It made no difference where you were, who you were, what was happening – they were coming for you, and they found you. They usually came in the form of your commanding officer, perhaps looking bashful or seeming oddly quiet for a senior ranking member of the Guard – 'cowed' may be a good way to describe it – escorting (or escorted by) another figure. This is the figure to be paying attention to, probably a near-silent and average looking individual, someone who wouldn't look out of place in the field or off of it, dressed in the most 'dressed down' version of your regiments own uniform.

They may say anything to you, usually a greeting and a remarkably common name, each always with the rank of Lieutenant, telling you that you had been selected for special operations and to stow your gear for transport; you were pulled from wherever you were, off the front lines and onto a plain but well stocked transport vessel.

Aboard the nondescript ship, like a hundred thousand other ships in the Imperial Navy, you are shown to your spartan chambers by a polite Naval officer. The chambers are large enough for a soldier, with storage enough for your clothing and your weapons, and you are told that there is no need to worry.

You should have worried more.

One night during your space-faring voyage, to a location you have not even been briefed on, you are woken to the sound of blaring klaxons and loud shouts from the corridors outside your chamber. Mere seconds later, too fast for you to grab a weapon, the door bursts open and a flash-grenade blinds you, a squad of masked men entering your chamber and mercilessly beating you into submission with electrical prods and truncheons.

Before you slip into the blackness of an unconscious mind you may wonder many things, but get answers to none.

---

---

Something ice-cold splashes over you, and you jolt suddenly awake to find that not only are you blinded by a blackened hood, but that all of your limbs are tied expertly to a chair – there is no distinctive sounds to be heard, no signs of anyone else in the room (you assume you're in a room anyway). Temperature wise, you would be better off in the void of space it is so similar.

“Tell me,” questions a voice suddenly, your senses sharpening at the sudden sound, the sound of lips moving all that you can hear, “who are you, where were you going, and what are you doing aboard this ship?”

The voice is as cold as the water - the freezing water that still clings to your stripped-down form and drips onto the floor about your feet, chilling you to the bone – no hint of emotion giving away anything, straight as a bullet and just as penetrating.

Maybe it would be wise to choose your next words carefully? These could well be your last moments, best not to waste them.

(OOC Just to clarify here, you're not all in the same room at the same time, in case you were wondering.)

Cold. It always had to be cold, didn't it? He froze time and again in trenches logged with snow and mud which had become a thick frost layer. Clutching his M36 with bayonet fixed, poised against the traitors. He froze there, the cratered snow plains as again and again they were thrown against prepared positions. He was a youth then, a 'Whiteshield'.

It was his first time on the front line and the first time he ever faced down Chaos. He recalled, that coldest winter where more than 75% of his unit died throwing themselves against the enemy or freezing as they defended against the counterattacks. And it was there he became a true Guardsman.

He jolted awake with the cold nipping at his skin, the nerves flaring with pinpricks of cold. Darkness met his eyes, the cold, waterlogged fabric clinging to his nostrils and mouth, constricting his breath, and his spine shivered when addressed. Whether the coldness of the water or the voice, he himself was not sure, but his mouth became ajar as he breathed in what he could with a deep gasp, his fogged memory recollecting, his training, the training of respite and silence in capture, and despite his bind, he spoke with clarity and purpose, voice muffled only by soaked fabric, not by sniveling or wavering of fear.

"Corporal Austen Corby, service number 4093375." He cut off his voice, and said not a word more.

Darkness enveloped the dreamless rest of the guardsman medic, brought on by painful and unnatural means. His large, battle scarred chest heaved with each wheezed breath- the battering of batons and electrified clubs had done little good for the aging sergeant's body. The freezing air bit at his skin like a swarm of invisible insects, chewing at his exposed flesh with impunity. Though the cold was certainly unappreciated, it was the silence that struck hardest of them all. He could deal with the tendrils of darkness choking out the light. Warmth was a commodity a soldier born on a frozen ice ball could live without, though it was incredibly discomforting. But silence? There was nothing more unnerving for a man of war than to hear nothing at all. Not the whirring of an old spaceship. Not the crunching of forest leaves. Not even the wisping of the wind met his ears.

None of what had occurred before he was unceremoniously beaten and knocked unconscious made much sense to the Cadian warrior. Some mook in his own regiment's uniform showed up to take him away. Somethin' about being recruited for 'special operations.' It caught him off guard. There wasn't nothin' about him that made him think he was worthy for such a post, nor did he know how he'd gotten their attention at all. He was a foot soldier with some medical training, and little more; there were trillions of men just like him throughout the Imperium. Yet for some reason, that bastard came for him. What followed- his arrival in a nondescript space transport, and placement in a fairly cushy room- was mundane. He'd been told not to worry. Thinking back on it, it was a mistake to let his guard down. He still struggled to figure out why it happened. Why had he awoken to the sound of klaxons playing across the cruiser, and men shouting in distress? Why had men in dark garb and masks come for him, specifically, and beaten him to within an inch of his life? Even with the medical officer's physical might, he hadn't held for longer than a second or two. All he'd gotten out was a good two punches before his lights were knocked out.

And now he was here. Wherever here was.

