the Countess' arm.

Step five: restore the cut away flesh. A matter of realigning the meat in its former position and fusing it back together, albeit with newly-cut and moulded channels to ensure extension and retraction would not be too ungainly. He liked having a consistent source of income more than he liked fulfilling the desires of his customers to suffer, after all.

And like that, the job was completed to Darren's exacting standards, and in the span of a mere hour no less. Removing the needle from the Countess' neck, Darran walked out of the operation room to clean his tools before retracting them back into his body. The drill in particular was always a bit fiddly, depending on how much material was still stuck inside it. He ought to figure out a way for the mechanical objects to clean themselves, perhaps an internalised form of the process he used at the moment...

He returned to the sight of the Countess, again nudified, but also with a glazed look on her face. Most likely caused by the bone weaponry extending out of her wrist, dripping a few small puddles of blood on the floor.

'My lady, it's good to see you're up and about,' Darran began, as charming as ever. 'I was going to suggest you allow some time before first extending those blades of yours, but... well, I suppose the warning is slightly moot, considering your circumstances.'

'You know, Darran,' the Countess replied, unsteadily pacing toward him, though unusually calm in tone, 'I did always like your charm. And your appearance. And I don't think it's right that somebody with such allegiances as yours has no dealings in the more sensual side of His blessings, after all...'

'Countess, with all due respect, I am not sleeping with you. In case you're inclined to attack me for the right, I remind you that I can fairly readily cut open a vital blood vessel with but a moment's notice.'

'And I remind you, doctor, that I am a woman of high standing amongst this world's inhabitants. And somebody possessed of many and varied charms and wiles.'

It did seem odd for a moment that she chose to retract the bone blades as she drew nearer to Darran. Less so when, seemingly from out of nowhere behind her, she drew out a gun and placed it just beneath Darran's chin.

'Oh, so you do have a pistol on you,' he mused. 'I wondered about that... only a stubber, though?'

'You understand that its usual positioning isn't exactly accessible to me. It's more of a self-defense measure when a lover is off-guard and thinks the same of me,' she explained, 'though in this case, the situation is somewhat different. Now, I can put it back where it came from, with a smoking and bloody barrel, or you can replace it with... yourself.'

'I do have other patients scheduled.'

'For when?'

'...not for the next couple of hours, I suppose.' And at the end of the day, he considered, sexual pleasure was a better option than mere death.

'Well, if you insist,' Darran yielded with a somewhat overdramatic shrug, 'though I must point out beforehand that, for instance, ending my life for a cheap thrill or offering to Him would be the equivalent of cutting out much greater thrills in the future. I shouldn't need to explain why. If you don't mind, my living quarters are but a short walk away? The benefits of a private practice, after all.' Mollified, the Countess put her weapon away with a smile, and beckoned for him to lead on, gathering her clothes from where they had been neatly positioned outside of the surgery proper. Apparently, she'd be making this walk in the buff, if only to excite herself, since there'd be nobody between point A and point B to observe other than her surgeon. Darran wondered whether that'd add to the upcoming experience enough to avoid harm on his part.

The attack was still very fresh in his mind, though unlike most, Ansgar did not consider that a bad thing. It was good to keep such things fresh, to not forget the slights of the past, lest they go unpunished. That was his reasoning, at any rate, though the urging on by the voices had certainly helped him get his act in gear. Though now he was likely a wanted man, even if details on who he was or anything beyond that was likely unknown. He wasn't stupid, he hadn't shared his name with any of the gangers that had swarmed the PDF post, and the only one to hear his name would have been that very certainly dead Lieutenant. Just because he should be alright did not mean he could wander aimlessly, out in the open for anyone to see. Rather, he had to take his options into consideration and plan it out from there, and for that to be done well, he needed a place to stop and think.

Bars were an option, considering the number of odd looks he had gotten so far and yet without any harassment. He'd likely be left alone, doubly so since he still had his autogun openly on his back. Arbites didn't come this deep into the hives without a good reason, and the odds of him crossing paths with a Raid were pretty damn slim. It also helped that it was hard to pick him out from the surroundings, chameleon blending in naturally with the surroundings, wearing said cloak tightly to minimize exposure. The hivers left him alone, despite being a foreign presence, not born or raised on this world at all. He'd come here as part of his job, and found himself squared off against the loyal Imperials now. Not that they were readily aware of that yet, but such things would come in good time. Bar would be the smart place to collect his thoughts, plan out his next actions. He couldn't just sit idle on his ass, waiting for retribution to finally catch up. Keep acting, keep ahead of it, and it wouldn't catch him, really made sense honestly.

