It stopped. Everything stopped. The torture, the mocking. His captors seemingly disappeared the moment the words 'do your worst' had left the mouth of the Guardsman. Steiner kept his guard up for several minutes. He listened intently, trying to make out some...ambient sound. But he could not. All the sergeant heard was the rugged sound of his own ragged breathing, and the muttered ambiance of the ship's dull, constant hum. Once it was clear the interrogator had no intention of speaking up again or applying more of that horrific cold inducement drug, Franklin dropped his guard- partially. He allowed himself to simply breathe, and take stock of the situation. He'd been captured, presumably, by members of Chaos. They had yet to mention their god by name, so Steiner's assumption was that he was dealing with Chaos Undivided. The same force that the Despoiler- the Great Enemy of Cadia- belonged to.

At least Steiner was starting to piece together information on his captors. More like educated guesswork, at this point; the longer Frank was imprisoned here, the more solidified his theories would become. It was odd that they hadn't been more upfront about their allegiances. Most cultists jumped at the chance to infect Guardsmen with the heretical teachings of their putrid daemon gods. Was Steiner dealing with a special breed? Or was there something else going on that he hadn't quite placed? 'Not that it really matters.' He thought with a grimace. 'I'm fucked, no matter who these guys are.'

Lost deep within his thoughts, Steiner hadn't noticed time withering away around him. He had plenty to think about. Plenty of regrets to consider, and horrific nightmares to relieve while he sat in the cold, listening to his own chest rising and falling in the darkness. It wasn't until a great force impacted against his abdomen that Steiner was wrenched back into reality; if one could call this hell real. A strike from a baton nearly broke his ribs. A fist cracked against his nose, drawing blood. They beat him. Steiner could do nothing but grind his teeth together and hold back an agonized scream as he was turned to a bloody pulp. Frank couldn't fight back. He couldn't move to defend himself from the raining blows. All he could do was tuck his chin against his chest with all of his remaining strength, and wait until it ended. It did, in short order, when electricity was sent cascading through his squat, muscular form. Not even a Cadian Shock Trooper could withstand such forces, and Steiner lost consciousness- assuming he would never wake up again.

But somehow, regrettably, he did. Steiner eventually awoke, his head swimming from the blunt force trauma it had endured. Steiner could taste the rust-like presence of blood in his mouth. He could feel it running down from his nose; it was harder to breathe than ever. It took a great deal of effort just to suck air into his lungs. Now his feet were on the floor. He'd been forced into a squat. Frank moved, the clinking and rustling of chains telling him all he needed to know. There was no getting out of his position. Perhaps if he was ten years younger and unharmed, Franklin could pull some acrobatic, gymnast shit and get his arms out from behind him. But there wasn't any way to get out with the chains firmly anchored to the floor.

When the panic faded, Steiner once more went back to listening. He could hear more out in the darkness. Breathing that was not his own. The interrogator had been utterly silent, so Frank knew this was a new presence- or a new tactic, depending on how cynical he was feeling at the moment. The medical sergeant tried to single out the number of individual patterns of breathing he could hear. Three...maybe four, others? Five? It was difficult to differentiate from some of them. Steiner could tell there were more than two, however, which led him to believe the situation had changed rather drastically. His captors must've figured they couldn't break him the old way, so they were trying something different. He waited until he heard voices. Someone calling out if any of them were awake. 'More prisoners?' He wondered, skeptically. Steiner chose to remain silent, continuing to simply observe. This could very well be a trick. An attempt to get him to open up to those he perceived as fellow 'prisoners.'

Or, Frank could genuinely be in cell with others like him. Other crew of the voidship that had survive the encounter and been taken captive. Another voice came. More high pitched. A woman, maybe. She sounded as distressed as the first man to cry out. 'Decent acting if they're cultists, gotta admit.' Steiner wasn't fully convinced yet. He continued to wait and listen. Another voice. A man, this one angry, demanded to know what was going on. Frank swore he recognized the accent from somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it. He'd worked with someone that sounded like that at least once before. 'Is that...A Catachan?' It had to be. What he was doing on that ship, he didn't know. But no one else in the galaxy sounded like that, as far as the medic was aware. Catachans didn't fall to Chaos, did they? Those from that ugly death world were legendary for their fortitude. 'Gotta be another prisoner. It's gotta be.' He tossed out the idea that it was a simple trick of the mind. Frank needed...some hope here. He'd go mad within days otherwise. So, taking a leap of faith, Steiner decided to speak up as well.

"My best guess? Our voidship was attacked, maybe by Chaos cultists. Tied me to some chair and tried to get me to talk. Wanted to know who I was and where we were going." Steiner gave the rest of the prisoners a rundown. If that's really what they were. "Didn't tell 'em a damn thing, though."

@Superboy
"Didn't tell 'em a damn thing, though."