Ice cold water splashed across Sergeant Frank Steiner's body, illicting a gasp from the man. He tried to jump up, but his body was tied down to the chair beneath him. "Shit!" He shouted, his gravely, baritone voice swiftly followed by an undignified series of sputtered coughs. Water was leaking into his mouth and nose, through whatever black cloth was pressed tightly around his face. So it wasn't just dark wherever they were keeping him. Franklin pulled at the binds about his arms. He kicked out with his legs, struggling harshly against them even as the cords bit further into his skin. The soldier of Cadia's breaths were ragged and harrowed, struggling not to drown in the unearthly cold that surrounded him. The water was likely meant to wake Steiner up, though he'd been conscious for several minutes already. A brief interlude of silence was followed by a non-descript voice asking him a series of questions. “Who are you, where were you going, and what are you doing aboard this ship?”

Steiner let out a harsh, rasped laugh. He stopped struggling against the binds, turning his head about the 'room' despite the fact that he couldn't see jack shit. So he was still aboard the ship. That was good to know. Whatever was going on, it was clear Steiner's life was hanging by a thread. These people had attacked him for an unknown reason, and were now interrogating him. It could'a been pirates. Maybe they boarded the ship, beat everyone down and took over- though Frank thought he'd be dead in that sorta scenario. "I uh, I could answer those questions for ya. I could." Steiner nodded, his metallic fingers scrapping against the chair he'd been strapped to. "But how 'bout you kiss my ass instead?" The medical officer chuckled again. "I dunno what kinda show you're runnin' here, bub, but you're off your rocker if you think I'm telling you a damn thing. What, you think you can strip me naked and toss some water on me and I'll break? 'Oh no, oh please don't do that! I'll get cold!' Get real, you pirates are all the same. Stupid bastards."

The Kriegsman, when he arrived in his quarters didn't have anything to do. He lay down his gear and after a rapid check on it followed by a much longer prayer, sat on the bed, waiting. Eventually he pushed further back until he was reclined upon the wall, and went into deeper thought. As it stood there was no assignment he currently had so there was absolutely nothing to do but wait in silence. So, he did.

Naturally, it was not long after until he was interrupted. A flash grenade went inside and following drilled procedure Draeta stood up and went forth, shielding himself whilst also trying to escape and somehow resist the enemy all at once. It was futile, for after a shock and a whack or two he was more or less helpless. He tried to resist as only someone that believed his life's worth was in it's potential for sacrifice could, but it amounted to no success beyond the spasms from the shocks including more movement than the henchmen would most likely expect. Epsilon didn't faint until his body forced him.

---

Once he awoke, someone spoke. That was only of secondary importance, considering he wasn't aware of the entirety of his surroundings. it was awfully cold... Epsilon had dealt with cold before, much worse than this but something about it was different and piercing; it even got to the air he breathed. Only then did the reason for this alien sensation dawn. He was out of uniform, particularly his gas mask and it wasn't even because he was injured which would have been acceptable - relieving even, when compared to the horror of this. He struggled a little, trying to break free of the bondages but it was to no avail. Then, he did his best to examine the person(s) interrogating him but once again it was a hopeless effort, even if hope was every something that crossed the mind of the Guardsman. He was stripped down, and the best he could guess then was that he was somehow captured by a hidden boarding party from Chaos pirates of the purple-pink variety he sawn on his first deployment, the ones that somehow tried to lure him by wearing little and having strange voices. However, if these were enemies of man he'd smite them just like the last, caring not for any pathetic lusts they tried to find in him.

No, there were more important things than answering whatever these heretics had in mind. "Where is my equipment." he said, knowing the Holy Bond with it was currently broken. If he was any judge he had already skipped another maintenance and performance check upon it. "My issued gear was entrusted to me by the Quartermaster Cadre by the Company Commander until the Chain of Righteous command reaches the God-Emperor himself, so it is my duty to keep proper care of it. Where is my equipment." After repeating his question a few times he'd take a break so the counterpart could reply. During this time, Epsilon shivered. By the standards of the other Guards to be in this special unit he was most likely not naked, but by his own standards he could only get more naked if he started peeling skin like a potato.

Corporal Laen burst awake with a choking gasp of cold air that stung her throat. She spent a few moments fighting to regain her bearings, her head swimming and her senses overwhelmed with aching pain and freezing cold. She was surrounded by only darkness and silence, completely disoriented. For those first few moments, she felt as if trapped in a nightmare, alone, utterly helpless, as if the Emperor himself had abandoned her.

Then her senses started to return to her through the disorienting fog. Every part of her hurt. She felt nauseous, but managed to fight back the urge to vomit. The small amount of clothing she still wore was soaked through, sticking to her skin like ice, chilling her to the bone. At least it numbed the pain slightly. Throne, her limbs felt so heavy.

Think...think... Even that hurt. Where am I? A ship? Yes, a ship. How did I get here? The throbbing pain in her head made it so hard to focus. She was shivering uncontrollably, her hands and feet felt lifeless. She tried to move them, nothing but stinging pain. Then she realized why. Panic flashed through her for a moment and she pulled at her bonds again frantically, serving only to dig the bindings into harder her flesh. Even at her full strength she would have had little hope of freeing herself. She steeled herself. She was a Cadian, a soldier in the Imperial Guard, a survivor of unimaginable horrors. She could get out of this, she just needed to think.

“Tell me. Who are you, where were you going, and what are you doing aboard this ship?”

She lifted her head to face the source of the voice, straining to focus on his words. “I-Ines...Corporal Inessa Laen.” She managed despite everything, forcing herself to keep the pain out of her voice.

