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Thread: [M] War in the Dirt - Imperials IC

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    CAMPAIGN 3: AD MECH

    Spoiler: Legio Sirenia - Tranch 
    Last edited by Azazeal849; 03-18-2023 at 09:13 PM.
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    The moment she had been confirmed as a Famulous was the greatest moment in Lupercas young life. The ceremony had been short, not much more than a presentation of a uniform, a seal, and a salute from an honour guard of Skitarii and Amazoneum. The sisters of the school had performed a mass, commending their souls to the protection of the Emperor-as-Omnissiah. But the feeling of achievement, that her life had changed for the better, had, at the time, been all-powerful. She wasn’t going to end up as a cabin girl on some trader scow, or a low tier technomat in some factorum, she was going to be an engine-driver, a Princeps. She would see other worlds, other civilisations, and live a life of honour and glory, fighting for the Emperor.

    So far, everything had conspired to take that feeling, and ruin it. First had been the surgeries. A spiderlike horror of a Techpriestess with all the bedside manner of a servitor had strapped her to a table and kept her in a drug induced, pain filled haze for a week, installing plugs, ports and interfaces that still made her skin itch. Worse had been the skit-code ident tags buried under her skin and welded to her bones, and the binharic identifiers literally lasered into her epidermis. When she had asked why she needed six of them, one on her chest, one on each limb, and one on the back of her skull, the techpriestess had informed her it would make identification of her body easier in case of dismemberment or ‘significant corpus destruction’. Her hair had been shaved off, everywhere, for the surgeries, making her itchy as it grew back. When she complained about that, the Tech priestess had offered her a chemical dip, like livestock, to remove the follicles permanently. She had declined. She had learned, quickly, that while most Tech Priestesses saw the Princeps as honoured avatars of the Titans, until she achieved that exalted rank she was simply a component to be processed, refined and prepared with as little humanity as was strictly required.

    As the implants had bedded in, she had experienced days of dizziness, nausea, and phantom pains that seemed to exist outside her skin. Her new diet didn’t help, because it seemed to be some kind of high-protein slop that tasted like burnt rubber. But she needed to eat, because any time she wasn’t inloading data, running simulations, or drilling with her new pistol and sword, she was being exercised, hard. Sometimes she wondered if they expected her to manually carry the Titan to the battlefield.

    She remembered collapsing at the end of a march, face down on the deck of the troop ship, with the other girls who had made it through. Historia, Lorelei and Hange were leaning nearby, necking electrolytes and talking about the upcoming assault on Tranch with their crews.

    “How you finding it, Famulous?” Hange had asked, nudging her with a boot.

    “I want to die.” She had muttered into the cold deck plate, and the Princeps had laughed. Not in a mean way, but almost, to Luperca, in a way that seemed nostalgic. “Why do we have to do all this? The Titan does the walking.”

    “We walk with them.” Hange had intoned, and the others had nodded sagely. “Driving a Titan is exhausting; you’ll need the stamina. The exercise will also help your body adjust to the hormone modifications brought on by your new augments. As a bonus, physical fitness breeds mental fitness. Did you think, at the start of all this, you would manage a ten klik run carrying a pack?”

    “No.” she groaned.

    “Well, imagine what you’ll be able to do in five years.” Hange clipped her bottle to her belt, dusted her hands, and finished stretching out her legs. “You girls head back to the crew deck. We’re going to keep running.”

    ++++++

    All of that had paled in comparison to the drop on Tranch itself. As Famulous, she was riding down with Rosa, but not in the cockpit. The vestibule that ran from the neck corridor to the reactor chamber had the kitchen facilities, and a shower/toilet cubicle for longer deployments. It also had two fold out cots, mean sleeping arrangements that pulled double duty as medical bays, and two fold out chairs.

    She was strapped into one of those, facing the Rosa’s techpriest. They were a spindly concoction of folding limbs, plated metal, and glowing camera lenses peering out of a vulcanised red robe.

    As the drop coffin had rattled into position, Luperca had felt her nerves stretched to breaking point. What if something went wrong? What if the ground fire was too heavy? What if they made it to the ground, and they were destroyed there? Her training helpfully provided a seemingly endless list of scenarios for things to happen and result in, as the Techpriestess had said, ‘significant corpus destruction’. It was the most terrifying experience of her life.

