The whole waiting time had Tigranes' heart beating madly in his chest as if it would escape through his throat. What if they didn't accept him? What if his crime was judged too heinous for redemption? What if he hadn't volunteered fast enough? Suddenly the possibility of losing his only shot at redemption seemed all too real and all that Tigranes could do was recite the litany of St. Attal the Miner in silence to keep himself from panicking.

Then the guards came and Tigranes had never felt so relieved to be shouted at. He was in the Legion now, no matter what happened from this point on, at least he had managed to snatch this chance of redemption and salvation, as slim as it prove to be. For the first time in years he dared to hope.

The processing wasn't pleasant by any measure of the word. But Tigranes was still riding that wave of warm and fuzzy feelings that came when the hope of escaping this hellhole became a reality. And so he continued, dripping wet and shivering slightly due to the cold water as he approached the table with a quartermaster that was more machine than man by this point.

"Name and crime." The servitor asked in its mechanic monotone.

"Tigranes, heretical dealings and murder." The former miner replied promptly as he forced himself to stop fidgeting in his eagerness to get this whole thing over with.

Tigranes obeyed the order to proceed with an almost spring in his step. He took the gear handed to him without protest, even if the flak armor looked like it had seen more battles than him, struggling to put everything inside the rucksack while trying to keep up his pace, take the next set of equipment and not slow down the line behind him.

Once he got to the last table Tigranes offered no resistance. Not that he liked the idea of having an explosive conveniently placed right below his head. But it was just standard protocol, and he was too far to back down now. Not that he thought he could, even if he wished. Besides, it wasn't like he was actually planning to give them any reason to activate the collar.

And then someone further along tried to shoot the quartermaster. The resulting explosion showered Tigranes with his leftover. And for one mad second the prisoner thought he was back in Hayk when Boran had her head blown off by a Mihranid sniper. He had no time for that however as he shook the memories away and continued onward, wondering when he would have the time to finally put on some clothes. The idea of being exposed in the middle of so many maniacs wasn't something that appealed to him.

When he was eventually shoved into the hangar Tigranes seized the opportunity to finally dress himself. By the time his name was finally called, Tigranes, now officially a Penal Legionnaire, had had the time to at least put the jumpsuit on.

@Drunken Conquistador@Laduguer@Amaranth@DeadDrop@Hank@Cash78

Things could have been worse mused Kenelm to himself, his eyes glancing down the list present on his dataslate screen once more, his eyes invisible behind his mirrored visor. If one were to take a quick look at the list then they would see a stream of names and crimes related to former Guardsmen and women – this was both a blessing for the Arbitrator and somewhat of a curse; on the plus side they were disciplined, well trained, and highly organised while on the negative side they were disciplined, well trained and highly organised. One thing Kenelm could not shake was the feeling of having already proficient killers at his back.

Not everyone was a soldier of course, but when you had such figures as Ratch 'The Spider' from the Savlar Chem-dogs, Nitya 'Big Nell' Dylis of the Necromundan house Escher and 18th Necromundan Regiment – a head taller and more muscular than most men in the prison, she was not one to be messed with – and Nasir 'the Knife' Halseen formerly of the Tallarn Desert Raiders 4th Regiment in your own squad then you had to keep your head on a swivel.

Slowly but surely a semblance of a squad was formed around him, some of the individuals standing to attention, some nursing their equipment and their weapons, and some looking around with bleary eyed disbelief that they were even free.

“Get up!” Yelled the Arbitrator at those that, for whatever reasons of their own, were groping about on the floor, “get up and form two ranks, now.”

Two ranks were formed, along with enthusiastic encouragement from the Arbitrator and constant prodding with his power maul, eventually all facing the same way; that, and a number of crump sounds coming from the surrounding formations – as further convicts attempted to revolt, and were similarly put down – had an influence that could not be understated.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Eighth Squad of the First Redemption Penal Legion. I am Arbitrator Kenelm, but you can call me 'sir'.” His tone was very matter-of-fact, the law-man pacing back and forth along the line as he spoke, “you may be interested to know that many among you once served with His Imperial Guard, although how you could have sunk so low as to get dragged here is beyond me.”

Using a classic stratagem of 'divide and conquer' had come to the mind of the Arbite even before these felons had set foot in the hangar, now, with the blood provided him, he would make sure he did not need to have his hand constantly on his remote.

“Not all of you are so fortunate though...not all of you had honour before you came here, and many of you appear to have lost it.” He paused a moment to let this sink in, “in doing this holy work for the God-Emperor you may well regain your honour, through the sacrifice of your own life or through acts of unparalleled valour in the field. Make no mistake, if you sweat and bleed for Him on Terra then you shall be rewarded for it; freedom is the ultimate price here! Your freedom! Do not allow others to disrupt that chance, for they are below you and would see you fail.”

A high-pitched wail emerged from the dataslate, a swift slide of the hand silencing it once more, the expression on the Arbitrators lower face turning to one of amusement as he scrolled through the flashing Gothic runes on his screen.

“Legionnaires, the Landers are incoming and not long from now you will be snug and sound aboard the Imperial Ship Wandering Iron, so get your kit on, screw your heads on, and follow me.”

---

The journey from the hangar to the orbiting Dauntless-class Light Cruiser was a reasonably swift and uneventful one, those of the Legion probably wondering what the grey orb they had called home now looked like from orbit, their transport to the far away warzone being one of the smallest in the Imperial arsenal – at only 22 megatonnes and with an approximate crew of 65,000 souls – yet still swift and capable enough for their particular needs at this moment.

Once aboard the ship, glares and quips from Naval personnel – not least the Armsmen who resented their very presence on the ship – were almost constant as they were guided through the labyrinthine corridors and, if anyone had been paying attention, constantly moving down and down until they reached an area of the Iron which seemed as if it had not been used in centuries.

It was an area the size of several hangars, more than enough space to fit the 1st Legion in, and contained dusty piles of tent-beds on one side and beside them footlockers, everything constantly covered in the dull illumination of a red emergency light.

When Kenelm questioned a Rating about it he simply shook his head, “we had an Imperial regiment in here once...a long time ago...welcome aboard,” was his only response; he did agree to see about getting some better lighting in the area though.

“Right, we'll set up over there,” ordered the Arbitrator, pointing a stern finger at the far north-east corner of the hangar, some distance away from anyone else, “get those beds and lockers and get to it.”

Gate sat in the turbulent interior of the shuttle as it climbed through the thin atmosphere of Redemption. It was dark and cramped and the dry air was made thick with fear and excitement.

Gate hadn't flown much in his life. This was the second time, in fact; the last being his departure from his homeworld to the chartered penal transporter.