She focused, hard, slowly realizing she did not know the answers to the rest of his questions. It started to come back to her after a few moments, being separated from her unit on special assignment, staying aboard a naval voidship, this voidship apparently, with her own quarters. Everything had been going well until...until it hadn't. Now she was here.

It happened as fast as a Salamander scout vehicle moves. The sounding of the warning klaxons to the rampant shouts outside the chambers to the sudden flash grenade and the subsequent beating into submission... then the darkness. Everything had been a tide Nyree attempted to fight against in a matter of seconds, yet quickness was not her forte. It had taken the better of her assailants' strength to put down the muscular workhorse that Nyree was, but the electrified weapons battering down on the guardsman soon had become more than enough, zapping away at what strength and stamina Nyree possessed until her body failed to put up any more resistance.

Nyree wasn't sure how long she had been out, remembering before when the plasma gun she was carrying had knocked her unconscious. Right now had felt no different that the darkness Nyree experienced earlier, except now the Belis Coronan was accompanied by a freezing cold and water-logged fabric clutching her face. The coldness chewed away at Nyree, primarily her right arm where hardly any semblance of a limb existed. It was like a serpent, gliding deep within Nyree and nipping away at the bone that had only been covered by a set of scarred muscular and skin tissue.

“Tell me. Who are you, where were you going, and what are you doing aboard this ship?”

A voice spoke; one that Nyree couldn't recognize. It hadn't sounded like the lieutenant that had guided Nyree to her quarters earlier, and so she was left wondering. However, despite the blackness around her, the assailants clarified information for Nyree. They were still on the ship, yet in an unknown location that Nyree couldn't see or knew of. Something must've had happened on the ship... an uprising, perhaps? Biting her lip, Nyree smirked at her assailants despite the fact they couldn't see her face. "Private First Class Nyree Donnall, 2nd Squad, 3rd Platoon, 1st Company of the 13th Belis Corona."

"For where I'm going, I go wherever the higher ups or the Emperor tells me to go." Nyree responded, her words fiery as she was. What struggling Nyree had done to break free from her binds was to no avail, finding them expertly tied. Still, Nyree knew she had to try. What kind of soldier would she be if Nyree died bound to a chair by someone she couldn't see? "For what I'm doing, that ain't none of your business, bub. It ain't like a guardsman to crack under pressure so easily. I've seen worse on the battlefield than your 'big and bad' interrogation methods." Nyree continued, finishing with a mocking huff.

---

It had seemed like a dream come true. Getting chosen by special request is the kind of thing you only hear stories about happening to other people. After getting passed over for corporal by some bloody 'arse kisser again this seemed like one hell of a silver lining. Screw becoming a devil this was the kind of recruitment where you heard about eight foot inquisitor types taking you in. Granted a lot of the time those same inquisitors went on to burn the guardsmen they took away but Barrows wasn't thinking about that.

He was thinking about the palace of a room he'd gotten on the ship! His own damn room! Not some hammock or bunk crammed in with the rest of the grunts and fart breathers. He had his own bed, with sheets and everything, he could even lie down on the floor and not get eaten inside out by whatever lived there. Barrows had really gone up in the world. Now he just had to dig in and hold onto his spot here, which shouldn't be too hard. A Catachan man was worth ten storm troopers and blue bloods any day. This was it, this was when all his years of bloodshed and murder paid off.

Then the klaxons went off and a fraking flash bang went off in his face.

"Bastard!" The Catachan barked as he wildly lashed out at the bodies that surrounded him. Fists went flying and Barrows' ego told him that he'd broken some noses or something in the fray, that or he'd punched flak armour because felt the familiar warmth of blood on his knuckles. Fierce as he fought though he went down in the end, being only human as he was.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Cold was a rare feeling for a man born to tropical humidity, so when the blast of cold water woke Barrows from his daze it also shocked him into making a bunch of embarrassing yelps and grunts as his brain went mad trying to work out if it was dead or not. Once he'd recovered himself Barrows had time to feel ashamed and resolved to kill any witnesses to this low point in his life.

“Tell me who are you, where were you going, and what are you doing aboard this ship?”

"I'm the man who's gunna shove this bag down your throat if you don't untie me right now, Sunshine!" Came Barrows' muffled roar through the black bag covering his shaved head. "Sp get to it so I can find your mother's house and give her something to hang her washing on!" His bindings still hadn't broken but that still didn't stop the musclebound trooper from straining at their limits and doing his damnedest to break free through brute strength.

@CaptainBritton

The silence extended for a few moments more, Corby clearly intent on sticking to ingrained conventions of interrogation. His captors were somewhat – though not that – impressed, some usually blurting things out and most commonly spitting threats at them. The man before them was uncommunicative, for the moment.

“You are a Cadian, yes?” The voice spoke once more, as toneless and devoid of emotion as it had been before, “the armour in your chamber tells us as much.”

There was a slight movement of somebody, or something in the darkness, then the sound of clinking.

“These tell me that you were part of the Cadian 117th? Interesting, you must be quite tired of having no home to call your own, Corporal. Tell me, what were you doing aboard this vessel? Who are you working for? I do not want to break you like the Despoiler broke your homeworld...but I will.”

What had been dog-tags were placed back down somewhere, the voice slipping back into silence once more.

---

---

@Superboy

Something came from the outer edges of wherever Steiner was held, a queer sound that did not sound like human laughter but was laughter nonetheless; it had a reedy quality to it, flitting through the air like music and slipping into the ears of the middle-aged medic. It lasted for a moment and then cut off abruptly, plunging everything back into stillness.