"Too bloody right!" Barrows forced out a bitter laugh through gritted teeth. The cold was starting to seep into his skin good and proper now and he was a too used to the humid heat of the jungle for his own good. Still, it brought a kind of warmth to his chest to hear a fellow voice of defiance in here. You could have called it instinct that told Barrows that the voice belonged to a fellow soldier but really he'd spent his entire life surrounded by nothing but soldiers so it just became his default assumption when he met people. It stood out more when someone wasn't, the speech pattern, the way they walked, the way they breathed, civvies and desk huggers stood out to a Catachan's eyes like psychic nonsense to an astropath (or whatever the big brains were called).

"Cultists eh? Haven't gotten to punch one of those in the face before." He Pondered to himself while still trying to pull his bonds loose. Damn this lot were good at tying things up! "Don't suppose you got anything sharp while they were asking questions? Or anyone else?" He called out to the chamber. Barrows had heard other voices, and he could hear their breathing. If these were other prisoners - and he had no reason to think otherwise - then they had no need to be shy.

"We just need one of us to get loose, right..." He grunted, continuing to thrash ans twist around as much as his increasingly painful position would allow him. Like a wild animal Barrows was getting close to trying to chew part of his own body off! There was nothing else on his mind right now beyond escape, no tactics, no long game. If he was able to stay calm under situations like this maybe he'd have risen higher than private... a bruiser of a private didn't think about stuff like that when his body was screaming in pain and he was looking down tha barrel of a torture gun.

"Not a damn thing here either."
The Ork Hunter grinned under his hood when that unmistakable Catachan accent reached his ears. He'd made a number of friends among the Catachan Jungle Fighters when they were brought to the jungles in the Third War for Armageddon. He knew them to be reliable in a fight and relentless. Catachans were second only to other Ork Hunters on his list of favorite allies but that also made them his favorite rivals.
"A Catachan, eh? Well all-fuckin'-right, now we're in business!" Grett laughed and he could be heard shifting as much as his bonds would allow. "Gimme a minute here and then the lot of us can go crack some skulls on the way out, how's that sound?"

As difficult as it was to escape the stress position, it wouldn't be impossible. Orks like to take slaves every now and then so every Ork Hunter was given a bit of training in how to escape bonds. In keeping with the usual savagery of Ork Hunters, it wasn't pretty. There was a loud pop as Grett wrenched his left thumb out of its socket. The Ork Hunter hissed with pain and swore colorfully under his breath. He hadn't wanted to disable his thumb unless he had a plan and now he had one which mostly involved murder and escape so far. He began wiggling his left hand and using his remaining fingers to ease the restraints off his wrist, giving a small grunt of pain every now and then. Already he could tell this would take a bit more than a minute but it'd be worth it eventually.

"So, in the mean time let's all get to know each other. What's everyone's favorite color? Mine's purple."
His attempt a conversation was as much a means to pass time as it was a distraction from pain.

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

Whatever conversation may have been delved into by the assemblage of bound prisoners was cut as short as their ties, from one moment to the next things had changed rapidly, and those subjected to interrogation and questioning but a short while earlier were to find themselves in an altoghether different set of circumstances in three...two...one...

A ray of light entered the utter darkness of the room, the slow rumbling of a shifting doorway easily heard by the prisoners senses - that by now must have been straining for every sound - but one sound in a manifold audio bonanza; the quick and sharp snap of las-bolts overlapped with the deeper rumble of heavier munitions, bought to a crescendo by the crump and fwump of krak and frag grenades.

"Sir," barked an unknown and unseen figure, speaking of course to another individual of uncertain identity, "I do believe we have the new recruits."

"Ah, splendid work Sergeant, please remove their hoods and restraints."

The sounds of action that had seemed so close a moment before now appeared to move further away, deeper into the clandestine vessel, down corridors and depths in which no-one had walked for decades at least. It was a firefight to the death, as all those involved were aware.

With deft skill and speed the hoods were yanked from heads, the eyes of the prisoners adjusting slowly but surely due to the sliver of light from the corridor beyond the chamber containing them, restraints sawed apart by the razor edge of a serrated combat knife to allow motion once more; the man doing the unleashing made sure to step back each time, especially away from the Krieger, Catachan and Ork Hunter.

"Well," chimed in the more refined voice of the supposed superior, "it seems we have quite the eclectic blend here, as with all our hauls. Not too damaged by the looks of you. Yes, very good."

Allowing the door to be opened fully, a las-pistol held low in one of the gloved hands of the black-clad speaker, dressed in a suit of bodyglove and carapace armour that showed very recent signs of battle, enough light flooded the space to bring the patrician features of the man into focus.

He was of middling age, though his golden hair was beginning to show signs of graying, and his aquiline features and blue eyes looked over each prisoner as one might expect a predator to view their latest catch.

"Greetings chaps, my name is Major Bonham of the Emperor's most Holy 'Shadow Order', formerly of the Fifth Praetorian Guard, and this here is Sergeant Latentius of the Indigan Forty-Seventh." One finger of his free hand pointed to the masked but obviously more heavily muscled NCO who had returned to his side after freeing each Guardsman, "we are here to recover you."