Both that time and this, he had been aware of some part of his mind that was afraid of flying. Both times, however, it was eclipsed by more pressing emotions. When he was first convicted, these had been emotions of fear, shame, failure. Now, they were emotions of confusion and sickening anticipation. He thought he would feel overjoyed to finally be free of Redemption, now so far away from him and unable to cage him any longer. But what he felt most was a rising sense of existential terror. He had not escaped imprisonment for free - rather, he was being freed only on the basis of his almost certain death in the very real future. He was, most likely, going to die. This was a death sentence wrapped up in the premise of a pardon.

What if all they wanted to do was clear space for new occupants? What if all they wanted to do was get rid of those that still entertained a notion of escape?

He cursed it bitterly. It was unfair. Things like this shouldn't happen to people like him. He was talent, and he was being thrown away by the careless and unseeing hand of the Imperium.

Docking came. Gate pounded through the deep, ancient hallways of the transport amongst the herd, thousands of stamping feet on old iron creating a terrible noise like a heathen ritual drum.

He was glad when they came at last to the vast hangar, and to finally have some time to escape the crowd. To find a bed of his own. A simple animal comfort to distract him from his dire thoughts.

He laid out a bunk, snatched the key to a locker, and sat for a moment. By chance, he realised his bunk was laid out amongst some faces he recognised from earlier, in the conscription hall.

He thought of offering them something to break the ice, but realised he had never been allowed to clean his cell. His lho sticks, stashed contraband, prison currency - all of it - was gone. It was like starting a new life all over again.

He drummed on his thighs awkwardly in the dingy darkness.

Nathan Hall stands at attention as the Arbiter begins to bark orders at all the new troopers around. He regains his composure and gets into rank and file with the rest of the group. The group begins to follow the Arbiter, perhaps to their demise. In actuality, they followed him onto the ship where they went and got themselves accommodated with the quarters. Yes the place was damned small and Nathan saw that, but that didn't stop him from grabbing a bunk immediately. Leaving him alone from the group as he went to set his gear down. He looked up to the others, giving them a big smile. One of his crazy smiles, the ones that got everyone in shit. Especially at the cafeteria.

"Well well well, the Emperor has formed the greatest unit ever to grace his graceness!" He says standing up and raising his arms up to everyone. As if he were praising the fact that they were just set up in a penal battalion. "Redemption!" He says as he breaks out into a hearty laughter as he echoes into the hall some bit before he cuts back a bit. Clearing his throat he sits back down on the bed, picking up his Las-Carbine. Examining it as he inspects his new weapon "So... How do we use this piece of the emperor? Does anyone know?"

He asks as he now places himself down on the bed once again, carbine in hand as he manages to take the magazine out of the carbine before he places it down beside him. He looks up to the others that are in the room with him, a grin growing on the man's face once again. This was just a sign of whats to come, an uneasy aura seemed to project itself out from Nathan Hall. Maybe some felt it or didn't because one thing was for certain. In the days to come, hell on earth would change these soldiers.

For better or for worse.

It was anyone's best guess, but these soldiers - Nathan especially.

They play for keeps, with everything to lose.

Octavia listened intently to the speech the Arbitrator was barking out. It sounded pre-written but it did not much matter to the newly-minted penal legionnaire. Speeches reminded her of the time spent in the Steel Legion. Not exactly happier times, but times looked fondly back on nonetheless. Time had a funny way of making even the worst experiences rose-coloured.

Eighth Squad, First Redemption Penal Legion. She chewed the idea around in her mind. A fairly bland name, most likely fresh off the Administratum data-slate. Most regiments had nicknames, even if they were just amongst the troops. Only Kriegers went solely by their given numbers. Octavia was sure a nickname would come with time. She looked around furtively at the troopers to her left and right. Some of them looked like they couldn't find the backside of a chimera. Others looked like they'd rather kill humans and be done with it.

The telltale whine of transports became ever more clear and invaded the Trooper's thoughts until the order was give to embark and years of muscle memory kicked in. Octavia marched (if it could be called that) up the ramp and through hard-won experience snatched a seat close to the cockpit. The seats further in the towards the aft of the transport got the worst of the flying experience (not to mention you had to dodge any lunches that decided to escape) so front seats were a premium. Octavia cradled her lascarbine as the engines rumbled and Eighth squad left their temporary homeworld for the Crusade.

Many of the other troopers seemed unnerved by the dimly lit and vaguely foreboding corridors of the Dauntless-class light cruiser Wandering Iron. Octavia guessed it was their first or second time on a voidship because they were all like this. On the upper decks they were mostly well lit but in the lower decks where most Guardsmen were confined to they were like sewers of ancient technology and long forgotten chambers. Finally they arrived in the gigantic empty bunking area. Eighth squad was assigned to an empty corner of the disused room and already legionnaires were taking lockers and bunks. Octavia picked one between two troopers she vaguely recognised and smacked the mattress with the stock of her lascarbine to make sure there was nothing horrible hiding in it. Once it was confirmed safe she set her pack and flak vest on the locker and leaned the carbine against the two before taking off her helmet and flopping semi-gracefully on the bed.

It had been a long 24 (give or take some) hours.

From the comfort of his fellow convicts prodding and harassing him over his rather upsetting first introduction to the Legion, Phrike tumbled to his feet as best as he could. The gravity of the situation and the danger of the great beyond paled in comparison to the very earthly condition he was in: nausea, inescapable nausea from his gut punch. He bundled his kit in one arm as he wiggled his lower-half into his dungarees, half-zipped for now until he could set his kit. Upper half exposed showing a lifeitme of shiv scars, deranged bite marks, burns from cattleprods touching exposed skin as well as all the pin-prick tattoos done painstakingly in the darkness.

Pain drifted and the gravity of the situation hit him once he fell into his cradle in the transporter. The safety cage rolled down over him, locking him in place for re-entry and it all hit him at once. For the first time in a long time, fear and paranoid was outweighed by something vastly more optimistic. He had never left his world before, never known anything other than the mindnumbingly featureless, windswept features of Redemption.

He may not have committed a crime to get there, but he finally felt out on parole. In a long time since, he smiled heartedly, even as the transporter screeched through the atmosphere and terrified most.

No matter what happened now, from dying on atmospheric entry to being shot up on some other world, they could never, ever suck the soul from his spirit on the planet of his birth. He would never die on Redemption, like his parents, his friends, the countless people who prayed to an uncaring God-Emperor in the cramped cells set up as makeshift hospitals. He would die a freeman, if not in law or name, than in his own heart.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

From the get-go, the territorial nature of the convicts set in. Once they took a locker and a bed, they set to making it their own and marking it off. Phrike, like most of them, worried about theft and intimidation, especially in this new environment that he hadn't spent his whole life figuring out and playing to his advantage.