When the voice spoke again it was right next to Steiner, as if standing right behind him and speaking into both ears at the same time. How was a good question, there had been no footfalls to signal movement, not even the rustle of clothing.

“Hhhhmmm...you think that this is cold? Oh, my dear medic – yes, we have your equipment right here – you seem to think that this posturing and bravado will end well for you? Come now, you have enough brains to stitch someone up, yet not enough to realise how much trouble you are truly in.”

Sergeant Steiner may then have felt, or not felt, a slight pin-prick in his upper arm – the effects of the injected solution evident almost immediately. It would start with a slow coolness building up around the bicep in his right arm, the coolness getting ever colder as it spread throughout the veins within his arms musculature, becoming colder and colder...and colder. His arm would not go numb though, as was natural, oh no, the intense chill would be ever-present and ever-evident within his arms bloodstream, as if the chill of space had been diluted and injected straight into him.

“There is more where that came from, medic. Do not make me do it again; I want your name, rank and unit, and I want to know why you are here. The pain will only get worse.”

---

---

@Andreyich

“Where is my equipment?!” The voice that spoke back to him was a perfect imitation of his own, down to the almost emotionless inflections, yet with an added whinging inflection not present in the original question.

Slight movement was followed by the sound of a strap slapping against the main article, nothing more than the gas-mask taken from Draeta after his capture and subsequent unconsciousness.

“You are a man of Krieg, this we know, do conventional interrogation will not work on you, will it? No.”

Obvious footfalls bought the speaker and voice to within an arms length, every syllable spoken in over-perfect Gothic, unseen eyes boring into the Krieger from beyond the veil of the hood.

“Listen closely. If you do not tell me your designation, your unit and why you are here on this ship, I will not torture you – torture would be redundant on one of your kind – I will imprison you. I will imprison you for as long as your life holds out, for as long as it takes for you to meet a slow and miserable end bought about by the ageing of your body. You think that your Emperor would want that? Do you really think that he would accept your sacrifice outside of martyrdom in battle?”

The footsteps moved away from him, back into the shadows of the completely black room, “answer the questions.” Stated the voice flatly, before plunging back into quiet.

---

---

@AdvancedJ3lly

“Corporal Inessa Laen,” repeated the voice back to her, rolling it around the mouth as one might swish a fine vintage wine, tasting it in every word, “well Corporal, I need answers to my questions, and if you cannot provide them then what use are you to me?”

Somewhere in the darkness the sound of a humming began to take place, a humming that would be all too familiar to Inessa, the humming of a las-pack being placed in a weapon and beginning to charge to a state that would burn a hole straight through her if fired.

“I do not want to hurt you, Inessa. In fact I would like to free you, truly, but I need the information that you have...so you can see my predicament.”

Another sound would reach her now, that of a barrel tapping on something which sounded most likely like a metallic table top.

After a few minutes of silence, every sound fading away, the faceless voice started speaking once more.

“What regiment were you with, Corporal? Where were you deployed? Why are you on this ship? Who bought you here? I want answers, soldier.”

The questions came at a swift pace, one after another, the tapping of a barrel beginning again.

---

---

@Poi

“You will crack, Private First Class. Not that I need you to, you have already given me everything I needed to know – and if you hadn't, well, others have already talked.”

The hood was swiftly removed from her head, removed to reveal...nothing; the room (if it was a room) which she was being held in was as pitch black as the void. Not a single dot of light shone from anywhere, nothing could be seen, even the rest of her body was invisible to her own eyes in the darkness.

“They broke...yes they did,” the voice seemed to sneer, drifting from the blackness like a serpent, “what are you doing aboard this ship? Who owns this ship? Tell me and perhaps the others might go free. Refuse, and the blood of comrades will be on your hands.”

---

---

@Dogematix

“Please stop struggling, you might hurt yourself.” There was definite amusement in the voice as it spoke, the bag removed from the Jungle Fighters head to reveal as much as it had to Nyree – nothing but the dark.

“There can be no doubting that you are one of the infamous Catachan fighters,” stated the voice, “more stupid and full of rage than anything else. I must say that your array of close-quarter weapons are impressive though, very impressive.”

Silence followed swiftly, before a singular light appeared in the darkness, a red object – looking exactly like the red bandanna that wrapped about every Jungle Fighters head – held above the flame and then enveloped by it. Quickly it was thrown to the floor, the object burning before the eyes of its owner, a singular light in the enveloping black.

“Name, rank, regiment and what you are doing aboard this ship, please. There will be no shoving of bag nor meetings with mothers, but suffering will be the fate of your fellow prisoners, believe me when I tell you that.”

Something rustled in the dark, the voice speaking with a tone that showed the speaker most certainly was smiling.

A sigh proceeded the next vocalisations, but these were ones that may make the large man pay attention.

“I have here a juvenile specimen of what your people call a 'Brainleaf', a rather queer name but not altogether incorrect. I have heard that they control your body, yes? This is something I would like to see, so please, keep refusing to talk and let me find out exactly how it works.”

There did not seem to be any guile in the threat, only a seriousness coolness of an emotionless individual, but were they bluffing? And if they were not...?

'What the hell...?'