A short snap of his fingers bought two similarly dressed soldiers into the room, a third very dead looking corpse dragged between them, and thrown to the floor at a word. This corpse was different, and in quite a discernable way; dressed in a tight-fitting suit of crimson and black, Bonham rolled the figure over to reveal the signature =][= of the Inquistion upon the las-scorched chest of the once-living Stormtrooper.

"I have no doubt that some of you may be quite shocked to see the identity of your captors, but I assure you that this is neither a test nor an artifical scenario. Let this be a warning to you that my Order has operatives, and thus enemies, in every echelon of our glorious Imperium."

Another order was given, several men entering the room carrying standard-issue las-guns and placing them on the floor before the Major and his second-in-command, retiring once more and hefting their hotshots in preparation for action.

"Now you get to make a choice - pick up one of these weapons and assist us in the culling of, what I assue you, is a most heinous adversary or remain here and think upon your current situation; I have done enough speaking, and questions will be answered, but now is the time for action. Soldiers of the Emperor, are you with me?"

As the door opened, Austen prepared himself for the next round of questioning, muttering to himself lowly. The sharp crack of las bolts and the whine of the lasguns which fired them stopped his heart. He wanted to speak, to inquire whether his fellow prisoners had perished, to lash out and face the same fate if only he could find the strength. But not a word left his lips, a deafening silence in his ears as the low rumble of warfare replaced the empty sound. They were being rescued! By the Emperor, the Guard, or even potentially Astartes, had come for them! He idly wriggled his restraints, a newfound vigor giving him hope.

And then the voice spoke. The absence of the rasping from a vox grill ruled out Astartes instantly, and he began to take in the words that were being spoken. He was cut free and sprung out of the stress position, attempting to stand fully but lowering back to his knee, allowing his legs to adjust to being free again. He met the gaze of the Major quickly, but could not for much longer. He felt humbled, his gear and even his jumpsuit stripped from him.

And soon, the corpse appeared before him, and Austen gritted his teeth, grinding them as the lasbolt-ridden stormtrooper was revealed as Inquisitorial. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, as one of the lasguns clattered before him. He gave a few seconds of thought, and scrambled on hands and knees, grasping the lasgun with his cold, numb fingers and making another attempt to stand, his knees nearly giving. But he remained upright, and attempting to meet the gaze of the Major again, he muttered.

"The Emperor protects."

The hood was pulled off of Inessa's head. She closed her eyes quickly as light painfully filled her vision. Then, her bonds were cut and she crumpled to the cold deck like a marionette whose strings had been severed. She laid there for several long moments, willing the pain to subside so she might move again. She dared to open her eyes, slowly letting them adjust to her surroundings, for the blurry grey shapes to resolve into the familiar sight of armed troopers and metal walls.

When she finally managed to pull herself to a sitting position, slumped against a wall, most of the other captives had been freed. She looked over her fellow captives briefly, seeing they were in much the same condition as her, before her eyes came to rest on the officer standing among them, their apparent rescuer. She considered his words, trying to piece together some coherent narrative in her head of what had occurred. Then the body was dragged in. The sight of the Inquisitorial icon on the corpse’s chestplate caused a sense of utter dread to fill her.

Her delusion that these rescuers were her allies was suddenly shattered. The Inquisition was the hand of the Emperor himself, and to act against an Inquisitor was to invite death and damnation upon oneself. These men before her were traitors.

Inessa Laen remained where she was, as much from the paralyzing thought of facing inquisitorial stormtroopers in combat as the pain that came with every shallow breath and movement. She had seen tempestus scions in battle once before and had heard the stories of Inquisitors, she’d be little match for either on her best day, and she was no traitor. She watched some of the other captives start gathering up their own weapons with a grim expression, her violet eyes silently condemning them.

Only a handful of other voices joined in after the sergeant spoke his piece. The Catachan looked for a means of escape, barking the hardy defiance that Frank had come to expect of men from his Deathworld. There was...a modicum of comfort amidst the frozen shade. He knew there were good men with him. If Steiner were to die, he'd at least not die alone. A selfish thought, he grimly considered, but one that made it just a little easier. There was the distinct pop of a joint being wrenched purposefully out of socket. It was a painful thing, but it sounded like someone was trying to wiggle their way out of their binds. Steiner chose to remain as still as possible. Let one of the younger men hurt themselves trying to get free- if it worked, he'd be out of his binds soon enough anyway. No need to go breaking anything just to hurry the process along.

While they sat in pitch black darkness, joking while they sat imprisoned, thunderous noises played in the distance. The aging sergeant strained his ears to make sense of what he was hearing. Those were...explosions? Was the ship going up in flames? No. Grenades. Someone was setting off krak grenades. "The hell is that?" He muttered from beneath his hood.

The cacophony of explosives was joined by the piercing zap of las-bolts. Footsteps grew close, then voices. Indistinguishable but very obviously human. A smile crept up the man's usual grimace. They were being rescued! 'About damn time.' He thought, light piercing the darkness even through his blindfold.

