The Valkyrie dropship shook like a leaf in the wind as it screeched through the torrent of acidic rain. The pilots were flying blind, relying entirely on spotty auspex readings to maintain formation and navigate. It was rough, but to the men and women of First Squad, Third Platoon, E Company, it was just the calm before the storm, something they had experienced many times before. The squad was crowded into the passenger compartment of the dropship, shoulder-to-shoulder. The only light came from a pair of dim red lamps on the rear wall of the cabin.

Sergeant Felder was positioned closest to the sealed ramp, his cybernetic arm gripping an overhead rail to keep himself steady, his lasgun strapped across his chest. He had fought through the entire Stiri campaign with first platoon until losing his arm to a heavy bolter round a few short weeks before redeployment. Rumor was that he wasn’t due to be medically cleared for duty for another few weeks and had excused himself from the medicae ward to participate in the drop. Whether or not he was truly fit for duty, it had stopped 1/3/E from getting assigned a non-com from the 103rd, and that wasn’t bad news.

The briefing hours earlier had been brief and straightforward: traitors had seized control of the hive and the 37th had been tasked with bringing down the Emperor’s fury upon them. E Company’s commanding officer, Captain Leo Tarilis, was not one for verbose speeches, he left that to the regimental confessors.

E Company’s intended drop zone and objective was a two kilometre stretch of the Hive Primus’ Grand Processional. The Processional, as Captain Tarilis had explained, was a massive thoroughfare, 500 metres wide in most places, even wider in others, that stretched across the upper-hive and linked the major hive stacks together. The Grand Cathedral and the governor’s Imperial Palace sat along the rain-soaked cobblestones and crumbling statues of the Processional, overshadowed only by the noble houses and crumbling towers of the spire. The Processional was to be secured and held against counterattack until the bulk of the Regiment could be deployed along it by more conventional means. Intelligence reports suggested the upper levels were still in the hands of loyalist forces. Weather reports had suggested a smooth drop. That had proven dead wrong.

The pilot announced five minutes to the drop zone, his voice stripped of emotion by the crackling vox and just barely carrying over the roar of the craft’s engines. Only three had passed since the pilot had announced ten minutes.

Jayne tapped the butt of her service issue shotgun impatiently. Three minutes out from drop and she was stuck with a 'Throne be damned' pea shooter as protection. After training for so long with the many and varied 'real' weapons her regiment had access to the simplicity that was the combat shotgun felt absuredly light and fragile in her hands. Like it would break over the first skull she would try and crack.

She missed the familiar and comforting weight of her stubber. The muscle jarring 'chug chug chug' of high calibre fire.... Anything less than a 50 calibre round just didn't have the same satisfaction when pulling the trigger. Her thickly muscled arm flexed as it gripped the overhead handle, keeping her steady as the Valkyrie pitched sharply to the left then levelled off again. She was proud of her physique. One of the strongest soldiers in the regiment bar none. And she would (and did) happily take opportunities to prove that honour on and off the battlefield.

Feeling a momentary press on her shoulder, Jayne knew that Geralt was fiddling with his grave-shute straps. He was a good kid, strong as a grox which was great in a heavy weapons teammate. But barely eight months out of his cozy PDF tour back in Elysia, the pressure of a true, honest to god battle was beginning to mount. And the tell tale giveaway of a green recruit was fiddling with their safety equipment. Checking and rechecking it a hundred times over again. Jayne hoped to see him through this fight and plenty more. He defiantly had a good future with the guard once he got some real experience under his belt. And a good year of routine and repetition of drops like this should see those nervous tell-tales become less and less common.

Jayne would never admit to feeling anything of the sort, Even to herself. Despite the fact that the ever familiar flutter in her stomach, that dull gut feeling that combined the worst parts of a wild imagination and a tinge of uncertainty and dread that built up before every combat drop. That was the worst part about a combat jump, the waiting before hand always felt ten times longer a wait than it really was. And the mind hand all that time to wander. It was easy for such an unoccupied mind to slip into imaginings of death and catastrophic injury.