Steiner's lips fell downward from the mocking grin he'd held underneath the hood. That sound...It was laughter, of a sort. But no man could utter such a grotesque, high pitched sound. Though the chortle was surprisingly pleasant to the ear, it met with nothing but disdain from the imprisoned medical officer. A distinct, deep-seated hatred, ingrained into his heart from practically the day he was born. Franklin's scarred visage twisted into a grimace, a low, throaty growl escaping from his chapped lips.

"Chaos." He all but spat it out. The very word made his stomach churn. Every vile image of those inhuman monsters blowing apart his comrades came rushing back to the forefront of the Cadian's mind. Every las shot that melted through an old friend. Every crack of an autogun that blew their brains out the back of a soldier's skull. Steiner wouldn't forget the sight of cultists with chain weapons tearing through his lines, chewing apart flesh and spitting out clouds of red mist and gore.

So they weren't pirates. The men that beat and kidnapped him were heretics and traitors to the Imperium. Vile pieces of human garbage and refuse that did not deserve the ground they shit on. Those who turned to worshiping the daemons that destroyed once beautiful Cadia deserved nothing more than a las shot through the eye. "Scum. You're fucking scum." Steiner rasped, fury barely contained by the fact that he held no power here. He'd...never been this close to Chaos worshipers before. Not without bayonet or combat knife in hand, anyway. It was almost a surreal experience to hear that distorted, inhuman voice, as if it came from all around him.

The owner of that otherworldly voice seemed to float before Steiner, making no sound other than it's practiced speech. It spoke of the cold; as if that bothered him. Decades upon frozen world after frozen world had built up an immunity for even the harshest tundra. Fighting with little more than a cloth upon his back in the slush and snow, heated only by the occasional shot of las, was more common for Frank than breathing. His interrogator had captured his equipment already. They knew he was a medic. 'Which means they've got my tags, too. The hell are they asking for my name for, then?' It was a tactic of interrogation. Present Steiner with a seemingly ordinary series of questions, so that the later, more pressing ones come easier from his loosed lips. Frank wasn't a traitor. He was a lot of things. But he damn well knew he wasn't a traitor.

"Lemme have it, then, ya piece of fuckin' shit!" Steiner roared, the needle piercing into his system like a bayonet through the gut of a man. The medic sucked in air between his teeth. It didn't take long for the unknown substance to begin it's work. He was getting...colder. Much colder. It was as if winter itself had been transferred into his body. Frost's cruel maw wrapped around his insides, sinking it's frozen teeth deep into his form. 'What...What is this?' This was different. This wasn't...anything he had ever encountered before. It wasn't a feeling he could adequately describe. Somehow, the cold wasn't numbing him. It continued to bite and eat at his interior. Anguished, pained groans fell from the sergeant. His breathing was ragged and shaky. He dug at the restraints on his arms, bucking and fighting against them, but he made little progress.

"You've...already got.." Frank muttered, his voice shaking from the freezing cold in his veins. "My tags, right? Y-you've got my name.." Steiner wasn't deluded. He knew how this would end. Captured by the forces of Chaos, he'd be lucky to die in any kind of quick fashion. These 'men' were sadists. They would make the sergeant hurt, even if he gave them everything they wanted. There was nothing Frank could do to stop this, or even slow it down. This...this was happening. He was gonna die, and it was gonna be slow and it was gonna hurt. Nothing could change that. So why give them the satisfaction? Why endanger his comrades by giving up even an ounce of information? It wasn't worth it. "I got enough brains to know...that you don't have anything on me." Steiner's rasped laugh held even greater contempt than the last time, though his strength was rapidly fading in the cold. "I'm dyin' either way. But if I can go down spittin' in the face of your 'gods?' Then that's enough...for me. So go ahead. Do your God damn worst. I can...I can take it."

If they could see Barrows in his bindings then these torturers would have seen a torrent of emotions play out across his face. The frustration of struggling against his bonds, which their mockery only encouraged him to go at even harder. The damn things had to be straining at this point! If Barrows could cut and rip through vines then this couldn't be too different.

What finally got him to freeze was the sight of his bandana... and seeing it go up in flames. His first badge of honour. The closest thing he had to a uniform. The blood oath that bonded him with his Catachan brothers made real and these pieces of shit had the nerve to burn it! That stop him alright, and for a moment turned him into a sniveling kid in front of the drill sergeant all over again. It had been a long time since Barrows had felt anything close to shame but here it was, battering down his shoulders like a throne damned sledgehammer. How could he go back to the regiment now, what would he tell them? To admit that he'd been so weak...

NO! He had to calm down. A slither of logic cut its way through Barrows' raging emotions like a knife between two ribs, as years of training and conditioning forced him to try and think clearly. Most folks would lose their bandannas at some point, yeah a lot died trying to get it back but it wasn't unheard of. The bandanna was just a symbol, just 'cus the symbol was gone that didn't get rid of what it represented, right? Besides, everyone would forgive him once he came back with a new bandanna dyed red in THESE SHIT STAINS' BLOOD!

It was the sigh they gave that put a second stop to his escape attempts. Something about it sounds wrong. It was the kind of noise that demanded the attention of his primal instincts. It screamed murderous intent, like a sadist relishing the moment before they went to town on some poor bastard's face. Barrows knew because he'd made noises like that plenty of times himself.

“I have here a juvenile specimen of what your people call a 'Brainleaf', a rather queer name but not altogether incorrect. I have heard that they control your body, yes? This is something I would like to see, so please, keep refusing to talk and let me find out exactly how it works.”