Among the chaos of battle, he could make out words. Among them, 'recruits' was the most pressing, as well as an order to set them free. Recruits? Were these the guys who had put him on the Voidship in the first place? That 'special task' the lieutenant had briefly spoken of, back home? It was the only possibility that made sense. The shadows cast by the hood were torn away with that piece of cloth, tearing away the veil to reveal the faces of his saviors. Men in carapace armor and wielding las-guns- Imperials. Steiner's hands and feet were freed. Finally he was able to move and flex, after what felt like hours of captivity. Standing on unsteady feet, the medical officer turned his eyes on the other stripped down prisoners he had shared a cell with. People of all different sorts. Women, two darker skinned jungle fighters- one a Catachan, the other unrecognized by Frank- and even some Cadians.

Across from them were the only two men who's names he knew. The noble-looking Major Bonham, and a Sergeant Latenius. He explained, in far too few words for Frank's liking, that they belonged to some...Imperial organization called the Shadow Order. He'd never heard of it, though there was much the grunt admittedly didn't know about the Imperium he so 'faithfully' served. Before the NCO was able to fully process what in the hell was going on, the Major made things all the more distressing when he called in more soldiers- dragging a dreadfully familiar warrior between them.

It was the corpse of a Stormtrooper. Belonging to none other than the Inquisition. A ghostly paleness passed over Steiner at the sight of the Inquisition's seal, plastered upon the carapace armor of the dead man. These were the ones that captured and tortured them? "What the hell?" Steiner held back a flood of curses that he so gleefully wished to unleash at the sight of that corpse. Nothing made a lick of sense. Bohman named them loyal officers of the Imperium. They were not traitors, even by the admission of the Shadow Order's representative. The only logical conclusion that Steiner could draw, then, was that this 'Order' was not as loyal to the Emperor as it claimed to be. Not if they slew Inquisitors and Stormtroopers. Yet those same Stormtroopers had detained Steiner and, apparently, the other prisoners. They had tortured them.

An option was presented to the soldiers of the Imperial Guard. Rifles were placed down upon the floor before them. Cadian pattern, by the look of them; standard issue throughout Imperial space. Bohman wasn't forcing them to take up arms against their captors. Against other men of the Imperium- adversaries or not, still loyal to the God Emperor. Steiner glanced around at the others, waiting to see how they might react. The first to pick up a las-gun was a young man with features that Steiner guessed descended from Cadia. 'Loyal as ever.' The medic thought. Next was a woman, of strong build and fiery hair, to lift up a gun and claim in a haughty tone that she'd shoot whatever they ordered her to.

Others were not so keen. The Cadian could see it on their expressions. They didn't want to fight against men of the Inquisition. Not against fellow Imperial citizens. To do so was to be branded a traitor and a heretic, to damn oneself forever. Frank understood their hesitance. If it were not for the circumstances surrounding the situation, he might even choose to deny the Major.

But circumstances did not allow for defiance. Frank bent down, grabbing up the cool metal of the las-rifle, feeling it's familiar design in his fists. It was a comforting thing, to wield that gun once more. It gave Steiner some sense of protection, even then. Even with the terrifying implications of his decision hanging just over his head. With heavy eyes and a sigh, the hardened medic turned to look at those who had yet to pluck up a rifle and join this 'Order' in their traitorous battle against officers of the Emperor.

"I'd do what he says." He began with a frown and a harsh gaze. "Either he shoots you now, or the Inquisitors shoot you later. They already think we're part of this whole mess. Didn't torture us for nothing." It was a grim thing to consider- in all actuality, there was no choice to be made here. If they didn't go with Bohman and Latenius, they would be: Stranded in the husk of a dead Voidship, doomed to die in the vacuum of space. Shot where they stood for refusing to join the Order. Or, if somehow they survived, they would be recaptured by the Inquisition and either killed immediately or tortured to death as traitors anyway. That's how the Imperium's finest conducted business. Steiner didn't like it. He hated it, in fact. But he- and his fellow prisoners- had only one option that might let them survive.

"By the throne, just pick up a damn gun."

@Superboy
"I'd do what he says. Either he shoots you now, or the Inquisitors shoot you later. They already think we're part of this whole mess. Didn't torture us for nothing. By the throne, just pick up a damn gun.”

Inessa looked to the speaker, a warrior much older than herself with a body covered in scars and signs of battle. She was being offered survival at the cost of her soul. This man was no different from the voice that had interrogated her earlier, and her decision now was the same as it had been then. This man valued his own survival over the Imperium. He would live as a coward, a traitor to his brothers and sisters, forsaken by the Emperor, and doomed to the Ruinous Powers. She would die a Cadian: a martyr, loyal to the end.

Her eyes looked to the lasgun cradled in his hands. “Then shoot me.” She said quietly. The simple statement robbed the breath from her lungs and she took a deep breath, wincing with pain, before continuing more firmly, “I will not live a traitor.”

If she were to pick up a weapon to fight, and she doubted she could if she tried, it would be to bring down the Emperor's wrath upon these men standing before her.