Sure enough, he managed to extract information from some locals on a bar for the kind of folk that weren't on the friendly side with the Emperor fearing types, where he could find himself a drink in quiet so he could begin figuring out where he wanted to hit next. Another PDF hit so soon would be risky, he could target the Arbites perhaps, weaken the structural stability of the long arm that held it all together. He would need bolder or more insane bodies for that, however, but if he kicked out enough legs propping up the facade, the entire thing would come crashing down as easily as a stack of cards in a hurricane. So for this bar, deep in the lower level slums, did he intend to make his way towards. Right on the edge of where power stopped being commonplace, from the information extracted. There were key pillars of strength that needed kicked out to bring everything down into disorder, and he suspected either the Arbites or PDF would be the first major targets. But again, it would take planning, and bodies. The former he could do solo, the latter? He might need to do some grunt work to recruit enough bodies. He'd burn that bridge when he got to it, for now though, a bar and drinks awaited him.

Izrah wandered the streets in the depths of the hive for hours, and only had to run from a group of gangers once. However he did notice that he got many strange looks and quiet chats from most of the people he passed by. The implants in his head he presumed, he noticed very little cbernetics down here apart from a few incredibly crude appendage replacements on men that where presumably upper gang management. The attention he was getting started to unnerve him, rumors would circulate and any inquisitor worth his salt would pick up on it eventually. He needed to get off the street.

Izrah found a bar, it was a... quaint little establishment filled with haggard looking people who where drinking some vile looking concoction. However it was much quieter a place than he was expecting, although most of the crowd being at least double his own age. However there where a few who didnt appear to be local and where much younger than the rest, but they seemed to be uninterested in him. The establishment looking to be adequate to lay low for a while. He found a table in the rear of the room, mostly away from most people that was only dimly lit by a flickering candle. Izrah sat at the table with his hood drawn up to shroud his features and pushed the candle to the far end of the table, trying to be inconspicuous. Unfortunately he was not trained in stealth or infiltration and was rather obviously trying not to be seen.

Most of the Patrons took notice, though most of them did not give a second thought to him as they had seen plenty of people from off world or the upper parts of the hive try to hide in the depths of a hive. A few did make comment, one however caught Izrah's attention briefly (@Eisenhorn). He wasnt sure why, he wasn't much different from some of the other mercenary types. Izrah couldnt place why this man snagged his attention and it began to annoy him, he started staring at him intently though his face was still shrouded by shadow he made no efforts to disguise his study.

The crude knife only barely missed the flesh of Erika's stomach, but it still slashed and pulled at the meagre fabric covering her malnourished frame. She was already bleeding from a few slashes and cuts along her arms from this duel. Both her and her opponent carried pistols in their hands but both seemed loathe to use them. Both her and the larger man wore similar clothing and both wore skabby red scarves that served as the only means of uniform and affiliation identity in the underhive. Both were members of the Skarblades gang.

Another crowd had gathered around the fighting pit to watch and wagers of food and bullets were being traded back and forth. Erika had challenged this man publicly, and by the gangs own rules he could either respond and fight her in the pit to settle the matter once and for all, or be drummed out of the gang as a coward. He only had one choice, and unfortunately that choice decision was going to be his last.

Anger and hate fuelled the limbs and strength of both fighters. Once again Erika was hopelessly outclassed in terms of size and raw strength but she was faster and already had him bleeding from a few cuts as well.

They fought for nearly fifteen minutes, neither backing down as this duel could only end in the death of one of them. But where as her opponent fought for continued survival, Erika's motives were fuelled by pure unbridled fury and the need for revenge. She worked damned hard to make sure this fight was going to happen and she wasn't about to let it, her life and her recently earned reputation slip through her fingers....

******

Once again Erika found herself in the same gore soaked fighting pit as she did nearly three weeks ago. That day when she was literally thrown naked to the crowd and forced to fight for her life. That day she killed Damarak and inherited his place in the Skarblades and his property as her own. Since that day Erika's 'orientation' to the gang was a non stop fight for her life, or simply to prevent herself from being serial raped by those who wanted revenge for her killing their old comrade or simply wanting to dominate and test the new blood in the group.

She had already killed one man and fought off several others. What passed for officers in the Skarblades were making no effort to curb this behaviour and Erika quickly realized that they never would come to her aid in this regard. She would either prove herself strong enough to fend for herself or her new life in the Skarblades would be just as miserable and short as she first feared.

After her first.... incident only days after her fight. When she was jumped by four men and abused very, very thoroughly she made sure that it was never going to happen again. Steeling herself for the harsh reality of her new existence she had taken to the life of the Skarblades with heart, exerting enough of her strength to teach those around her that she wouldn't lay back and let herself get raped again. A few broken fingers and a slashed throat or two got that message along quickly enough to any others who tried. And she was already working her way through those first four and exacting her revenge in the only way she could. Luckily the officers of the Skarblades cared as little about intervening on the behalf of others as they did on behalf of her. So she had already killed one of those four men who abused her, Leaving him with his throat slit and his manhood severed and literally crushed into the dirt beneath her heel. Already the threats against her started to diminish. She made it clear with this second fight that she was going after each of them in turn. And she would do the same with any other man who dared lay a finger on her as they did.