Kit on his bunk, he finally zipped it over his razor thin frame, hiding his malnourished frame as he set to packing his bag and setting his equipment up. He had never seen a carbine before, at least not this close and not in the hands of an Arbites who had expertly planted a beam through the chest of an inmate. He tried every combination he could to get it to work: hovering the battery over the rifle, pushing it against it, rubbing it, putting it in upside down, embarassingly for a man who did combat medicine with little to no supplies and quite well, he finally got it after some time. It gave a resounding thwack and resonated with killing power.

His skill was with the blade and the mind, not the rifle.

Almost nervous, he set hooked it over his shoulder, afraid it'd be stolen as his flak was. Next was his helmet, too tight to fit onto his skull and with a strap that had once been chewed on by some sort of vermin, but it would do. He left everything with his bag in his locker, save for his Monoknife, which he hooked around his waist. You'd have to be warped in the skull to live among convicts of this caliber with no protection.

From his bunk across, he spotted Octavia and stood up.

"I didn't get my name called." He mused as he walked up, but more to no one in particular. Without waiting for a response, he looked at the Madman next to her. In the darkness of the ship, a situation he was used to living in the fettid tunnels of Redemption, he could just barely see the crooked expression on the man's face as his eyes re-adjusted. "You have to be more quiet. They'll push your button and then that's it."

Like the others, Shiah settled into a bunk of her own, close to Octavia, Phrike, Natan and Gate. She cradled the lascarbine in her lap as her eyes went over the faces in the gloom of the red lighting -- they were still waiting for the crew to fix them some proper lights. Nathan went off on another insane tirade and Shiah shook her head. "He's not even going to make it to the battlefield," she sighed to herself, but his final question (how does the rifle work?) made her go over her weapon again, inspecting the trigger, charge pack and sights. She hadn't held one of these before but she was clever and thought she figured it out pretty quickly.

"Here," she said as she approached Nathan cautiously. "Look, I'll show you." She went over the various parts of the weapon, pointing at the stock and putting it up against her shoulder while she looked down the sights, her finger around the trigger. "And then you just squeeze. The Emperor will take care of the rest, yeah?" she finished and smiled at Nathan, wondering if it was wise to try and get on his good side. She saw Octavia on her kot with Gate and realized that the Arbites had called her name during roll call. She'd been a Guardsman. "Hey, lady, you were in the Guard, right? Am I right about how this thing works, or what?"

Octavia peeled an eye open and peered at Phrike as he got up from his bunk and made his way over to hers. He reminded Octavia of voidborn humans-- those born on a great star-faring vessel and not on solid ground. They were usually very pale and had something 'off' about them. Some were considered bad luck or ill-omens, not that Octavia ever had a problem with them. Plenty of her own platoon felt she was jinxed due to the amount of injuries and close calls she had sustained over the years. Personally, the Armageddonite felt indifferent towards such notions. When He decided it was her time, she would go.

"I didn't get my name called." the Man declared.

Octavia sat up in her bunk and gave a shrug. Whatever he was before, he's a legionnaire now. The woman couldn't help but smirk at the way the uniform looked on the lanky man. Something about the way it hung off of his thin body was oddly comedic. Before the man could respond, the madman from earlier, Nathan or Haythan or something close to that yelled something again and distracted the pale legionnaire. The crazy one began laughing a laugh that made Octavia's scars itch and her gaze to unfocus as she searched for something around the room to focus on. Finally the madman cut his laughing short and Octavia looked back to see why. He appeared to be puzzling around with his lascarbine. It pained Octavia to see a holy instrument of the Emperor's Will treated with such disrespect. The Mute hummed a tune of disappointment as another guardswoman walked over and attempted to show him how to use it.

This woman was also whip-thin but she didn't exactly look malnourished like the other one. Save for maybe her face, which had the skin pulled taut over the bone, either from malnutrition or narcotics of some kind. She did stand out from the average prisoner for the most part.

"Hey, lady, you were in the Guard, right? Am I right about how this thing works, or what?" The newcomer inquired, presumably towards Octavia.

The Veteran made an 'I guess it can't be helped' "Hmph" noise and swung her body out of the cot. The more people that reliably knew how to carry out the Emperor's Will the more likely they would be to complete It, and carrying out His Will started with learning to use a lascarbine. The one they were issued wasn't exactly the same as the Voss Pattern that Octavia had been so used to carrying and using in the Steel Legion but it was similar enough that there would be no issues relearning how to use it or teaching these former convicts.

Octavia looked over the woman's posture and made some minor adjustments to how she held the weapon. Failure to hold the instrument properly under firing conditions could and would result in serious burns to your hand. Moving on, she pointed out the charge pack release button and what it did. Pressing it, and causing the current charge pack to fall into her hand and then slapping it back into place. After that she pointed out the safety and how flipping it to a certain position prevented firing. Finally she grabbed her own lascarbine and drew their attention to the sights. Gesturing to her dominant right eye (the one coloured an unnatural amber hue) she indicated that one should use the grove provided to line up the barrel and receiver of the weapon to the eye for a more accurate shot. Hoping that she did an adequate job of showing the bare functions of the weapon non-verbally she set her lascarbine down and smirked to herself almost imperceptibly in the gloom of the barracks.

Tigranes was not a man used to Void travel. Truth be told, the only other time when the newly-minted Legionnaire stepped on a void ship was during his transport to the dreary hellhole in which he had lived these last months. At the time he really wasn't in the right state of mind to really pay attention to the finer points of the trip, worried more about not getting himself killed amidst the mass of prisoners and lost souls packed in a hold too small guarded by trigger happy Armsmen. Which, in hindsight wasn't really THAT objectively different from his current situation, save for the fact that this time the hold actually had enough space for its occupants and Tigranes himself was downright giddy compared to his previous stint in the deep, unlit bowels of a spaceship.

Of course, the former miner was very much aware that he wasn't exactly "out of the tunnels" yet, as his folks used to say back in Hayk. And if anything, by the end of the shift, he had just traded a slow death of hunger and overwork for a much quicker one in the battlefield. But that did not bother Tigranes, even death in battle (though not the ideal result) would be better than staying and wasting away in chains. By sacrificing himself for Him on Terra, Tigranes would at least be ensuring the salvation of his soul. And wasn't that the whole point of this? His sins in life were too big to be washed away with anything less than full sacrifice.

It was with these thoughts in his mind that he busied himself with settling in where the Arbitrator Kenelm had ordered, dragging the bedding and locker to a corner far from the bulk of the other penals. Relief flooded Tigranes when he had noticed that. His own intentions may be true but he certainly wasn't going to assume that everyone else had volunteered for the right reasons. If her were being honest with himself, Tigranes would never truly recover the easy camaraderie he enjoyed in his previous regiment here. Holy Emperor, it would be a struggle to build up enough trust just with his squad. But these things couldn't be helped. It would take time and effort to find out who among them could be trusted, to separate the reliable ones from the ones who would stab him in the kidney for half a cup of amasec. He still wasn't sure of what to think about the fact that they had so many veterans in a single squad.