Still, Epsilon remained quiet as he waited, and as he was spoken to. When the hood was taken off his head turned nearly a whole hundred and eighty degrees to calmly stare at the man who had done it, in the exact same position he was placed earlier. Only about a minute later did he rise to his feet and he took one of the offered lasguns. He held it like it was some alien object that may well explode, turning the whole thing this way and that. He removed the las-pack, examined it and placed it once more within priming the weapon again. Then he grabbed another of the lasguns and put it before the guardswoman who had refused it, the weapon balancing perfectly on it's stock.

Grey eye might violet, and the Kriegsman had something akin to hope that Inessa would pick up the weapon; two loyal soldiers is better than one. "This female is correct." He said, moving his grip on the lasgun to hold it ready for combat. "Unless you have evidence incriminating the attacking members of His Holy Inquisition, we are committing treason against our beloved Emperor. I shall not stand for this. I will not be in your traitorous war, as she has decided to refrain from as well."

However, there were two other guardsmen who had yet not made the choice. The Kriegsman knew he had to appeal to them somehow to grab the lasguns so the issue of numbers would be at least somewhat sorted out. However, he knew that other people functioned differently from him in their thought process. The trouble was he did not know how they did precisely. So, he went for the truthful and precise. "You two men have most likely sworn some oath to our God-Emperor, and to be loyal to his delegates. You should take these arms, and arise for what is right."

This was all kinds of messed this was. If this was what things were like the further into the void people got then Barrows would have taken the madcap simplicity of orks and 'nids any day over this.

Just when the hot cracks of lasfire and thumping combat boots brought some hope to the beleaguered Catachan's heart and got it thumping again with something besides just rage and a sense of weakness and fear that his narrow mind refused to face or accept. That rise in feeling got a nasty gut punch when they turned over the corpse and he saw that unmistakable 'I'.

"Shit..." Barrows muttered under his breath. That symbol right there was a boogeyman round the campfire even in his neck of the jungle.

Around him lines were getting drawn in the sand as some of the other prisoner folk around him went picked up a rifle and set their feet in for all their own reasons. All Barrows could think was: What in damnation had he done to earn the eye of the inquisition? He'd never left his regiment until now! His whole life was spent in the jungles fighting xenos, folks like this should have been patting him on the back! Even this fancy pants officer in front of him was saying he was part of some "Holy Order". A shadow order... well Barrows had never heard of it.

Wait a minute, had one of them just called them the new recruits? Were they the reason he and the others were here? This was his special assignment and the inquisitors of all people took issue with it! During the few times him and the Devils had troopers from beyond Catachan join them around the campfire they'd spread stories about the shadowy agents of the Emperium and the endless schemes they made that no one could make any sense of. A lot of them involving betrayal and throwing lowly guardsmen like himself under the tank treads.

Barrows had never believed something so grand and threatening could be so incompetent though! He did believe they'd sacrifice people like him without a second thought but that wasn't anything new. Was this what was happening now, had he gotten caught between two warring inquisitors who were stepping on each other's toes the only way people like this could? Throne's sake none of this made any sense. To hell with it!

With a growl and a grunt the Catachan stretched his aching limbs and scooped up one of those offered guns. All around him the others were asking their questions and making their cases. Looking through the dim light it looked like the prisoners were ready to go for each other, let alone their captors. Barrows eyed them, measuring each one up. The one with the metal face looked like he could be an issue. The rest... hmm. With some back up he figured he could handle them. One of the lasses was built like a tank trap and looked like she could lift the others over her head but one was practically a kid and another one just looked tired.

Then there was this one with the hollow, intense, eyes. "You two men have most likely sworn some oath to our God-Emperor, and to be loyal to his delegates. You should take these arms, and arise for what is right."

"Seems like he's sayin' they're workin' for our beloved emprah too, Muchkin." Barrows said to the grey eyed trooper. "And that badge says otherwise." He nodded to the dead storm trooper at their feet. "Tell you what though, I made my oath and wore it with pride, and the folks who tied us up burned it in front of me!" While they laughed and shamed him in ways Barrows didn't want to think about. "No loyal man does that to another and I aim to take them to task for it."

Whether they were in the wrong or not didn't matter any more. Like the grizzled officer looking type from their numbers said, their choices were getting killed here or getting killed later and Barrows would always choose going down swinging. Besides, he'd promised himself some kind of retribution on those that had done this to him.

"And just what the hell is the shadow order anyway?" He barked over the other trooper's shoulder to the others in the doorway. He'd make better sense of this later but for now he'd stick with the people who weren't torturing him.

"Couldn'ta freed us before I broke me thumb?" the Ork Hunter grumbled.
He rubbed his sore hand as he stood and stared with narrowed eyes at the weapon on the ground. He shifted his gaze to the Major and fixed him with a suspicious glare. Rescue was not something his regiment knew. If an Ork Hunter is swallowed by the jungle the only people they can rely on is themselves and maybe their squadmates. He didn't trust these "shadow order" eejits even before they tossed the body of an Inquisitor to the floor.