Now the second man was facing the full brunt of the same hell-bitch fury that killed Damarak and the the other rapist. She screamed a hateful banshee's scream and managed to slip through his guard quickly enough to slam three inches of crude, lopsided iron straight into her unfortunate opponents knee. As he dropped to the ground in anguish Erika wasted little time whipping her stub pistol across her opponents face with such force it cracked his cheek bone and actually ruined his left eye, tearing it open and letting its clear juices leak all down his face.

Yanking her knife out she batted aside his one last clumsy attempt to defend himself, shooting his hand at the wrist as he attempted to aim his own pistol at her. Now battered bleeding and going into shock from bloodloss he revealed himself to be a most pitiful creature indeed.

Even Erika didn't cry or scream as she was raped by this man despite his cruelty during the act. But this man was streaming tears from his remaining eye and feebly trying to stem the tide of blood flowing from the jagged stump that was his right hand.

The voice in her head, the same one that originally promised her power in exchange for service had not come back. And with it came that familiar and heady rush of feeling and emotion that she remembered. She felt it before when she killed her first rapist, though not quite to the same degree as she sensed the voice was pleased that she had taken the initiative to kill the man and that she displayed his body to broadcast her victory. But still displeased that she did so via a less direct approach. She had killed him when he was alone, and from behind without giving him the chance to fight back or see her face. She sensed a dislike of such uneventful murder from the voice. It was this dissapointment that lead her to make this challenge more public. To force this second man to fight her himself face to face. And now that she had won she felt that voices whispered approval of her deed.

Already those gathered to watch the fight were throwing rocks and dirt at the dying man for having lost them their bets. Already a chant was being taken up to kill him and be done with it. Despite the wounded man's tears he seemed resigned to his fate, and Erika was a little impressed that he had not stooped to begging for his life or any degree of mercy. He fought and he lost... he knew what that meant for him.

The voice compelled her to end him quickly. To not let him expire from bloodloss or feint from shock. That there would be no power gained or message sent unless she actively killed him. Yielding to the will of the crowd and the strange compelling authority of the voice Erika raised her pistol and took her much deserved revenge.

The hatch closed behind them with a firm, final sounding snap.

Much to Johnathan's own disappointment, they had encountered no further resistance during their travel through the dark, narrow passages of the deeper lower hive. A missed opportunity to watch his mistress dance further... still, it was for the best. She deserved a much finer stage to perform on anyway, even if her light did shine brighter in the darkness without lesser lights to get in the way.

There were many paths that led up to the higher levels of the hive if you knew where to look; many of them had even started off as actual pathways and access tunnels that had been simply forgotten about over time by those in the upper hives but there were also a few... improvised pathways that had been created by knocking down walls, digging through floors and other activities that often risked the collapse of a structure or two. The route that Jacob was leading him down, according to the man himself, was an old ventilation tunnel that had been converted into a smuggling route for a bar that his cousin owned that he used to occasionally slip in... surplus supplies that no one would miss without bothering any of the watchful gangs or law enforcement.

Even with the mask covering his face and filtering the air he was breathing, Johnathan could tell that the air smelt stale and foul, the rungs of the access ladder they were climbing rusted from age but in much better condition then what they should have been in a centuries old abandoned tunnel; Almost like someone had made some repairs one or two decades back. It was dank, it was dark with only the flickering of his flamers light making the shadows dance to guide them and a fat man would have struggled to move in the space without some kind of oil to help them, but the two of them climbed in silence none the less with only the sounds of their boots on the metal rungs echoing in the dark to keep them company.

In the end through, they reached the top of the tunnel. A new hatch with a proper combination keypad lock was opened and while the light was dim it still hurt the eyes for a moment after the darkness that they had been traveling through before. While both of them were physically fit, they didn't deny themselves the chance to sit down and seal the hatch behind them in order to regain their strength and rest their limbs after the climb.

The two former PDF members sat quietly in what appeared to be a storeroom for what had to be a bar, but their priorities were set; Catch their breaths first, then go and have a word with the owner.

In the end, Darran had avoided his demise or any other untowardness by keeping his surgical blades trained on the repositioned muscles in the Countess' forearm throughout their interaction. Were he to cut specific structures, something he could handily do in his death throes if necessary, he'd not only force her blades out, but render them unable to retract to boot. She'd be exposed amongst her peers for the mutant she appeared to be, unable to find somebody to fix the issue without leaving Darran's quarters, and that was unacceptable to her.

Aside from that, he decided to amend his earlier assessment: she was at least not unreasonable to look at, aside from some of the more intriguing protrusions and orifices she currently exhibited, feeling she was in safe company to do so. Bone-edged tentacles, feeler tendrils, more than a couple of constructs emulating the function (if not the form) of both sorts of genitalia, and in particular a sharp-toothed mouth above her left nipple that she was smoking with right now. The scent of the lho-stick she now pulled on through a boldly-decorated theatre length holder clearly smelled of something other than the usual components, something strong enough that others might have worried about the contact high. Darran was not strictly perturbed. He had ways of keeping that out of him.