And so, after storing his gear in the locker (taking care to keep the knife in his hands) and plopping himself down on the mattress, Tigranes found himself watching as the guardswoman, Octavia if he remembered correctly, gave her impromptu lesson. And as she finished, Tigranes decided to risk it and offer his own expertise. Might as well do something to build up rapport with the people who would be watching his back on the battlefield.

"I'm not meaning to imply I've got as much experience or training as a proper guardsman." He called out to make himself known as he pushed himself up and walked towards Octavia. "But I was a Sergeant in the Haykan Royal Army before ending up in Redemption, fought my fair share of battles. So I also know a thing or two about the trade. That and mining, but I think you've all done with breaking rocks by this point." He joked lamely.

"Well, what I'm saying is that if any of you have doubts about military life or the finer points or caring for your gear, I'm here to help."

Gate listened to Shiah, Octavia and Tigranes converse (or gesticulate, as in the case of Octavia) and felt a sense of bitter cynicism rise in his gut.

Look at them - posturing as if they were the Emperor's finest... knowing what end of the stick the laser comes out of doesn't make you better than the rest of us.

He sat quietly and brooded for a few moments, before standing up and walking over as Tigranes finished speaking. His initial thoughts of friendly ice-breaking had somewhat diminished.

"That's very thoughtful of you, friend", he says, approaching from behind Tigranes, "I bet you'd love to take care of all our gear. I hadn't realised that taking that shuttle trip suddenly made you less of a criminal."

Gate's faux-charming friendly demeanour drops.

"Stay away from my stuff. Here's some better advice for the lot of you - firing that gun should be the least of your priorities. You should be thinking more about how you'll avoid needing to fire it, so you'll survive longer than five seconds when they throw you into the meat grinder."

He glances over his shoulder, suddenly concerned that an official may be listening.

Gate listened to Shiah, Octavia and Tigranes converse (or gesticulate, as in the case of Octavia) and felt a sense of bitter cynicism rise in his gut.

Look at them - posturing as if they were the Emperor's finest... knowing what end of the stick the laser comes out of doesn't make you better than the rest of us.

He sat quietly and brooded for a few moments, before standing up and walking over as Tigranes finished speaking. His initial thoughts of friendly ice-breaking had somewhat diminished.

"That's very thoughtful of you, friend", he says, approaching from behind Tigranes, "I bet you'd love to take care of all our gear. I hadn't realised that taking that shuttle trip suddenly made you less of a criminal."

Gate's faux-charming friendly demeanour drops.

"Stay away from my stuff. Here's some better advice for the lot of you - firing that gun should be the least of your priorities. You should be thinking more about how you'll avoid needing to fire it, so you'll survive longer than five seconds when they throw you into the meat grinder."

He glances over his shoulder, suddenly concerned that an official may be listening.

Tigranes was aware that most likely he would be facing the same amount of "peoples trouble" in the Legion as back in Redemption. He just wasn't expecting it to come so fast and so blatantly at him. Specially not after he had gone to the trouble of joining the impromptu training section. But assholes were everywhere and Tigranes had his fair share of experience in dealing with the sort. In this particular case, he decided to refrain from too much hostility. After all, this Gate was still his comrade in arms and that alone earned him some minor measure of respect. Besides, too much aggressiveness and posturing might lead to unfortunate accidents in the future.

Of course, if the smuggler continued to be an right and proper asshole then a change of tactics would be needed.

"I'm a criminal, ay." Tigranes conceded. "But I'm here because my master was a heretic and because of the blood I shed in his name. Not petty thievery." His tone grew firmer as he continued. "However, the fact that all of us volunteered to be here means that, regardless of our previous crimes, we have taken the first steps in expiating our sins in the eyes of Him on Terra by accepting a life of sacrifices on the battlefield in His name."

He gave a pause, fixing Gate with a glare

"At least in theory." He shrugged. "I'm sure some of us may falter when the time comes to prove our dedication to the path of redemption. But right now I'm willing to give our squadmates the benefit of the doubt. At least while we're getting to know each other."

Tigranes shrugged.

"I'm not saying that I'm actively looking to die. But the chances of that happening to all of us are indeed quite high. However, as long as we carry out the God Emperor's will through our sacrifice then we die with clean souls. After all, isn't redemption the whole point of this?" He gestured with wide open arms to the Hangar. "And now I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're just defending the merits of subtlety and infiltration in combat rather than actually suggesting we actively avoid our duties."

<Snip>

Gate held Tigranes' glare for a moment, before diverting his eyes irritably and listening as he spoke. He was expecting to put down some posturing criminal and score some easy respect. He wasn't expecting to come up against an actual, honest-to-the-Emperor soldier. Glancing at Octavia, and at various other gatherings forming around their section of the hanger, he began to fathom that - even if he survived long enough - it might be more difficult than he'd thought to rise to power here. Where he had felt empowered by his ability to understand the Arbites officials, convicts like Tigranes evidently also felt like their previous military occupation gave them new power and opportunity. How many others were there like him?

He became aware that Tigranes had finished speaking. His last words sounded too much like a threat, and so Gate decided to cut his losses. He lets out a short chuckle of mirthless laughter.

"It was only a jest between soldiers, friend!" Gate said, with an edge of sarcasm. "As you say - we've been given quite the window of opportunity by the Emperor, haven't we? We've no reason to fight, especially if we'll be in such close quarters. My name is Gate."

"Boys, boys." Phrike interjected rapidly, nervously pacing himself between the two opposing figures in tension. He was previously occupied with the impromptu lesson, having found himself enthralled and trying to commit to memory all that he could, useless even with all the arguing if he couldn't find himself able to point the right end, the right way, with the right amount of control. "You need to keep this argument out of here."

With one last glance back at the surrounding Arbites, he moved even closer to their bunks, looking them both in the eye. "Argue all you want. For His Throne or your own selfish needs, it doesn't matter," he began, shuffling his rifle over his shoulder and attempting to appear to preoccupied with the group to cast glances around the hangar, "You've all got these useless collars on - we've all got these on. Our intentions, our actions, the battlefield... it all means nothing if we die under the hands of the Arbites, our head thrown into a thousand different chunks across the walls."

He shrugged, tossing his rifle once more over his shoulder with the sling and resting his other hand on the hilt of his dagger.

"We'll all die, that is known. But I'd rather it be tomorrow or the day after, the more distance away from this planet and with the opportunity to defend myself, as opposed to dying on that rock or in here." He found his words whistling away on careless ears as the argument died down around him.

"I'm Phrike, by the way." He introduced himself, having to pull his sleeves up over his hands as they fell too long. "You might remember me from Redemption, been there my whole life... I was the cutman."