Nothing made sense and he hated it. Things were simple back home. In The Green, you see an Ork and you shoot or stab it until it stops moving. Grett had done his job and done it well for more than a third of his life. He was a loyal soldier so anyone who'd kidnap and torture a loyal soldier wasn't one. In fact, that'd make them an enemy. There was no question that he'd like to give every one of these traitor Inquisitors a lasgun lobotomy, but he didn't trust his supposed "rescuers" for a second.

Still, they had given them weapons and freed them so they were at least not his list of things to maim and kill. His eyes didn't leave the Major or his company as cracked his thumb back into place and retrieved a lasgun off the ground. His gaze only momentarily flicked down to check his weapon was ready before he was glaring at the major again.
"Alright, but if you lot think I'm gonna be in front so you can shoot me in the back of the 'ead just before we leave then you got Squig shit for brains."

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

The expression on the face of Major Bonham changed slowly as further Guardsmen - or 'recruits' as he had correctly called them - decided to either refrain from grasping a weapon or otherwise flat-out refuse to serve as they should. While he did not doubt that the introduction of an Inquisitorial Stormtroopers corpse had not helped, he had genuinly expected more from these so-called veterans. So much had he expected that his jovial visage melted away like wax even before he began to move toward the body.

"You have questions, and I understand that, and they shall be answered before this day is through. For now, you must listen to me...especially those of you that would not take up arms for your Emperor."

Kneeling next to the corpse, he carefully peeled back the mask, revealing a face beneath that only the mother of a mutant could love; it was deformed, the flesh warped to the bone of the gaunt skull, hairless and greenish in colour.

"Looks can be decieving, and I applaud the morals and enthusiasm of both apparent sides here, but - if you still will no follow me - then allow me to show you this."

From within his own uniform the Major bought a pendant, something akin to the Inquisitorial rosette in fact, fashioned into the shape of the ancient Terran 'omega' turned upside down - the very symbol upon the armour of the Ultramarine astartes.

"This...this was given to me by an agent of the Lord Commander of the Imperium, by a noble son the God-Emperor himself, glorious Roboute Guilliman. It is not a forgery, a deception, or a lie, for me to say that our organisation has the full backing of the Primarch behind us.."

Quickly he secreted the emblem once more, sticking his head out of the chamber and into the corridor for a brief moment, the eyes of his faithful Sergeant looking over each of them even as his officer was distracted.

"I shall not force any of the Emperor's faithful to do anything they wish not too, and if your fear of the Inquisition overrides your courage them so be it! No one will be getting executed, you have my word."

Gesturing for those willing to follow him to do so, he slipped from the room with his Sergeant, leaving any that might still wish to remain behind, and heading down a corridor toward sounds of gunfire ahead.

Whereas before the weapons was held threateningly the Krieger gently lowered it to not cause alarm but kept it just high enough to melt the knee of the mean before him should they try something. The situation needed careful reassessment, so the Krieger stood quietly in thought whilst things happened around him. He looked to the people either side of him with something akin to suspicion. They were all too enthusiastic to betray the Emperor and to fight the Holy Inquisition. They were all threats to Imperial security, and if he was the officer he'd certainly remember the proverb "always shoot a traitor before an enemy."

He turned to the Praetorian with the same expressionless face he always had and then to the dead soldier. He gave the corpse a methodical prod on a spot that seemed sterile, before looking up once more. How many men were present? Were these lasguns the last weapons not in the hands of the enemy? What chance did they loyalists have?

It didn't matter. Ready or not, they would go forth and make their last moments glorious to kill the enemies of Emperor and Imperium.

"Yes." Draeta said. "I will join you on your endeavour, then." It took a few more moments for him to think of "However as we go on I wish you to tell us everything you can on the enemy. Their numbers and strength. Now, we must hurry into the fray." With that, he looked side to side ready to go.

"Ha!" Barrows' course laugh was like a gunshot of its own in the cramped chamber. "Bloody called it, didn't I?"

Grinning from ear to ear he took that unearned victory over his assumption that something was up with his captors. In fact looking down at that messed up face would only reinforce his wild faith that he'd no doubt always be in the right. Obviously his instincts had been heightened by his years in the jungle fighting silent monsters and he'd been able to see through the disguise of that inquisition badge. After all Barrows was a loyal soldier of the Emperor, no one would ever think worse of him. If anything this made him better and more faithful than the doubters in the chamber here! Yeah... yeah that made sense to him.

And besides, he'd been practically star blinded by that medal the major flashed them. A primarch, he'd met and been awarded by a damn primarch! This was the special mission he'd been picked for, something that went far and beyond anything Barrows had imagined. That was enough to light such a fire in his gut that he practically forgot all about the pain and bruises of the injuries he'd taken at the hands of these mutated bastards. Maybe if he played his cards right he'd get to meet the primarch too, or the Emperor maybe. At the very least he should get to have drinks with Creed and Marbo!

"Just get me some clothes and I'm yours for life, Boss." Barrows said, still grinning to himself over his own vindication. He gave his rifle one last look over and practically skipped out with the others.

He still had that rage over what these heretics did to him earlier but hey, getting an unexpected boost from an elite form of cavalry and the feeling of having the Emperium's light at your back can do wonders for a man's morale. Now all he needed to do was get his stuff back.