'Tell me, doctor dear...' del Arheidt asked calmly, sucking something off of a dirtied finger as she spoke and interrupting Darran as he redressed. 'What's your opinion of fate?'

'Ah, fate. Aren't we all subject to its whims, at the end of the day?' he asked, smiling coolly. 'Or perhaps it is the opposite, and there is no such thing as predetermined destiny? Who knows?'

'I'm sure you've heard about the silly little men who seem to think the former is true,' the Countess lamented in response, sighing under her breath. 'The Architect of Fate who convinces us to try and play Corpse-God? All nonsense to me, of course, but I admit that unlike the other two, His followers do sometimes see use...'

At this, she stood, strutting toward Darran once again and sliding a hand down his still-bare chest. 'If you're sure you don't wish to partake further of me, then I have something for you before I go.' He felt a card press into his hand; when he took a look, it had the name of an establishment written and an image of a building drawn upon it, something that looked very much like a cheap shop or bar somewhere in the Lower Hive.

'I believe the man who gave this to me intended you to go there in... was it five day's time that you don't have any appointments scheduled?' she asked. Quickly, Darran recalled his work schedule, and realised that she was right, and that there was no reasonable way for her to know that without some form of outside help. His practice was strictly confidential, after all. Perhaps she'd figured it out through other means... or perhaps there was something happening that required his presence after all.

'Well, thank you kindly for the information, Countess,' Darran said, tucking the card into his trouser pocket as he began buttoning up his shirt. 'I suppose you'd like to set up another appointment soon?'

'I might drop in in four days. Not,' she added as she finally withdrew her augmentations and began to put her own clothing on, 'specifically for an appointment... I happened to enjoy the afterparty, you see, and it'd be a shame if you disappeared without leaving anything for me to remember you by.'

'Doing, I think you mean,' Darran smirked blithely. 'Maybe I'll oblige you just this once; it was a good time, after all.' In truth, he didn't care that much. Whether the Countess legitimately wanted their tryst to continue, or whether it was merely a ploy on her part to perform some horrendous misdeed upon him, he'd be able to deal with it when the time came. For now, he had more surgeries to address.

---

Five days came and went. With what the Countess likely believed were fond memories of her, Darran had made the long journey down from his quarters in the Spire, delving into the murky Lower Hive in search of the bar drawn upon that slip of card. It took long hours, a couple of precisely-severed finger tendons in order to disarm a thug who thought he could cleanly rob a rich man, and a newly-purchased stub pistol and ammo to defend himself with after that encounter, but Darran ultimately found the bar in question, a most unpleasant place compared to the usual fare of the Spire and Upper Hive. Not that he'd know much about that, but he could make educated guesses.

The people within didn't seem too pleasant either, he noted as he took a seat at a random table. Visually, none necessarily stuck out as being more important than any others either within or without, but to his understanding the people here were about as fond of the Emperor as the Spirers who asked for cosmetic operations miles above them. The most prominent, barely, were a robed man trying much too hard not to be seen, perhaps a priest of some form or another; and the oddly-dressed soldier the robed man was staring intently toward. And of course, Darran himself, very much dressed as a man who planned to perform surgery later that day. He didn't... but for some reason, he suspected he would have to anyway, whether or not the patient could pay up afterwards.

---

Bad bad time for a ganger to recognise you... Thenine was hurrying through the streets of the underhive in clothing far more modest than what she normally wore. It was one of her off days, awarded for a job well done, and she had just been mentally counting up the credits when one of her clients that she didn't kill had raised his ugly face up. Whilst the Mademoiselle took care of her girls, especially the ones who worked in multiple capacities, she couldn't make sure they were never in danger, so here she was.

At least both sides had been smart enough to not draw. The gangers had realised that shooting a girl wasn't conducive to a long lifespan, and she sure as hell wasn't going to start tussling with a gang. Combined with her diminuitive stature, generic clothing and abnormal speed... Well, she had bolted before the idiots had even realised she had tensed for a run, and had been halfway down the street before they had even shouted.

So, here she was, five and a half foot of alley cat running away from four gangers, her eyes searching out an escape. Obviously, the issue was complicated by the fact that she was, once again, the only person on the street with cat ears, but she spotted her opportunity, coming up fast in the form of a set of crossroads, one of which was incredibly narrow. Instead of running between them, she jumped up, angling herself so she could springboard off of a wall and land neatly on the other side, tucked out of the way and with the goons none the wiser.

As the group thundred by, she pulled up her hood and leant back even more, making herself as small a target as she possibly could. They didn't even give her a second glance, and she couldn't stop herself from chuckling loudly. A trick as old as Terra, and the idiots had fallen for it like they did every single time.

She pulled a packet of home-rolled lho sticks out of her pocket and struck a light, seeing that there was a bar nearby. A dirty, hole-in-the-wall shithole, but that was the best kind of bar when you were trying to not stick out like a sore thumb, the abhuman blowing out a cloud of thick-smelling smoke as she stepped inside.