@Drunken Conquistador@Laduguer@Amaranth@DeadDrop@Hank@Cash78

“He's not wrong, you know?”

The half-question was spoken from somewhere nearby, in a voice like the rumbling of waves within a cave, although who had spoken them could not be discerned...at least not until the shadows nearby began to move.

How long he had been standing there and listening was anyone's guess – possibly he had moved into that position within the last few moments, more likely was that he had heard the entire conversation and listened with wry amusement – but the man that stepped forth from a spot near the hangars bulkhead was, ironically, someone you would wish never to meet in any shadowy area.

“You got guts, son,” came another statement as the speaker stepped into the dim lightning, addressing the former cutman as if he had known him all his life, “I like guts.”

Thick wisps of smoke from a chubby lho-stick temporarily obscured the face of the man, clenched tightly enough between scarred lips that it didn't fall out but gently enough that the smoker could continue speaking, a practised habit indeed. When the smoke did decide to clear, the view was no more appealing; now bought into its full glory was a visage that possibly even a mother couldn't love, a singular representation of square-jawed masculinity and piercing blue eyes no doubt, but marred forever with twitching reddened facial flesh, a splash of Tyranid bio-acid seeing to that - standing out distinctly against the buzz-cut hair was a red bandanna, a singular scrap of red cloth worn only by a particular set of Guardsmen.

“Phrike, is it? Lips, or what were left of them, drew back and pulled the ruined face into what would have been a smile, hardened eyes – both fully functioning surprisingly – running over the gathered (and gathering) crowd of Eighth Squad legionnaires.

When others called the denizens of Catachan 'baby Ogryns' you could be forgiven for thinking it was a silly moniker, but looking upon this newcomer – clad only in his bandanna, a sleeveless white tank-top, and a pair of jungle-pattern trousers – you'd never think to question it again.

Standing over six feet tall, arms as thick as a man's neck crossed over his expansive chest, the Jungle Fighter before them was – in more or less every aspect – a smaller version of the sub-human warriors that often marched with the Guard throughout the galaxy; legs like tree trunks, a torso like a barrel, and barely a neck to speak of.

“Well-” he began, only to pause momentarily, one foot lifted and placed on the lid of a footlocker, “well, I suppose I should introduce myself. I am not a prisoner like you...a criminal...but I am here, just as they are here,” he pointed toward the other squads in sharing the hangar, each crowding around a Guardsman or two of differing stripes, probably from regiments involved in the crusade already, “my men call me Sergeant Mason, you can call me Sergeant, Sarge or 'sir', and nothing else.”

A deep inhalation bought a hissing sound from between his teeth, the chunky lho-stick rolling from one side of his mouth to the other, those eyes moving once more and falling quickly on the only knot of former Guard and others that seemed to be mingling with one another.

“I'd listen to Phrike, if I were you. You are expendable, but aren't we all?” In one smooth motion he pulled out the knife at his side – more like a short sword than a dagger - and held it up, running a thumb over the blade until a small trickle of crimson appeared on his digit, “you will nevertheless be trained to the standards of any other regiment, so I suggest that you become familiar with your weapon real quick.”

Almost as if pulling himself out of a trance, the Catachan snapped his gaze away from his Devil's Claw and pulled his foot off of the footlocker, returning to stand upright and raising his voice so that those of the Eighth Squad who had gathered around could hear.

“In exactly two hours you will all be required to follow me, your armour and weapons in hand. I suggest that you get some rest.”

---

Sergeant Mason returned exactly as he said he would, this time with Arbitrator Kenelm in tow, an illuminated dataslate clutched in one gloved hand.

Eighth Squad was ordered to gather up and follow the pair, weaving their way back through a series of cramped corridors, the ship shuddering as it moved through the swirling hell that was the warp, until they came to their destination...

“Welcome,” intoned the Arbitrator, “please proceed through that door,” a finger pointed at a thick door that stood ajar, “and await further instructions.”

What they would find through the doorway, one that slammed shut with a [b]clang[/i] once all thirty of them had entered, was quite unique. Aboard ships it was common for the Guard regiments to train with firing ranges, impromptu assault courses, and so on. What stood before the legionnaires was something designed specifically for their own benefit and that of their superiors...particularly for their superiors.

Contained within the dimensions of an arena - twenty-five metres wide and forty-two meters long – was a near perfect replica of a 'generic' battlefield in miniature form, designed to imitate the ruins of an urban environment. A couple of one-story buildings could be seen, rubble and twisted metal strewn throughout, a central road running through the middle of it all, low walls and even an overturned/burnt out vehicle or two were present.

If one were to look up and to their left, they may see a 'box' from which everything was being viewed, groups of shadowy figures barely visible through a plasteel window. Large speakers protruded from either side of the box, and presently crackled into life.

“Legionnaires of the First Redemption Penal Legion, welcome to your first training session. Please load your weapons and check your armour. There is no way out, so I would strongly advise against any attempt at escape.”

Imperious in tone and exact in enunciation, the bodiless voice drifted to all ears, filling the room.

“There are near one hundred of you present here for the first round of many this day, by the end of it there will be far fewer.”

One hundred men and women, three separate squads of legionnaires jammed together in this simulated surrounding, for one purpose alone.

“Live fire is active, and only one squad is returning to the hangar. You may engage when ready.”

A klaxon sounded, and 'battle' had began.

Octavia had returned to her casual resting position on her bunk as the Catachan Sergeant made his appearance known. They were legendary, even amongst the regiments of renown in the Astra Militarum. He seemingly agreed with Phrike's sentiment that we might as well make the best of today because we may be dead by tomorrow. Well as true as that is, Octavia planned to die for the Emperor on Holy Terra and preferably taking as much of the hated enemy with her as possible. Only death can redeem the immortal soul. As quickly as he appeared, Sergeant Mason disappeared, but not before giving an ominous instruction to be ready for battle in two hours. Had they even left the gravity well of Redemption? Warp travel was inelegant and hard to ignore. There was no way... Then it hit her, not war, training. That is what the Catachan meant by trained to the same standards.

Octavia sat up and rubbed her eyes. She grabbed her lascarbine and did a quick check of the vital systems and said a prayer of firing in her mind before setting the weapon down and making the sign of the aquila with her hands. Moving on, she grabbed her bayonet and checked the razor sharp blade and the mounting lug to make sure they would be adequate. Setting the knife down by the lascarbine on her locker she patted down her flak vest to make sure there were no holes or any kind of damage (not that she could have fixed any damage but it was a ritual she had long stuck to before battle.) After her armour was the helmet and sticking the helmet on top of her flak vest she instinctively reached for her rebreather and greatcoat before remembering she had neither. She pursed a lip in annoyance and then crawled back into bed. Two hours was more than enough time to catch some sleep before whatever training they had in store.