Well shit... that was a hard sell right there. Childhood conditioning was there to wrap Barrows in its warm embrace again and whisper those same comforting words in his ear. 'To be born on Catachan is to be born knowing you'll die in pain. Odds are you'll die screaming, howling in pain, probably with tears in your eyes. You can't control that but you can be the one to decide if you go down swinging.' And Throne help him Barrows would go down swinging.

"Ha! Well there's an age old question for you! Which is worse to have kill you, brainleaf or a spiker. I was always on the spiker side of the argument myself so I guess the Emperor has a sick sense of humour!" Barrows laughed, throwing back his head and letting his voice echo through the room. All while his mind raced.

'Think, think damn it, you're about to die!' His mind screamed as he desperately tried to think of ways to stall the people in the shadows. Quickly, and as subtly as he could manage, Barrows let his hands rest on the arms of his chair and set about feeling around for a weak point or a seam. If he could focus his strength instead of pulling wildly he might be able to slip out of this chair somehow. And if nothing else he could take some of them down with him.

"I'm guessing you bought it then. That or the leaf would have taken half your lads before you managed to get a bud under control. It shoots its leaves out you know? Throws them like knives so you never find one mindleaf out of reach of another. And you'd know that once it's got someone then the leaf does with the host what it wants, not what you want. So go ahead and use it 'cus this ends one of two ways. Either I get out and I kill you slow or the leaf gets me, and I get out and kill you quick!"

All while the taunts went flying he went on testing the integrity of the chair he was strapped to in a more methodical way than before. Once Barrows zeroed in on a weakness then maybe he could get himself free and get to work.

There was a twitch that even an Eldar would struggle to notice due to it's speed and microscopic scale, but nevertheless Epsilon had it in his right eye when he was mimicked. However when the man revealed he had the mask - and was disrespecting the item - it was much more noticeable with his head cocking on one side for a millisecond before returning to it's original position. His equipment seemed intact, but he was nevertheless distressed. Unused parts of his brain flared trying to tell him something, something to do with emotions, being taunted and the subsequent anger. However, he'd be having none of that. The only emotion a true servant of the Emperor had was love for his God-ruler.



In a fraction of a fraction of a nanosecond, the question was repeated dozens of times. Of course he wouldn't. But would he want to be betrayed? This brought more questions than Draeta would care to ask, but he nevertheless had to compute them. Cold logic was what was needed here and that was precisely what any Krieger had cart-loads of.

Draeta didn't smile because he wasn't stupid, and even if he was the soldier was nonetheless emotionless. However, it would the perfect time to if narrative causality had a say in things. All the while the man was speaking he was chewing his hooding hoping to get a hole in it for... something he had planned. He was quiet and did it hidden to all but the most attentive of eyes, but nevertheless the sharp and impeccable teeth were grinding hard. Whether or not it would yield, the Kriegsman would turn to the sound and lean in when it was seemingly the closest and say "No, he wouldnt...." before lunging out hoping to catch the counterpart with his teeth. All the while, he was howling "For the Emperor! Die heretic!" in unending repetition.

That took him back. The mocking, the patronizing. A soldier without a homeworld, just like his parents, and their parents before that. He tensed up, every cold, seized muscle in his body tugging and shifting. His teeth locked together, and he gritted them in not only anger, but spite. Were his eyes revealed he would've had the most bright hellfire burning within them.

The words continued to echo in his mind across the tense silence, his anger saying a thousand words, creating a cacophony of tension in the room. The words, they bounced, echoed, "No home.." and "Broke your homeworld.." He was angry, everything in his mind told him to yell out, cursing who or whatever captured him. But he remained silent, preparing his words articulately.

"Cadia stands as long as Cadian soldiers fight." He muttered, the familiar phrase from the lips of Ursarkar E. Creed himself, giving birth to a pride and nationalism even in the absence of a homeworld. He calmed himself in the ensuing silence, and yet repeated, his mouth now articulately and coldly stating again the same phrase: "Corporal Austen Corby, service number 4093375."

"Corporal Inessa Laen."

The voice made her shiver as much as the cold.

"Well Corporal, I need answers to my questions, and if you cannot provide them then what use are you to me?"

Its words were punctuated with a low-pitched hum. It took her a moment to recognize it through the pain that fogged her mind, turned her thoughts into an incoherent mess. It was a sound she had heard countless times in her short lifetime.

It was one of the most exciting sounds she had ever heard in her youth, the soft hum that announced the beginning of a live-fire excersize in the bowels of a voidship. It was one she had heard over and over in the quiet of her barracks as she spent hours loading and unloading her weapon, ingraining the simple motions into her muscles. It was the quiet, innocent sound that signalled the imminent destruction of a flakboard target at the end of a range.

On Thesh, it meant she was about to see combat for the first time. It was a sound that started the pounding in her chest, the rush of adrenaline, the anxious shaking of excitement and terror. And again, when the smoke cleared at the end of each brutal assault and a heavy silence fell over the killing fields, when the dead were counted and the dreadful reality of what had occurred began to set in, it was a sound of comfort, a sound that meant when the enemy came again, she would be ready.

On Stiri II, it was the sound that began every foot patrol. It was the sound of a dozen troopers reading their weapons in the cramped interior of a Chimera. It was the quiet sound of warning mere moments before an ambush. It was a sound she longed for more than anything when the ammunition went dry and the enemy was upon them.

But now, in this dark, cold room, it meant only one dreadful thing. She was going to die.