Even if she refused to show the signs, her brain was still acutely aware that she was about to willingly leap out of a moving aircraft, some hundred or thousands of kilometers off the ground and dive headlong towards any number of unknown dangers that could be waiting for them on the ground. To say nothing of the likely hood of being shot out of the sky during the jump by some flak shell or stray round from some heretics autogun. Her brain was also aware that this was a very, very, very, very stupid thing for any human to willingly do. And yet somehow there were entire regiments worth of people just that stupid. And she was one of them.

Gripping the over hand rail tighter she fought to regain control of her thoughts. Better to clear the mind and think of nothing than continue down that thought path.

@Poi @Warborn123 @Ollumhammersong @Nohbdy

In the Valkyrie's cockpit, separated from the passengers, the pilot and co-pilot fought to keep the craft airborne. Even wearing photo-visors, visibility outside was virtually nil through the torrent of rain. They had kept their eyes glued to the glowing readouts and runes in front of them, relying on the precious data since first hitting the storm. Then, unexpectedly, they all went dark. The dozens of small blips denoting other Valkyries flying around them vanished, the runes displaying altitude and speed showed nothing. And, as if the Emperor had truly forsaken them, the first flak shells tore through the air like lightning.

The co-pilot squeezed his eyes closed and began praying. The pilot tightened his grip on the controls and pushed forward with grim determination. For three minutes they limped through the storm of tracers and shrapnel streaking upwards, battered about by the wind and exploding anti-aircraft fire. The comfort of the passengers was the least of their concerns, but they were Elysians after all, they would survive.

---

"One minute!" Sergeant Felder shouts over the relentless pounding of flak and gunfire outside, glancing at his chrono again. "Check your kit and start praying."

Blood was oozing down the sergeant's face now from his nose colliding with the bulkhead during one of the dropship's evasive maneuvers. He wipes it with his free hand, smearing it more than anything, and secures the respirator that had been hanging freely from his helmet, sealing it in place.

A loud bang rocks the craft moments later and shrapnel pings off the hull. The Valkyrie lurches to one side suddenly, throwing you all off balance and slamming the sergeant shoulder-first into the hull again before it slowly rights itself, metal groaning with the effort. At the rear of the cabin, the ramp unseals with a nearly inaudible hiss and begins to lower. A wall of cold air, rain, and deafeningly loud noise surges into the cabin to meet you. Peering out, you see the strieking light of large-calibre tracer rounds and the flashes of detonating flak shells cutting through the air in the thousands. Not far behind, you see an explosion illuminate the dull shape of another Valkyrie for a brief moment as it is engulfed in flame and tumbles downwards, trailing fire before disappearing below you.

"Now or never! Go!" Felder shouts over his micro-bead and waves you towards the open hatch.

Make an Ordinary [+10] Operate (Aeronautica) or Difficult [-10] Agility Test to leap from the craft and safely operate your grav-chutes.

@AdvancedJ3lly The numb freeze of Phillip's painkillers slowly faded away as Phillip anxiously ripped a respirator out of his bag and slapped it on his face. His breath steadily rose faster and faster as the valkyrie swerved to the right, causing him to violently lurch forward from his chair, choking on his own restraints. His eyes spotted the open hatch, with it's deep blue void, it was as if the sky was calling to him.

Phillip began to breath faster and faster and faster. He was practically engulfed in sweat, he was perfectly content with sitting in the Valkyrie. It wasn't the violent bloody death that scared Phillip. Surviving the fall was what truly scared Phillip. The last time he had jumped off a Valkyrie he had been baked in pain for a month, it was torture. at least with death he wouldn't have to suffer. But he had to jump. he had no choice.

Phillip unstrapped his chair and prepared himself to jump, he stared down the gaping maw of the hatch. The clouds obscured the sky and the ground was nowhere near sight. Then at that moment Phillip froze up. He thought about the state his corpse would be in, he was so high in the air that it was likely his arms would break off, his body would explode violently as it hit the ground, And it would be painful.

Maurice was standing right behind Phillip, unlike Phillip Maurice had been calm the entire time. He shoved Phillip, sending him spiraling down the hatch See you at the bottom Heathen! He yelled and then jumped down after him, laughing all the way. After falling for a while Maurice had stabilized himself using the Grav-Chute, thus ensuring him a safe way down.