Inessa accepted the lasgun without hesitation and gave a knowing look to the pale man. In any other situation, she might find his gaze unsettling. But here, it was almost as reassuring as the lasgun she now found in her hands. She cradled it like a precious child, resting it in her lap with the muzzle in the direction of the Major. Her fingers caressed its familiar form, setting the weapon to its maximum power setting, resting comfortably around its perfectly simple pistol grip. If it came to bloodshed, it would be over brutally quick; She could bring down the officer at least, perhaps the sergeant as well or one of the other traitors. Without armor (or clothing for that matter), her fellow prisoners were guaranteed kills. Although, so was she.

Then the major stepped forward to plead his case. Her lasgun was leveled casually at him until the gaunt man spoke again.

"Yes. I will join you on your endeavour, then."

With that, she lowered her weapon to her side and leaned back against the wall, taking a brief moment of respite before steeling herself and attempting to stand. Using the lasgun as a crutch and the wall for support, she slowly and painfully hoisted herself to her feet.

“I...will follow…” She hissed through gritted teeth, letting the wall bear her weight.

When she raised her head again, her eyes loitered on the face of the corpse lying among them. She new her enemy now, servants of the Ruinous Powers, the Archenemy. Her allies were less certain.

For the briefest interval of time, tensions reached a crescendo. Two of the blindly faithful Guardsmen did indeed lift up rifles, though they chose to turn them upon their saviors. A man of gaunt features and of unshakable loyalty to a broken system led the mutiny, 'demanding' of the Major evidence to prove himself a speaker of truth. His insanity was backed up by the woman who deigned to call all who lifted a las-gun traitors. It was preposterous, in the eyes of Steiner, for these two to choose to side with the Inquisition. They hadn't a clue what was actually going on, only the barest knowledge possible;- all of which was provided by the men they called traitors.

"For the love of-" The medical officer grunted. He didn't raise his gun up in defense of the Major. For all of his prattle, Franklin didn't have a real dog in this fight. None of this political bullshit mattered. Not when there was a firefight going on just outside that room. He couldn't care less about shadow organizations, secret wars or whatever the hell else had sparked this whole thing. All he wanted to do was stay alive. Why was that such a difficult concept to grasp for these guardsman? Steiner swore some of them must've had a death wish, the way they went around flashing firearms at everyone that helped them out of a tight spot.

Thankfully for Doc's sanity, Bohman wasn't going to stand there and let two troopers way out of their depth get themselves killed for the men that tortured them. He revealed the nature of the enemy they fought against. These were not normal Tempestus Scions of the Inquisition, but...mutants. Heretics, touched by the cursed magic of the Ruinous Powers, and deformed by their damnable existence. Chaos, as Frank had originally surmised, was actually responsible for what was going on. "I called it. If we're keeping score." He muttered under his breath, no matter how inappropriate a comment it might be in the moment.

If that wasn't enough for the grunts, the Major also produced an item of incredible value. A talisman, bearing the icon of the Ultramarine Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, apparently given to the leader of the Shadow Order by the Primarch himself. Steiner held back a sarcastic whistle. It was a fancy little trinket. Really, it was. And if Bohman had really received it from Guilliman, than his path was certainly the 'righteous one.' As righteous as the Imperium could be. However. If the gaunt, robot-of-a-man and his babyfaced partner in crime refused to acknowledge that the Inquisitional Stormtrooper with a horrifically mutated face was sufficient evidence against their 'theory' that Bohman was a traitor, Steiner very much doubted that a necklace would do much to help Bohman's case. Though, on further thought, icons and items were important in the mind of the loyal guardsman; all it took was the symbol of the Inquisition to turn them against their rescuers, after all.

Thankfully, though, it was enough. Both decided to lower their weapons, joining the Shadow Order on their righteous crusade to purge that voidship of it's ruinous infection. Steiner let the tension in his muscles visibly relax. A firefight in this tiny room would end in several bodies falling. Steiner didn't want to be among them. "Thank the throne."

Next came the hard part: actually clearing the remainder of the ship. Stormtroopers, those infested by Chaos especially, were a bitch to kill. Their armor was stubbornly hard to cut through with a standard las-gun, unless one managed to land a clean shot. To make matters worse, all of the guardsmen of the glorious Imperium were practically naked. All they had were some cloth to cover their naughty bits. Steiner could shrug off the draft, his body hardened to the freezing temperatures of his icy homeworld. But a las-bolt or two to the chest was a little harder to ignore.

What was most difficult to look past, though, were the grunts of pain coming from the lady officer that was planning to shoot him a couple of seconds prior. 'Ah, Emperor above.' Steiner moved toward the door, purposefully keeping at least one body in front of him to absorb the first round of las-bolts. He shifted his harsh gaze over toward the loyal guardswoman. "Ay, pup," Frank called to get her attention. "You fallin' apart on us? If yer hurt, I can give it a look. I'm a medic." He informed her and, by extension, the rest of the company, of his skill set. "Sergeant Steiner. Been a real pleasure gettin' to know ya." She was going to shoot him in the back. It was all but guaranteed.