Death was what she had been raised for, death in the service of the Imperium. She had accepted that long ago and expected it to come much sooner than now. Only under the Emperor's protection had she made it off of those hellish worlds alive and if now he deemed her service complete, so be it, she was ready.

Inessa had always expected, hoped for, a sudden death. Perhaps for a heavy autogun slug to decapitate her in a firefight, or a lascannon to reduce her vehicle to molten slag. This was not what she had hoped for. The minutes seemed to drag on for an eternity as she hung her head, shaking uncontrollably from the cold, and desperately tried to remember the words to a prayer that wouldn't come.

The voice broke the silence again, drowning out her thoughts once more.

"What regiment were you with, Corporal? Where were you deployed? Why are you on this ship? Who brought you here? I want answers, soldier."

It could talk all it liked. She had no answers for it, none that would stay its hand without damning her soul. Things were better this way, better for it just to end.

“You will crack, Private First Class. Not that I need you to, you have already given me everything I needed to know – and if you hadn't, well, others have already talked.”

Following the assailant's remark, the hood was removed from Nyree, yet there was nothing for her eyes to adjust to. Everything was still pitch black, and Nyree had been unable to see anything, much less the rest of her body. “They broke... yes, they did,” The voice spoke once more, this time with a sneer. “What are you doing aboard this ship? Who owns this ship? Tell me and perhaps the others might go free. Refuse, and the blood of comrades will be on your hands.” It continued, the sound of assailant's voice being all that Nyree could hear.

Still, Nyree was yet to be intimidated, and if she could be truly honest, she wasn't amused by her assailant's little game. "Comrades?" Nyree replied as she tried escaping her bonds once more. If she gave them what they wanted, the rest would go free? Or, it was all but a trap, to which Nyree was certain to believe. "Must I remind you? Only a fool would believe your false lies. I am a guardsman. I'm destined to fight--and die--for the Emperor. Our faith protects even if death is to claim us. Should one of us die, ten more will take our place. Giving into a coward who refuses to show their face is not my way, and it certainly ain't the Guard's way."

A second ticked by as if it was an eternity. Nyree refused to back down, and continued to fumble with the binds strapping herself to the chair. Perhaps breaking free would be impossible, but Nyree had to try even if it were. A guardsman should never give up in the face of adversary--a saying instilled within Nyree by her commanders. It was then when Nyree began to hum a tune. "The Emperor points, and we obey. Through the warp and far away." Perhaps the song might've been a little bit out of tune, but it would be Nyree's refusal to answer anything further and to stand down.

---

@Jarl Coolgruuf@Dogematix@Poi@AdvancedJ3lly@Andreyich@CaptainBritton@Superboy

Things took a much more relaxed turn for what could have been anywhere from between ten standard Terran minutes to an entire hour, not that you would know, sitting hooded and bound within the darkness; for what seemed like an eternity there were no questions, not even rustle of movement to signify that anyone was even there – watching or otherwise. After some time you may even begin to wonder if there was anyone left there, no more questions or torture inflicted upon you and no sign of life to your veiled senses.

When life eventually did return, it returned hard!

You could not tell how many assailants there were, but certainly more than the team that had taken you before, blows from fists, brass-knuckles and batons hammering into your torso with enough intensity to severely bruise – perhaps even to break a rib or two – but not to kill. In time the strike stopped, leaving you battered and probably bleeding from body cuts, making way for the electrical batons and prods that would cause your body to twitch and convulse, to heave against your bonds, perhaps even to let out a noise of pain, but would send even the Catachan and those used to bodily violence slipping back into unconsciousness...

---

---

There is no sudden splash of water this time, you are left to awake on your own. Once awake you may quickly realise that you are no longer tied to a chair, oh no, you are now shackled with your hands behind your back and from there chained to the floor; the special thing about this chain is that it is not long enough for you to stand up from the stress position that you were placed in while you were unconscious.

Where are you? You have no idea, although it would be safe to assume still aboard the same vessel, the hood still over your head and darkness still prevailing.

Once obvious difference may come to you with time, and that is the sound of movement from nearby, perhaps some laboured breathing like your own...how many others are there in the room with you? Are they allies or foes? These are questions that might enter your mind, or maybe not.

How are you to know that there are six other prisoners in exactly the same position – one that causes the legs to cease up and the arms to become numb as the acid and cramps build up in your body- all equally as hooded and oblivious?

Grett had awoke not long ago when the sound of shuffling feet and clinking chains drifted toward him from beyond the darkness of his hood. He was still dazed and exceptionally sore from the beating he'd recieved but he was still able to tell that several people were now in the room with him. Unfortunately, none of those he assumed were his captors moved close enough for him to headbutt. Those in the room, were, however, well within range of the strings of vile obscenities he flung at them as well as mocking gibes claiming none of them knew how to give a proper beating, threats of obscenely grisly murder, and questioning of their mothers' sexual morality. Nothing he said got a rise out of his captors, much to his frustration.

He verbally abused his captors from the moment they arrived to the moment the door to the room clanged shut. The Ork Hunter was left to his own thoughts and the soreness in his ribs once more. He attempted to wriggle free of his bonds for the hundreth time to no avail but that didn't stop him from trying a hundredth and first time. A harsh sigh escaped what was left of his lips and the tooth-shaped projections on the cyberneric half of his jaw. Despite his assertion his captors didn't know how to beat a man, he was forced to acknowledge their proficiency at securing bindings.