Instead of taking a seat, she made herself small again and leant against the wall, making sure to curl her tail up and conceal it as much as possible. Standing still as she was, the only sign she was alive was the glow of her lho, and the occasional movement as she tapped ash away from herself, surveying the crowd.

At an establishment like this, where Arbites tended to execute rather than interrogate, she was hardly expecting a neat uniform group, but this was a right clusterfuck even by hive standards. Guys who stood like they were PDF, another military-looking guy, someone you'd expect to be on a street corner shaking his bowl and chanting about the corpse-Emperor, a surgeon who looked more off world than anything else... What had she stumbled into?

Governor-Colonel Maximillian Herbert Brutus Angus Von Stephan the Third – constantly reminding others, even in his official title, that he had once been in command of a regiment of the Guard – looked at the dataslate in his one gloved hand and allowed the smirk on his half-human face to spread across the half that could still smile and had lips to do so; the other half, the one made completely of metal, frozen always in a metallic grimace of iron and a baleful bionic eye, remained at odds and completely motionless.

“Tell me, Bagot,” he intoned in a voice that changed tone and pitch as he spoke, half of it emitted from a severely scarred throat, “what is today?”

Wilhelm Bagot, aide to the Governor-Colonel and all around sycophant, his slicked back hair as greasy as his very character, took a look at his own dataslate and giggled a reply, “today is purging day, my lord.”

“Just so, toady, just so!” Even his fractionally human voice could not contain the outright glee that he felt within his soul at the very mentioning of a purge – a tradition on Ephron Five that went back to the latter-most years of the Heresy, and one that had been retained ever since.

“Tell me then, what have we got planned for our beloved citizens today?”

“Well...several squads of Arbites have been sent into the Upperhive to gather-” he paused momentarily and gave a small cough, “to gather tax money for your lords treasury. A dozen more are converging into the Lower Hive, backed by vehicles and cyber-mastiffs; they are heading toward a particularly troublesome drinking spot where known felons are said to converge. It should be a simple case of walking in and arresting them.”

“And?”

“Proctor Waits wanted to lead several contingents into the Underhive itself, show the scum of the arse end of the Hive how Imperial justice tastes. To this end he has near forty men, all heavily armed and experienced, apparently there is a particularly nasty blood-cult on the loose, the 'Skarblades' they call themselves.”

“What fanciful names these gangers make for themselves! Ratskins, Deaths Heads, Turf Bruisers, Flesh Gougers...Skarblades.” Von Stephan shook his head at the idiocy, “well, lets allow Waits to make an example of them then, eh?”

“Yes indeed, lord.”

The two silenced themselves before breaking into quiet chuckles, their humour growing and growing, before both began to laugh quite vocally.

“Break out the wine, Bagot, I have a thirst on me.”

---

@Bright_Ops@Sophrus@Eisenhorn@BCTheEntity@Lady Selune

Arbitrator Emilia held her shotgun close to her body, the matted carapace armour making barely a sound as she and nearly thirty other Arbites closed in on a bar known as the 'Pointed Star' – a bar of lowlifes, smugglers and even a heretic from time to time. They had decided to walk from their vehicles some feet away in order not to spook the patrons, and thus far it seemed to have worked. Proctor Bolt, his commanding frame visible at the front of the column, held up his hand and motioned them to move with him.

Once close enough that he was certain none could escape, Bolt clenched his fist and stood upright from his half-crouched position, “now!” With a firm yell and a swing of his shotgun from side-to-side, he stepped into the bar, “stay where you are, you are all under arrest for crimes against the Imperium, do not move!”

---

@Ollumhammersong

The Taurox column, eight armoured vehicles in all, the Imperial Aquila clearly visible on there front and sides, rumbled through the morass of dross and grime that was the Underhive of Ephron Five. From the viewing slit of the foremost machine glared the ice-blue eyes of Proctor Waits, his hand opening and closing about the haft of his power maul with a regularity that was almost mechanical.

“You understand what you must do?” His smooth voice questioned the men behind him, “these bloodthirsty lunatics are to be given and shown no mercy, yes?”

“The Emperor wills it,” intoned the gathered squad, each unmoving in their seats except for their mouths.

“Good...these gangers are wily, but the Arbites are better.”

They rumbled on, and on, deeper into a chasm from whence many Arbites had not come back before.

In hindsight, trusting a known worshipper of Chaos to say anything useful was hardly a good idea. Even so, Darran had it in mind to go back up to the Spire and take apart the Countess del Arheidt quite literally for putting him in this situation, intentionally or not. That was, if he so much as survived this abrupt attack, let alone escaped the clutches of the Imperial aggressors who had chosen practically the hour he'd entered this bar to run a hit on it.