---

Hearing heavy footfalls echoing across the hangar, Legionnaire Westerlund's eyes shot open and she propped herself up in the bunk with one scarred hand. Sure enough it was the Arbites and Sergeant Mason. Octavia quickly checked her boots to make sure they were secured and her jumpsuit to make certain it was zipped up before sliding out of bed and quickly putting on her flak vest and helmet. As the pair of men arrived at Eighth Squad's bunking area Octavia offered a crisp salute before shouldering her weapon and sticking the bayonet belt around her waist.

The march between the two large rooms was labyrinthine at best. The only thing keeping Octavia certain of the path was her hiver's instinctive tunnel sense. Despite Armageddon being a world of near constant war and nuclear wastes, most of the populous lived in Hive Fortresses. Which were mostly the same as Hive Cities but with more angry Armageddonites and lots more firepower. The hangar they entered more closely resembled a battlefield than a training room, but perhaps that was the point. Suddenly it dawned on Octavia; this was a live fire training exercise! Sure enough a voxspeaker crackled to life and a tinny voice, full of command began to speak:

“Legionnaires of the First Redemption Penal Legion, welcome to your first training session. Please load your weapons and check your armour. There is no way out, so I would strongly advise against any attempt at escape. There are near one hundred of you present here for the first round of many this day, by the end of it there will be far fewer. Live fire is active, and only one squad is returning to the hangar. You may engage when ready.”

Well these recalcitrants weren't Orks but the scum of the Imperium would do well to hone Octavia's killer instincts back to their peak. Her eyes scanned the area for positions that might give them an advantage. A building for sure. Too bad all of the vehicles looked totaled, she figured she could still operate a chimera to deadly affect. The Legionnaire shook her head clear and checked her weapons again, this time snapping the bayonet in place and charging the lascarbine. Octavia hummed an old Armageddon warsong as a klaxon began to wail, signalling the beginning of the exercise.

The veteran guardswoman pointed to a nearby building in an attempt to get the rest of the squad's attention. After a few precious moments she spotted another squad heading in the same direction of the building. Not willing to give up such a prime piece of killing ground Octavia took off in a low run towards the building. Reaching the ruined entrance in what must have been record time, she cautiously entered the stone building, weapon ready. Lucky for her, the heavily tattooed and shirtless legionnaire who had entered a moment before her shouted as he charged her, bayonet glinting in the dim light of the bunker.

He thrust the blade high and wild and Octavia easily parried the untrained thrust with her own blade before countering with a stab to his gut. The man's warcry turned into a gurgle as he slumped down against the cold wall of the bunker. Peering out of the door he had come in from, the Legionnaire spotted the rest of his squad close and snapped her weapon up and cracked off two shots in rapid succession. The slick blood staining the barrel of the lasgun was boiled off instantly as the crimson beams superheated the air. The first shot hit its mark and caused a jumpsuited figure to faceplant into the dirt unceremoniously. The second missed however, but did succeed in causing the rest of the rival squad to scramble for cover.

Legionnaire Westerlund ducked into the bunker to avoid the inevitable fusillade of panicked return fire. She deftly made her way to the other side of the room where she had first entered, carefully stepping over the dead man and cursing her inability to shout before frantically waving her own squad over to the bunker. If they could take this building and hold it, they had a good chance of being able to ride out the pitch of the battle and then clean out the survivors for an easy victory.

Tigranes would've liked to continue his talk with Gate, there was still some things he would've liked to say. But as much as he would've liked to continue on his, admittedly self-righteous, tirade, that Phrike fellow was right. They were expendable and right now it would probably be simpler in the Arbitres' eyes to kill anyone raising too much of a ruckus. Even if he, hopefully, proved himself a loyal and dependable servant of Him on Terra, Tigranes would still be nothing more than a very expendable pawn. Not that he wasn't that before in Redemption or serving in the Haykan Royal Army. Hells, if one were to look back enough he wasn't exactly worth much during his days digging tunnels before the civil war. But then again, Tigranes was never one prone to much self-reflection or resenting his lot in life, (past few months notwithstanding), he was born a bonded serf and if not for the civil war he would've died a bonded serf like his forefathers before him and the sons he would have if not for the war.

Now however, he was a soldier. Had been one for the past eight years (his stint in the Penal Colony excluded). The difference was that now he was directly serving the God Emperor to atone for the sins of his past. So he decided to act like one and extend his hand to Phrike and let his little argument with Gate slide.

Then Sergeant Mason popped out of the shadows and derailed everything. Truth be told the moment the Catachan spoke up, Tigranes reached for his knife. Given his current circumstances, the Legionnaire had more than enough reason to be jumping at shadows. The revelation that the bandana-wearing mass of muscles and scars would be their immediate commanding officer...well it didn't brought him relief exactly...but he was hopeful that the Jungle Fighter would be able to lead the squad better than a trigger-happy Abitrator. At least this Mason looked to have far more first-hand combat experience, that by itself would hopefully prove to be valuable for the Eighth Squad.

With introductions done, their new Sergeant left and Tigranes returned to his corner of the hold, plopping himself upon the mattress and pulling out his gear from his locker. He was never one to fell asleep fast, and when he did he was a light sleeper. With just two hours until whatever was supposed to be their first task as Legionnaires, Tigranes decided that his time would be better spent checking his gear and making sure everything was in order, or as much as it could be. Judging by his armor's sorry state, the flak vest by itself had seen more combat than him. The less said about the uniform the better. Though at least the Lascarbine at least looked to be working as intended as Tigranes did his usual thorough inspection of the weapon and prayed to its machine-spirits.

The two hours went by excruciatingly slow for Tigranes, and by the time Sergeant Mason and Arbitrator Kelm showed up, Tigranes had to stop himself from running at them in his eagerness to know just what they were supposed to do. And as the two led the squad through yet more cramped, badly lit corridors, the Legionnaire couldn't help but feel a growing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Sure, by the looks of it they would most likely end up in some kind of training exercise (being all geared up and such) but even if it were the case, Tigranes doubted the training exercises in a Penal Legion would be anything like he had experienced before.

As it turned out, he was right. No crawling through barbed wire, running laps or firing drills. His new commanding officers apparently preferred a much more intense way of testing the skill of their new troops. A small part of him would later surface and wonder about the morality of killing his fellow Legionnaires. Sure, they were the scum of the Imperium, but so was Tigranes. Didn't they deserve the same chance to earn redemption as him? By the time this reasoning finally dawned upon him, in some date of the unknown future, it would be something akin to a flashing thought, barely understood and soon forgotten, for Tigranes was very much a simple man, not prone to getting lost in thought or great philosophical musings, Emperor above, he wasn't even literate...