Phillip fell down past the cloud, letting out a raspy scream, He frantically fumbled for the button of his grav-chute and slammed the button. Then with a sudden stop he hung in the air, slowly descending to the bottom. Phillip breathed in the air of his respirator. Letting it reach his lungs and exhaled it out of his mouth. He was alive.

One minute.

It was almost time for the combat drop. The sergeant ordered the squad to check their kit and say their final prayers to the Emperor, and so Brigan did. The trooper checked over his shotgun, ensuring the shells were in reach and safely secured lest they fall out mid-drop. Shotgun shells were at least half the size of one laspack, and Brigan didn't want to fuck himself over if he couldn't get to his lasgun in time. Once Brigan assured himself, the Valkyrie shook violently as it limped throughout the flak and anti-aircraft fire from down below.

Brigan jolted from his secured position, banging himself off the Valkyrie but nothing to the point as what their sergeant had felt from smashing his face into the bulkhead. However, Kyllan stumbled more than Brigan, struggling to keep himself upright to which brought a jest from Brigan. "C'mon, lad, it'll be worse if you can't keep yourself on your feet!" Brigan exclaimed as he affixed his helmet and respirator to his face. Bulky and uncomfortable for the many Elysians that wore it, but it was a better option than turning your head to mush on the way down.

The ramp soon opens, announced by a loud hissing noise and Sergeant Felder's orders. Brigan was ready to jump first, but the medic and his comrade had decided to be the lucky ones on this battlefield. Idiots... Brigan mumbled behind the respirator as Maurice shoved Phillip out of the Valkyrie, himself following shortly. They were Imperial Guard, and here they were goofing around by pushing each other out of a Valkyrie instead of jumping like they were trained to do.

Still, Brigan didn't have time to dwell on how foolish he thought the duo to be. He had a jump to accomplish, and soon it was Brigan's turn to jump. Standing on the edge of the ramp, Brigan vaulted downwards and fell at an alarming rate as he glided through the air in an attempt to avoid the nasty gunfire shooting upwards at the Elysians and their Valkyries. Once close to the ground, Brigan used the Grav-Chute to stabilize himself, landing safely down on the hive world.

Reaching for his combat shotgun, Brigan quickly checked to see if Kyllan had made the drop safely, to which he did. Making a quick sweep with his weapon, Brigan crouched behind some cover as he awaited for the others to land. Jumping through anti-aircraft fire was one matter, but being caught unaware was an entirely different matter. What had happened in the skies had shown the truth in that, and Brigan readied for himself for any odds that might be thrown against them now that they managed to land troops.

---

@Poi @Warborn123 @Ollumhammersong @Nohbdy

The buildings and spire-tops of Hive Primus materialize through through the smog alarmingly fast as you plummet towards the ground, falling between elevated highways and bridges linking hive-stacks and hab-blocks. On either side of you rise walls of metal and rockcrete like as you fall deeper into the hive than intended, far from your intended drop-zone. You glimpse on one platform as it passes by, a dock for aircraft or skycars perhaps, the familiar shape of a Hydra flak tank with it's quad-autocannons roaring and spraying massive tracers into the sky past you before you plummet past and its guns grow distant. Then, solid ground appears beneath you, any you activate your grav-chutes and gently descend to the rockcrete bridge that has become 1/3/E's new landing zone.

The storm that had battered your dropship seemed so distant now, little more than a steady, putrid rain dripping down from the bridges and platforms overhead and pooled on the roadway before draining even further down into the seemingly endless abyss below. Looking up gives you the impression of a great, man-made chasm crossed by rockcrete bridges and metal catwalks on every level. The sky was barely visible, a sliver of gray at the mouth of the metal chasm, hundreds of meters above.

The bridge was wide enough for a dozen vehicles or scores of people to travel side-by-side at once, a pathway to allow countless workers to travel from their residences to the great manufactorums and administratum buildings of the nearby blocks. It stretched at least a kilometer in either direction before reaching the thoroughfare running along the metal walls of the mountainous hive-stacks themselves. It served no such purpose now, only inhabited by the husks of dozens of vehicles: cargo haulers, transit buses, and personal transports stripped of any useful components. Some were riddled with bullet holes and scorch marks from some previous battle.

You glance around and notice the Sergeant is no longer among you.