Good thing, then, that Darran was prepared in a way he might not have been if he was a surgeon alone. His job did rather expect him, after all, to maintain intense precision that could be immensely enhanced by internal modifications, but overclocked thought processes further helped him to consider a given situation as it arrived, if for some reason he was forced to handle a sudden emergency; likewise, if his ability to react to said situations was reduced, it could mean the difference between life and death for a patient; and customisable overlays within the cameras of some of his mechadendrites were simply icing on top of the cake, intended as reminders to render even more precisely his already-significant knowledge of anatomy. In this case, they were easily modified with a series of quick thoughts to render the expected path of any given projectile- the arc of projectiles, more likely- fired from the gun of the Adeptus Arbite who now declared everybody within a filthy criminal, along with any others who might enter.

...ironic, wasn't it, that his high treason might be discovered as a result of being mistaken for a petty crook? Darran might have laughed, if he had any ability to derive humour from situations.

Instead, he almost immediately flipped up the table he was at, but remained behind it for no more than a half-second before bolting toward the next table, flipping that one up without so much as pausing to stop behind it as he continued to charge toward the back room. They were made of wood, and not particularly well-made at that. They wouldn't stop a knife from going all the way through, let alone shotgun pellets. Sure enough, the first mass of shot missed him by centimeters according to the overlay, whilst the second was made as the Arbite fell for Darran's ploy, shredding the table yet failing to come close to Darran himself. By the time the third could be lined up against him, he was already through the doorway, and into a moment of relative safety for the time being amongst the various crates of alcohol and whatnot. Naturally, it would be temporary at best, but if he could find somebody to ally with before then... not that he trusted anybody down here to remain allies beyond this immediate convenience, but an ally of convenience was an ally nonetheless, so long as he deserted them before they could turn on him.

She'd just finished running from one band of thugs, and here she was running from another. She barely had enough time to take the lho-stick outside of her lips before the door burst open, and the surgeon type had sprinted out. Figuring that if she had already been accused of being a criminal and was being shot at, she might as well cement her criminality, she pulled out her gun. Said gun was a modified handcannon that had been stripped down and adjusted to absorb more recoil, and with neat little golden highlights along the barrel and handle, as well as the hammer and sights. With a quick prayer to Lady Luck, it bucked once, twice, three times in her hands, and one of the arbites grabbed their shoulders, shotguns turning to her very quickly.

Good job she was faster. Not than bullets or buckshot- but faster than arbites when it came to swinging their guns. She broke into a sprint, ears turning to the rattle of gunfire, the entire room now exploding with noise as other gangers pulled out weapons or bolted. The chaos was the perfect smokescreen, and she ducked behind a ganger holding an autogun, the stupid idiot catching a shotgun blast to the stomach for his troubles.

Bouncing off of the bar, she let off another two bullets, then darted out of the door, slamming face-first into the doctor. She managed to catch herself before she fell over completely, but stopped a second to catch her breath, leaning against the wall and pulling her coat closer to her. With no immediate threat of arbites, she took the time to reload, annoyed that she had forgotten her speedloader.

For half a moment, Darran felt as if he might actually be under attack by the... abhuman? He'd wholly admit he'd never seen an abhuman quite like this woman, who might even be a mutant... who had barely avoided knocking them both off their feet. To both their credits, they kept their feet, in the surgeon's case stepping to one side of the door in order to avoid another incident like that, but as the... "the woman", he decided upon for now, drew her coat closer to her body and began reloading her very large weapon, much larger than his own, he couldn't help but tilt his head.

'You're not seriously planning on fighting the Arbites, are you?' he asked, perplexed but nothing close to concerned, and certainly not so much as his voice might imply. They were essentially the be-all end-all amongst the lower echelons of the Hive, after all, short of a very well-armed Spirer coming down to hunt some gangs; trying to kill them was surely suicidal. But, if she was that dead-set upon trying, he wasn't exactly going to try and stop her...

Izrah nearly had a heart attack when the arbites kicked the door down, between the crash of the door and arbites shouting snapped him out of his trance. He then realized that there where several others in the bar that where not there earlier, and they where shooting at the officers. 'Great' he thought, 'probably going to die in the cross fire.' He needed to act, else he would be killed... or worse, captured. 'Im not a soldier. Im a medicae Psyker... what can i do.'

As soon as the thought crossed his mind there was a stab from an unknown source into the side of his head. 'DECAY' the word was not so much heard as stamped into his mind with the authority of a deity, a declaration of truth. He could rot small things like plants and transient materials, but how does that help... He noticed the wood making up the entry way. Maybe it would be enough.

He stood and threw his arms out at the entrance and reached for his power, it was always close, his infection made sure of that. As he reached for the power he felt himself talking.. no, shouting. damn it. "Pestilence shall snuff out every star!" He felt the vile energies in his mind like he had filled his skull with tar and sewage. The arbites where locked in the brief firefight and did not notice him shouting over the reports of gunfire and that he was in a dark corner out of their direct line of sight.

Above and around them the wood started to blacken and wood worms started writhing along the surface eating their way into the wood. It was a slower process that Izrah would have liked, He pushed his power harder and felt a vessel pop in his nose and fluid run down his face. It lacked the sharp metallic scent of blood and had a scent more akin to pus leaking from an infection. His power worked, one of the beams on the door cracked and fell into the door way, bashing an arbites out of the way into the bar, but trapping his friends outside for a few moments.