As the klaxons blared however, any future or present thoughts went ignored or forgotten as instincts took over and he dove behind the blackened husk of a car with a shout of "Take cover!", placing himself prone as he fired at whatever exposed targets he could spot. Shooting down a few, either dead or wounded, and sending others scrambling for cover as several other members of the Eighth joined him in his spot, those who in the lack of any better options decided to stick with the closest squadmate with some military experience.

Not much time had passed since the start of the exercise, and as adrenaline rushed through his veins, Tigranes looked for Octavia. A Guard veteran like her would surely be a good bet to stick with in this situation. Now if only he could find her...

And there she was, waving frantically from the door of a bunker. Tigranes nodded to nobody in particular, Octavia knew what she was doing.

"Comrades!" He called out to the other Legionnaires around him as he gestured towards Octavia. "We have to get to that building! When I give the sign, run as fast as you can and keep your head down!"

Without waiting for a response, Tigranes peeked out from cover, firing one last spray of lasfire to keep the enemy with their heads down before taking off with a shout of "Follow me!" to his fellow squadmates.

The former miner ran as fast as his legs could carry, head held low and gun gripped tight in his hand. He could hear shots passing nearby but didn't dare to stop and look. Neither for the enemy nor to see if any of the other convicts had actually followed him.

Tigranes only stopped when he was inside the building, barely managing to avoid running into Octavia. He looked to the former Guardswoman, as he leaned on a stone wall, panting, waiting for some kind of command or instruction from the veteran before he looked through the other door and saw the approaching enemy. Firing wildly to suppress the other squad as he moved into position near the opposite door.

@Jbcool: Have we got grenades yet?

Nathan handed over his weapon to the skinny, white and weak woman and allowed her to man handle his gear. He gave her a strong smile in return as she began to show the man how to actually use the laser weapon. After she did her tutorial, the mute - approached Hall and showed him how to use the weapon and how to handle it as well, with her non-verbal instructions. "Sisters... Sisters! I know how to use the Emperor's will - I just needed clarification is all. You may rest well knowing you've helped a fellow comrade in arms, as this is a step towards our eternal redemption. For the Emperor!" He stands up thrusting his rifle into the air for the rest of the barracks to see "For the Emperor!" he says again echoing out to the empty husk of the void ship.

It wouldn't be long until Nathan began to tune the others out, they didn't really care about him - did they? Regardless, he began to work with his carbine. The weapon had seen use, the paint seemed to have been worn down after years of fighting and seeing combat practically everywhere. It didn't take too long for Hall to prep it, loading ammo into the mags and prepping his kit. He wasn't an organized or professional fighter but he took pride in preparing for the end even if it was his first time. His gear looked okay, in okay order for what a conscript would have - however his personal appearance didn't seem that well. Uniform untucked, boots and trousers a mess. The Commissar would eat the man.

Yet, that wasn't who walked into the room - a Sergeant one of the red bandana wearing thugs that weren't conscript soldiers. He spoke roughly and coldly, Nathan kept an eye on him but stayed to his bunk to maintain and work his gear. Something about being ready for two hours, that's why everyone started to go to sleep. The lonely outcast made sure his gear was secure by his bed before he rested his head, only for a few moments. By the time he woke his squad was already on the move to wherever they had to be, in full kit and marching onward. Nathan scrambled to his feet as he picked up the rest of his gear, the young career criminal didn't know it but he was heading off to war.

---

"For the Emperor!"

Nathan screamed, he dropped the frag grenade and the pin stuck to his index finger like a wedding band. The frag dropped as the side of his foot connected with the explosive device. It went soaring for a few seconds before exploding above a group of enemy Legionaries. A moment or so later Hall rallied a dozen guards and the group to him and the band of men pushed forward with other guards into the horde of enemies. When the tides turned against them Hall made a run for it, not before a hand grabbed his left leg causing him to trip. It was one of the guards he was with, he was injured and incapacitated. Hall did what any reasonable guardsman would do if they were left in that situation.

Dragging him by both feet he ran back to their lines, being singed by laser fire on the way back as he dragged the half-dead man to their side of the mock battlefield. He had seen his squad enter a building earlier, albeit, he was too busy kicking ass on the other side of the battlefield to care. However, now that he was reunited with the building his squad might be in Hall ran to the other side of the building to run into. Frag in hand - it soared into the back door as the explosion propelled a gored corpse out the back and near Hall. Carbine raised he ran into the building, immediately impaling one of the defenders who screeched before his guts were fucking liquifed by his carbine.

A brute turned the corner on Hall and as he was pulling his bayonet out of the fresh corpse he had prepared for himself as an oaf of a soldier barrel into him. The two struggled before Hall's carbine fired a shot into the man's crotch, goring his lower region. Doubling over in pain, Nathan stepped over the giant and proceeded down the hall as he fired off another blast from his lasgun at some poor fucker's crotch.

"Yum yum yum yum yum!"

Gate stood mutely as the beast of a man that was Sergeant Mason addressed them. He didn't take in much of what he was saying. He feared and respected soldiers, as you might fear and respect a dangerous animal. They were violent, simple and so often committed to an ideology of shoot-first-ask-questions-later. But he didn't care much for their wisdom or speeches. What use was their wisdom to him? They were committed to a life of service and battle. Anyone who had thought that to be a good life choice clearly didn't have good sense in the first place.

Armed and ready in two hours though. That he did hear. Probably a formal assembly and briefing prior to departing Redemption. He returned to his bunk and made sure his things were in good order. He picked up the lascarbine and familiarised himself with it as best he could. It was lighter than an autogun. It was essentially an autogun with less moving parts and more certainty of killing whoever you pointed it at. What was there to know? It was designed to be easy enough for a child to use. He put it to one side and kicked his feet up on his bunk. He pulled out his Uplifting Primer to kill some time. It was going to be dull, but at least he could look forward to a few weeks of rest and relaxation for sure.

---

Those bastards. Those filthy, mad, scav-whore bastards. It was moments like this that reminded him how, at his core, he bitterly hated everything about the Imperium. He was happy on Taranis. He was invisible, and free, and was good at his job. It was the Imperium that had ruined it. They had imprisoned him. Then they had given him death gift-wrapped as freedom. And now they had forgone the gift-wrapping altogether. They had laid bare the cruel truth of their sick, dishonest endeavour. What was the point? Why didn't they just shoot him the moment he left the womb?

A nauseating rush of adrenaline made his despairing mind go blank. Hot, nervous fire rushed through his limbs and into his heart. He was rendered an animal, only seeing and acting, driven by his basest instincts. Gate was no stranger to fighting. He had killed men in his time in the Enforcer cadres and seen his fair share of shootouts. But he had been in control then; a well armed lawman with other well armed lawmen watching his back, against scared and desperate hive scum. This was different; here he was the scum, a trapped rat with no friends and vastly outgunned.

