"Let it go," thought the now silent Marine, still feeling the grating of ceramite against ceramite as the Pup had glanced him in his eagerness for blood, "the Wolf is just a whelp."
With an audible sigh within the confines of his own helmet, Ferreus stood vigilant but unmoved by the explosive bombardment; scanning the area around him, reaching out with both his own senses and those of his armour - which were not many, what with it being a rather old design even now - even as a grenade detonated mere inches away from him; whether it was the fact that his Mark III armour was reinforced to withstand massive damage, which it had in multiple engagements throughout the decades, or whether he had in some way bought into the ideas of his Primarch concerning the natural biological constitution of his children, he feared very little in the way or ordnance as long as he was going forward.
He watched with professional judgement as Prodigal Son cleared away the nest, turning the weapon there upon those that would harm them, watched every movement of the enigmatic Astartes until completion. Only then did he give a small nod of his head, ignoring the prickling sensation running up his spine as their resident psyker got to work somewhere behind them, glancing for a brief second at the son of Macragge stood beside him before advancing toward what looked like the entranceway into the belly of the beast.
It was a simple doorway, wide enough for an armoured personnel carrier - or perhaps more importantly for a supply vehicle, coming from this landing area and taking whatever munitions and supplies to those further within. In their need to remain alive, something Ferreus had always found odd about humans, the members of the Governor's personal defense force had left the thick metal doors as wide open as a good invitation...or a trap.
The creaking and clunking of armour designed for fighting in the subterranean homes of the Squat race, and then for the cramped corridors of an enemy space vessel, could be heard loud and clear as the red-fisted Astartes moved forward and straight into the mouth of the beast.
Inside the air was dry, the walls and ceiling made of solid rockrete, Ferreus having to half-crouch his way through a corridor that he only now realised was only high enough for a normal person to walk through without having to squeeze their considerable bulk into. Thankfully it continued to be wide enough for a supply vehicle, and he had no problem maneuvering left to right and vice-versa.
No signs of life were to be found, although various closed and locked doorways did appear to be built into the walls at apparently random points, but the tracks of tracked vehicles directed him toward what he was sure would be a hub of activity within the unfinished building complex.
Not long had he been walking for when the sound of voices, voices and bustling activity, reached his enhanced ears and caused him to pause briefly to take it all in. There were certainly soldiers, the heavy tread of Auxilia-issue boots loud in his ears, the rattle of autoguns being bough to salute or simply rested on the ground...winches and the whirring of machinery also filled his senses...and the smell of lubricating liquids used on heavy guns making his nostrils twinge.
When he cautiously peered around the corner, his view directed straight into the cacophony of noise he had been listening to, he could make out much - the distinctive white and black uniform of the Argyosian First Phalanx, with their golden symbol of a mythical hydra on their shoulders and engraved on the gleaming breastplates that many wore, hardened men from an Army regiment that had become the Governor's personal immortals and death squad. Loyal to a man, disciplined and well trained, there seemed to be few of them here but enough to know that this facility was important.
Milling about them in the circular chamber were civilian workers and military engineers in dull fatigues emptying ammunition and equipment from a dozen of so tracked transports, Argyosian gunners in their regal-looking uniforms of blue and gold, and perhaps the largest thing within the room...a huge orbital cannon, no doubt one of many being set up around these barracks, offline for the moment but capable of bringing death to something even as large as a Frigate.
How many more were there? He did not know. How would they stop them all and dispatch the Governor? He did not know. All he knew was that they must be st-.
Whiiiiiiir! Whiiiiiiiiir! Whiiiiir!
Lights that Ferreus had not noticed before, positioned all along the corridor and within the hub itself, began to flash a glaring and dangerous red. The sound of the siren showing that someone, somewhere, had managed to alert the relevant authorities to the danger now pounding toward them and their glorious leader.
"Well," thought the veteran of a hundred battles, "better late than never."
Without thinking about what he was getting himself in to, Ferreus turned the corner and bought himself directly into view of his adversaries, taking note of the piled crates and nearby transports (without armour but tracked, like trucks with tank wheels), determined not to waste his ammunition even as the first auto-shells began to send sparks flashing from his 'Iron' suit.
"Lift...aim...squeeze...lift...aim...squeeze..."
Bodies began to drop, and his ammunition counter began to lower accordingly, whirring servos propelling the huge warrior toward the cover of a nearby vehicle even as he roared his hatred of the weak things closing in toward him.