Izrah took the opportunity to run, hoping the stunned Arbites would be down for a little while as he made his escape out the back like the mutant and other person had. He got half way across the bar before the strain took its toll on him, he faltered mid step and began to fall. he was out cold before he hit the floor, a thin trail of bloodied pus leaking from his nose.

Time had passed in the under-hive since Erika painted the corroded metal floor of the gang's fighting pit with the brains of her former rapist. She wasn't sure how much time as it was a fairly meaningless concept to most underhivers. 'day to day' survival was hard to manage when there was no natural light or functioning chrono pieces to use as reference.

It was enough time for the skarblades to organize themselves again for another raid. It had been too long since a good fight was had and the gangers as a whole were sitting on a reserve of restless energy that threatened to spill into a larger inter-conflict if that energy wasn't given direction. So the gang was organizing beneath the gaze of their respective Skarleaders, Those merciless and callous men who served as the defacto leadership and lieutenants of the Skarblades. Each leading his own division of the gangs fighters. A petty aspiring warlord in their own rights.

Erika passed by the Gathering band to which the man she had earlier killed had belonged. She could feel the cold dagger-like glares in her back from the other members of the blood-band. These divisions were something of a source of pride to each ganger and Skarleaders constantly competed against each other to prove they lead the fiercest and strongest group to gain the favour of the Skarblades true leadership. That impossibly musclebound he-man who first offered Erika a place within the Skarblades seemed to be what passed for a warlord amongst the skarblades, and his strange aura of dread and black charisma kept even the most hardened and duplicitous ganger in line and far from thoughts of true insubordination. One could only ascend to the position of Skarleader with his permission, and all of those men seemed to exude a lesser, but similar aura of command and barely restrained violence that their warlord did. They all also sported similar brands and strange symbols and runes carved or burned somewhere on their flesh, as if they were officer stripes which in a strange way, that was perhaps the best way for Erika to describe and comprehend them.

By killing two of another division's numbers without retribution was starting to make them and their Skarleader look incapable and weak. While Erika's own Skarleader stood haughty and smug for having a woman with the blood of three slain men (all skarblades no less) underneath him. Her Skarleaders favour also granted her a degree of further protection from immediate retaliation on that front, Plus with the rallying to arms there was nothing her new enemies could do other than watch and wait for a future opportunity to deal with her. To attack her now would start a fight between both division's and throw this entire area into chaos and blushed before they had even moved out to attack.

The skarblades nameless warlord overlooked all the barely organized chaos. Everywhere his gaze fell gangers would shift uncomfortably and advert their eyes, Those that attempted to meet those eyes quickly found themselves so filled with dread and self-insignificance that they could barely maintain the visual link for more than a few meagre seconds. Only the Skarleaders themselves seemed to possess the stomach and willpower to meet and hold their leaders gaze and still maintain their masks of defiance and restrained anger.

Still barely dressed from the waste up the warlord dominated the entire atmosphere of the area despite the fact he was merely one man and standing several yards removed from the scurrying of his underlings. Gang fighters loaded poor quality bullets into bent munition clips while those crippled old and weak who served as the Skarblades unhappy slaves, too pathetic to even provide amusement in the fighting pit toiled to their miserable duties. Occasionally one would run afoul of a ganger for some perceived slight or another and be maimed further or outright killed for their transgression. Often this was followed by laughter or brawling as several men fought over whatever possessions and supplies the wretch was ferrying. A few weeks ago Erika might have been more appalled by the actions of this gang, which were callous in the extreme even by under-hive standards. But she was already numb to the idea of their cruelty, and unwilling to expend effort and tears for those slaves obviously incapable of taking care of themselves. Already she had grown incapable of giving two shits about those beneath her own station in the gang.

The mood in the air was thick with excitement and fear. This wasn't just another fight they were preparing for against another batch of under-hive ganger scum. This was going to be a proper bout of bloodshed! The adeptus arbites themselves were on their way. Specifically to fight the skarblades on their own turf. No one was sure exactly how their warlord knew this was going to happen. But none dared to question him or disobey his command to ready arms. This was the closest to an open state of warfare an under-hive gang could ever rally themselves into. Some were clearly afraid at the thought of the battle to come. Fighting gangers was one thing, but the arbiters were actual killers. Sure they could die like any man. But they always killed at least four times their number before they fell. With their fancy armour and their well-kept weapons. The only consolation to actually surviving a fight with an arbiter was scavenging the corpses afterwards Assuming you were on the winning side when the cancerous dust settled of course. Even Erika wasn't thrilled at the prospect of the fight to come but there was no way to avoid it without being executed by her own Skarleader.