Grett looked down at the body of the Chaos infected Stormtrooper with a sneer of disgust. Kneeling beside the body, he prodded the corpse's face with his finger in morbid curiosity. Having never seen the effects of the Ruinous Powers first hand, he assumed the revolting creature must be some sort of xeno. No human could possibly be this grotesque. The Ork Hunter gave an internal shrug and set about rifling through the corpse's pockets. He found an extra mag for a las pistol and promptly tossed it aside. The combat knife at the traitor's hip made Grett smiled that crooked smile of his despite as he snatched it from the sheath. Lacking pockets, he simply held the blade in his teeth as he continued his pat down.

He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the symbol in the major's hand.
"Holy shit," he mumbled around the blade, "a bleedin' Primarch is in on this?"
Even in the jungles of Armageddon, the symbol of Guilliman and his legion was known.

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

“I believe she was going to shoot you, Major,” spoke Sergeant Latentius in a half-whisper, turning his back on the group as they got themselves organised, “I still think she may.”

Bonham peered at the Cadian whom the other had just addressed, and this 'Steiner' was not wrong, the fragile-looking Guardswoman appeared to be practically on the edge of collapse. Clearly her loyalties had been scrambled by his appearance and that of the body he had dragged in, a feeling he knew much more than she could ever guess.

“Sergeant Latentius will take up the rear as we form a single-filed column, I shall take point,” he announced after a moments thought, “keep your weapons prepared and your senses sharp. We are heading to the ships armoury to get you something better to wear than your undergarments.”

After a quick glimpse into the corridor beyond the chamber he strode out and gestured with his pistol, placing himself at the head of the group – his trusted Sergeant bringing up the rear for obvious reasons – blueprints that only he seemed to recall allowing he and the squad to move through the hallways and corridors like phantasms; here and there they came upon bodies, either clad in black like himself, sometimes crimson and black, and sometimes figures more atypical of Chaos cultists clad in rags and with rusted pipes and aged autopistols in their twisted grip

From all around them the echoes of battle came, familiar to everyone present, sometimes sounding nearer than they were and sometimes further, yet somehow they managed to avoid any direct confrontations and came upon the thrice-blessed and sealed doorway of the armoury in good order. From the bullet-shredded carcasses spread before the chamber, cultists for the most part, it was obvious that they had made at least one attempt to breach the room and failed miserably – even those that had taken cover behind the crates strewn about or bulkheads they thought safe had been annihilated.

Soon they found out why...

The hulking form of a Charron Pattern battle servitor loomed large from the shadows, the multiple barrels of its assault cannon whirring as it prepared to shred them all into a bloody mess, the dead and ivory white features of what had once been a man making no expression as it primed itself for murder.

“Cease.”

Turning to 'look' at the Major, a thin beam of red light made its way over the officers body, the cannon (a flamer replacing the other arm) slowing to inactivity and the servitor withdrawing.

“Identi-tags in the armour,” he said by way of explanation, giving a pearly-toothed smile to the others over his shoulder, “now for the pay-off.”

He waited a moment, holding his altered version of a rosette up to the doorway, counting from ten to one and giving another smile as the mechanisms of the door began to move. One after another the door opened, three layers of adamantium between them and the interior, each peeling away to reveal the armoury and allow them entry.

“Inside everyone, now if you please.”

Once inside he thumbed a number of buttons and breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed behind them, turning about to face the group and waving a hand at the racks and shelves of well-kept equipment.

“Get kitted up, we will have to fight our way out of here, I assure you.”

Black was the shade of the day it seemed, every piece of flak and carapace armour (all standard Cadian-pattern) and every lasgun the same. For ease of use the armoury had been split into various sections, one containing 'standard issue' equipment – flak armour, lasguns, bayonets and the like – while another was categorised as 'heavy support', rocket launchers, flamethrowers and human-sized plasma weapons (as opposed to those wielded by the Astartes) studding the walls. Lastly was 'close quarters', chainswords, daggers and even the odd flensing knife visible.

---

---

Outside of the armoury the forces of Chaos were already gathering, a large splinter of the main force having detected the Major and his followers, and now – several Stormtroopers at their head – a swarm of mutants and shrieking cultists swept through the corridor to take their places, forming a crescent pointing toward the triple-locked doorway of the room.

They had not counted on the Battle Servitor, the construct lumbering out of the gloom once more, flamer spurting liquid promethium and cannon thrumming as it gunned down fanatics and traitors in righteous but programmed fury.

Many were those cleansed by fire or torn apart by bolts, but even the servitor eventually succumbed to damage, the traitors blowing apart its legs to hobble it and, finally, putting charged Hellgun shots into the half-machines cranium until it ceased to move. The damage had been done though, the warband-sized group whittled down to a dozen or so individuals wielding autorifles, a couple of lasguns, and at least two Hellguns in the hands of enemy Stormtroopers.

Still slightly shaken, although their fanatical faith held them firm, the group turned as the doors began to open...