The soldier Tigranes that he had spoken with earlier was telling the squad to move. His dislike of the man was drowned out. In that moment, the man was the pack leader, and you followed the pack leader. The roaring chaos of the room was nothing. Gate's world was keeping his head down, and staying close behind Tigranes.

When they reached the building, Tigranes stopped suddenly, and Gate threw himself to the side to avoid hitting him. He rolled and laid prone, and his senses returned to him. He still had hold of his lascarbine. At some point he had been splattered with blood. Not his own. He looked up at the bloodied sight of Octavia crouching next to Tigranes. The air was very hot, and the sound of las-crack was deafening, which mercifully took the edge off the sound of screaming. He crawled over to where Tigranes and Octavia were taking cover and pressed himself up against the wall, his breath heaving.

"You got guts, son," came words from the darkest corner of their little slice of the hangar, squared away for what was now a proper squad formation. It wasn't so much the words or their implications sink, but that the voice was unknown yet privy to their argument. "I like that."

The whip-thin frame of Phrike quickly turned to face this newest character, paranoia setting in his mind immediately as to which of the Arbites had been quiet enough to sneak up on them, hear their demoralizing tone and give them just enough time before fingering the detonater, taking out a whole squad at whim. Instead, he saw one of the most terrifying men he had seen - albeit calmed slightly by his lack of uniform, clad only in the dungarees of an Imperial Soldier and not the ornate white, full-face anonymity of an Arbites.

He came up to even Phrike's height, if not a bit shorter, but that didn't make him feel any better. He was as tall as he was wide and he took a few steps back as he came under scrutiny, fingers unconciously resting on his monoknife.

"Guts? No... just..." He scrambled for words, scanning the room before he faked a smile, drawing wrinkles along the multiple tattoos on his face. "Just common sense."

"Where to, uhm... Sarge?" He asked, in queary to where they would be going in two hours. But the man was gone just as he came, into the darkness of the hangar and out of the range of care of the 8th Squad. He stared at the others for a moment, bewildered, before he returned to his bunk in an attempt to understand his lascarbine.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Everything was a blur. From being grouped up and marched under duress into the confines of a much larger chamber, the mock details and the intentions they carried lost on even an educated man like Phrike under the guise of his own paranoia and fear. He could feel the base instincts of his being rise to the surface, his mind going blank as he began to hyperventilate, shaking so rapidly his rifle clattered to the ground in front of him.

In fact, if it hadn't so, he might not have been there. Scrambling to the ground after his weapon, shrapnel tore up the empty void he left and hit one of the 8th behind him. Without a care for the masculinty in it or the bravery of some of the others, he screamed, arterial spray from the man behind him warming the exposed left side of his face as he fell to the ground; dead. There was no point for Phrike to even check. No one survived having their entire throat ripped out by a jagged chunk of metal.

Like an animal, he resorted to what he knew. He found a familiar face, the quiet Guardswoman, and he picked up his rifle with one hand as he scrambled low to the ground, impossibly low, as the barriers around him scorched and splintered, jagged chunks of metal embedding in the frame of the door as he passed it, coming up behind the woman and planting a hand on her shoulder, fearful she'd turn and openly cauterize him. If she cared even to turn, she'd find the man with watering eyes - whether from his own emotions, dust or smoke, it was hard to tell. He was barely holding onto his rifle, instead it was slung over his shoulder as he held onto the tattered remains of the man the woman had just stabbed.

He had a hand over the man's stomach wound, barely aware that this man prior to them had attempted to put lasfire on the woman through the doorframe. In fact, he dragged the man, still bleeding, into the bunker under the guise of gunfire, protected only by random debris. In that time, however, the man had gone into shock, bled out and died. By the time the Cutman got into the bunker with Octavia, his efforts were for nil - the man was dead and he was hauling him uselessly, barely able to get him into the door.

"Terra!" He cursed, a stray beam hitting the wall next to him and sending him scurrying into the ground, now using the dead man as cover. He drew his monoknife and began to cut the vest from the remains of the man, even with a giant hole resting just above the belly. With a resounding amount of effort, he pulled and the vest came free. Just in time too, as he threw it over himself and stood next to the woman, albeit not as confident. In a tone he was not quite proud of, more desperate than he hoped, "What do we do!?"

Octavia peaked out from the doorway of the bunker and made visual confirmation that the two or three remaining enemies from the closest squad were still pinned down, which they were. Seeing what she needed to, the Mute Guardswoman glanced to her side to make certain that the rest of her squad were making it into the bunker in good time. She noted that quite a few of them seemed shaken, the pale doctor in particular seemed unnerved. She didn't blame him. What they all needed to realise, however, was that here, even against fellow humans, they killed with the righteousness of the Emperor Himself. As long as they stayed the course of faith, surely they would prevail. Octavia leaned out of the doorway and cracked off a few more shots to hold the other squad down as the last few members of her squad scrambled into their temporary stronghold. One enemy fired wildly over the top of the wall he was using. Sloppy.

The footfalls of the fellow legionnaires entering the bunker distracted the Guardswoman momentarily, however, enough that she did not notice the enemy legionnaire priming a grenade to toss into the building. Unfortunately for the enemy soldier, her attention was not grabbed for long. Reacting quickly, Octavia snapped her weapon up and fired off three quick shots. The first scarlet beam severed the enemy penal legionnaire's throwing arm, sending the grenade (and the arm) bouncing into a pile of debris. The second beam punched a clean hole through his chest and sent the effective-corpse into the ground. The third beam missed entirely and singed a piece of metal further beyond the other squad. A few moments later the grenade detonated, sending the mutilated body skittering across the ground before it came to rest on a rusted hulk of metal. Satisfied for the moment, Legionnaire Westerlund let her weapon fall at ease for the moment.

Keenly aware of the two remaining enemy who were firmly entrenched outside the bunker, she began to think of a way to flush them out. Looking over the other members of the squad, Octavia noticed that the one called Tigranes seemed to be fairing well compared to the others. He would serve for the next step of her plan. Taking her right hand off the trigger of her las-carbine she gestured at him with a "follow me" motion followed by a point at the grenades which hung around his belt and a quick jerk of her head towards the incoming lasfire which scorched the stone of the bunker. Mostly confident that he understood her (and semi-lamenting her inability to take direct command of the squad) she set her carbine against the wall and took a grenade in her left hand, splaying her hand out in front of her as a makeshift timer.

Folding her thumb into her palm first she counted mentally.

Five.

Her pointer finger was next.

Four. She flicked the pin off of the explosive, careful to press the handle down tightly.

Index.

Three.

Ring.

Two.

Small.

One.

She let the handle propel itself off before lobbing the device out of the bunker door and (if He is kind) into the waiting arms of the enemy. Ducking quickly back behind the safety of the stone structure, the Mute Legionnaire waited for the telltale blasts and subsequent ringing that followed.