Right now the gang was doing the only thing they could. Arming themselves and waiting. There were not words of inspiration from their glorious and terrifying leader. Only barked orders from the respective Skarleaders to separate and take positions. If the arbiters were going to fight on the skarblades own turf then the skarblades were going to work that advantage the every possible degree they could. Entire groups of fighters disappeared into the darkness of poorly lit or semi collapsed tunnels. What few truly heavy weapons and ordnance the gang had were either planted at choke points or positioned to be the first to open fire when the trucks appeared.

Erika was hiding beside a dozen others of her division. Pressed against a damp tunnel wall in near total darkness as she waited what seemed like an eternity for someone, anyone to make an appearance. All around her she heard the telltale sounds of nervous fingers fiddling with the grip of their blades and clubs or thumbing fire selectors and safeties of their firearms.

After a grueling perceived eternity there was finally a rumbling. It wasn't so much as heard but felt in the ground and the walls. The way puddles of green water rippled and half-broken light fixture sputtered. One fell down altogether. Crashing against the floor as the vibration broke its severely rusted screws holding it aloft.

Collectively every man in Erika's group sucked in a breath as the vibrations turned to distant noise and noise turned into the thunder of well tuned engines. Each man and woman held those breaths, waiting for the first of the crude explosives planted in one of the several possible tunnels leading to this hideout, to detonate and signal the ambush.

"What?" She looked up at him, ears flat as they normally were when she came out of a violent situation. "No, of course not. Do I look like I'm wearing carapace armour underneath this coat?" She shook her head as if the posho was stupid, which hey, if it came to the underhive, he probably was. "No, but arbites are humans, and humans don't like guns being shot at them. If I get them to duck for half a second, that's half a second that I can use to get away further." She finished reloading the gun, snapping the cylinder back with a flourish, and peered around the door, where a full-on firefight had started, the priest-looking fellow having collapsed onto the floor, liquid pooling around his face. Could he have been a psyker?

If so, he didn't seem to be a particularly powerful one, as she saw absolutely none of the arbites dead in a horrific fashion. A shame.

Darran frowned as if considering the cat woman's words, the sound of woodwork and masonry collapsing slightly in the background, then shrugged. He supposed her thinking made sense... but even so, why not simply run away whilst firing the weapon? Again, though, not that he was going to stop her. Better they kidnap the abhuman than the surgeon caught out in the wrong place at the wrong time, after all.

'I suppose whatever works for you, ma'am,' the surgeon agreed with a smile that he tried to make slightly nervous, 'though as for me, I think I'd rather just cut my losses and make my escape. That's understandable, right?' That said, he began moving out toward the back of the bar, drawing his own weapon more for the sake of self-defense than deterrence of the sort the woman had in mind. After all, if you were going to shoot at somebody, it had better be a killing shot.

...with a sigh of mild anger - feigned of course, but nonetheless reflecting on his poor decision - Darran did not leave the building, but instead returned to his prior position next to the cat person, taking his turn to glance around the doorway as he readied his weapon. Warp forsake him if he actually cared about anybody still in the bar area, but from the looks of things, it seemed like most of the havoc had actually died down. Or been killed, rather. Which meant he could perhaps try to save somebody who needed saving, which would put them in his debt in the future. Maybe the robed man lying unconscious on the floor. That'd certainly be something to consider.

He asked himself again whether it'd even be worth it, if he got himself shot or worse arrested by the Arbites. Technically, his very presence in the bar was already criminal, but did that matter if he didn't get caught? Surveys said "not in the least", and if there weren't that many around... just five Arbites, two with shotguns, three with more standard weapons, and shockingly enough none covering their faces entirely… if he aimed for the shotgunners first, and got in good hits to take them out, he might have a chance.

'Cover me,' he murmured to the abhuman, not that he needed or wanted her covering fire. As he stepped out, his mods performed the same acts of analysis as they had previously, automatically boosting the speed of his thoughts to render everything in slow motion, and overlaying the aiming paths of each individual weapon in the field, that he might step through and around their firing paths with minimal fuss... and more importantly, so that he could aim the weapon he'd purchased properly, given that he lacked training.

The first shot taken by the foe was sidestepped fairly easily. As Darran raised his weapon and fired it, directly at the unguarded mouth of one of the Arbites, he ducked beneath another weapon’s firing arc, then rolled to get out of the path of a shotgun blast that threatened to pass over him. As he stood, he aimed and fired at the face of another Arbite, this one bearing a shotgun. That made two down and three to go, and those guys weren’t making it easy either.

Running across the room to find more sturdy cover behind the bar proper, he took aim at a third Arbite’s mouth, only to be forced to duck and cover as the other shotgunner took aim and fired, barely avoiding hitting him as he hid behind the bar. Bah, that was a bad position to be in. If he couldn’t see the weapons, he couldn’t figure out where they were going to aim, and even extending a mechadendrite might give away his position as he scuttled along the length of his hiding spot. Perhaps he would appreciate some covering fire after all, if only to force the guards to stop shooting for just a moment.

@Bright_Ops@Sophrus@Eisenhorn@Ollumhammersong@Lady Selune