He soon became aware of shallow breathing in the darkness. From his count there were at least four other people in the room, possibly more, now shackled in the room with him.
"Oi!" he called out, "any of you awake?"

When the Kriegsman awoke he had poor recollection of recent events. He thought back to the last period he remembered, not knowing precisely how long ago that was. He could not remembered if the bite had worked. Perhaps he successfully took out the interrogator and had somehow fought his way out? Then, why was he in such an odd position was an obvious question to disprove that suggestion. So, he had most likely failed. Now that more memories streamed in it seemed that they had once again subdued him with beatings. There was far more than the previous one, but the Krieger's reaction was nearly identical. It would again take a long time to get him unconscious, with him falling only when the absolute limit of his biological capabilities were stretched, and then some more. It explained why he still had a twitch every so often, feeling the after-shocks from the prods. Looking across himself he... saw naught but his bruise-blackened nose with the seams of where it was sewn back on a little torn. Draeta also tasted blood in his mouth, which he promptly swallowed to not waste anything.

A voice rang out, and it to his dismay wasn't another Krieger or one of some other authority as far as he could tell, another person possibly in the same predicament as him. Or perhaps a ploy to get him to speak, thinking there was another loyal servant?

Epsilon had to be careful here, for he didn't actually know anything for a fact. Perhaps all this was a drugged illusion? No, for now the best course of action was to await more stimuli to determine the nature of the situation from. At the moment, he was content to wait.

"Oi! Any of you awake?"

As Nyree came back to her senses, she groaned. Despite having no sense of time or wherever she was, Nyree was growing tired of being beaten in such a short amount of time. She, of course, wouldn't falter to whoever was holding her hostage, but Nyree knew dealing with the pain of constant beatings would be--for a lack of a better term--a bitch. The bag was back in place over Nyree's head, yet no sign of being splashed with water came. Instead the guardsman was placed in a rather uncomfortable position, chained to the ground and unable to move her body to a more comfortable position.

In an attempt to keep herself focused away from the pain, Nyree tried to hone in on whoever spoke. There had been others in the room Nyree was currently in. Whether they were friend or foe was an entirely different matter. There was a number of beings that were breathing, each equally groaning with shallow breaths. Were they battered like rag dolls just as Nyree was? It was a possibility that could happen to be true. Or maybe it was a trick. However, Nyree's captors did mention that they had her comrades. Were these the comrades they spoke of?

"Yeah... I think I'm awake now." Nyree responded, and proceeded to groan once more. If there was a chance of finding others in the same predicament as Nyree, it was best to try. If they weren't her "comrades" as Nyree's captors explained to her, well, she was dead already. Nyree had been in and out of consciousness, had no idea where she was other than a ship and the captors didn't seem keen to let her go. Perhaps now would be best to make peace with the Emperor before joining his ranks in the afterlife.

---

On and on like a rat that refused to realise that it was trapped, Barrows kept on pulling a twisting away his restraints. When things fell silent he almost didn't notice, thinking that they'd just gone to get new tools or take a break. At least Barrows could lift his spirits with a wry smirk at his calling their bluff over the brainleaf. He'd just managed to force his nails under the rim of a screw in the underside of his arm chair when the first blow to the back of his head came.

A sharp smack that jolted his chin into his chest and sent the darkness into a blur. A breath didn't even pass before more hits came. Fists and batons knocking lights across his vision and battering his body. Barrows let out a bestial snarl through his blooded teeth, a mixture of pain and raging frustration. Cursing these cowardly bastards the whole while. It was during this nasty downpour of abuse that he saw a dark blob flying at his face. Call it training or instinct that lead Barrows to thrust his head forward, presenting his forehead to the oncoming fist. It hurt like all hell but the upside was that hitting the hardest part of his skull made his interrogator's knuckle pop in a way that sounded bloody painful. Barrows didn't get to enjoy their cries of pain, his own drowned it out under the maul shock blasted him out of consciousness.

Barrows couldn't say how long he was out. Just that he came to with the same flailing anger that'd defined his day, and that he was tied up again. He fell about and groaned as he came back to his senses and tried to get to grips with the awkward position they'd left him in. There were voices around him now, not the ones that had been asking him questions earlier. They sounded as confused as he was.

"What in the eye bleeding hell is going on here?" The Catachan snarled, tasting stale blood in his mouth. He'd lost another tooth during that last beating... and going by the pain in his chest they'd broken a rib or too as well, never mind his nose.

When Laen awoke again with a groan, she felt little different than she had the previous time: disoriented, hurt, and alone. She tasted blood in her mouth and her breath came in agonizing gasps, each inhale causing pain to stab through her chest. She was no longer bound to a chair but instead chained to the floor, her muscles no longer numb from the cold but from the agonizing position she was being held in. The hood remained, robbing her of her sight.

She was not certain how long she had been unconscious, or what exactly had transpired since her latest beating. Hours had passed possibly...days even? She wasn’t even certain how long she had been awake before she finally became aware of her surroundings, or as aware as she could be in her current situation, through the aching and discomfort.

She heard something beside her, a quiet sound of someone stirring, the quiet clinking of chains, shallow breathing. She was not alone as she had thought. Then there were voices, not like the voice though, the one that had questioned her. These sounded confused, angry, pained like her. Perhaps they were others in her own situation, captured by some unknown foe, or perhaps this was just some game by her captors to torment and confuse her. She remained silent as she had before, neither finding the words to say nor the strength to open her mouth and speak.