    As the drop coffin (Who thought of that name, and had they been suitably punished?) had plunged into freefall alongside the wave of decoys, she had yelled at the techpriest, desperate for some kind of distraction from the roaring of atmosphere against the coffin ship walls.

    “SHOULDN’T YOU BE IN THE REACTOR?”

    There was a blurt of code in response, and Luperca realised her mistake. She switched over to binharic, transmitted over the noosphere.

    +Sorry. Shouldn’t you be in the reactor?+

    +I am+

    Luperca looked at the Priestess, very definitely in front of her, and when no more data was forthcoming, put her head back against the rattling bulkhead.

    +You are showing signs of significant distress.+ Luperca nodded, squeezing her eyes shut, and trying not to vomit. +In my experience, the first drop is always the hardest+

    +How many have you done?+ Luperca asked, opening her eyes again to focus on the techpriestess. She seemed eerily calm, even as Luperca swore she felt ground fire hit the drop coffins voids.

    +I stopped counting as it was irrelevant. Either we make the ground, or we do not. This is in the hands of the Dea, now+ Luperca nodded as the rattling intensified, and the whole Titan seemed to sway.

    +There are bags under the seat+

    Luperca reached under the seat with clammy hands, and brought out a folded, brown paper bag stamped with biological hazard markings. She got it open just in time, and felt a lot better afterwards. The awful pap didn’t taste any better coming up than going down, but with her stomach empty she felt her nerves settle a little.

    There was a kick, like a giant had just punted the whole coffin. Luperca screamed in fear, imagining the coffin disintegrating, and Rosa plunging to its destruction. But the kick was followed by a roar of plasma rockets, shaking her whole world like she was a rock in a tumbler.

    +The retros have just activated. Excuse me, Famulous.+

    The techpriest unfolded from her seat, additional spindly arms and legs emerging from her rubbery robes to steady herself, and she picked her way down to the vestibule. Luperca watched her go, and as the door opened, saw another techpriest, identical to the one that had sat across from her, briefly cross in front of the door.

    Apparently, they were in the reactor. Luperca wondered briefly how modified you had to be to be able to be in two places at once.

    The rockets became shriller, louder, and then cut out with another kick from the giant. Alarms blared, and Luperca scrabbled against her crash restraints, lurched to her feet, and took a second to dump the bag into the recycler. She washed her mouth with tepid water from the bio-support, and smoothed down her uniform. Finally, she checked the heavy autopistol and cutlass were still attached to her belt, then stepped onto the bridge of Sicut Sanguis Rosa for the first time.

    ++++++

    The bridge was almost silent, only broken by the ping of sensor returns, the click of cogitators, and the swaying thump of Rosa's feet as she left the coffin in a haze of flame-retardant chemical smog. The cockpit stank of heavy incense from the inception rituals, undercut with oils, stressed electronic components, and stressed human bodies exerting themselves. Lupercas augmented sense of smell was keener than ever, and according to the techpriests, probably contributing to her nausea.

    Luperca stood next to the command throne, on Hanges left, and crisply saluted.

    “Famulous Luperca Ignis reporting for duty Princeps.”

    Hange didn’t look at her. Her head was back, eyes closed, lips drawn into a thin, predatory smile. There was a tapping, her fingers on her right hand drumming on the arm rest of the command throne.

    “Take the aux-jack and join us in the manifold, Famulous.”

    A small port popped open on the throne, and Luperca threaded one of her new wrist links out. It felt like something alive crawling out of her skin, and she wondered if that would ever go away. It seemed to know where to go, and it slotted neatly into the plug.

    The manifold opened up to her, wavering lines of code resolving into wireframes, data screeds, and a lurking, animal presence at the back of her mind. She felt that presence focus on her, draw its teeth in a feral snarl, hackles raising, claws biting into fresh snow, breath sizzling into freezing air.

    Run. It was saying. Run, so I can kill you.

    +Down Rosa! She’s here on my order.+

    The presence was circling her, and she had the ghostly sensation of being naked, cold, alone, knowing what a forest was having never seen a tree in her life, knowing what snow was despite never having stood on a planet in her own skin. The sensation of being stalked, despite never having seen an animal larger than a sump-rat.

    +Rosa!+

    She turned, and the wireframes and data screeds coalesced into a forest, an old, old forest, ten thousand years gone or more. The massive, lumbering shape of something her animal brain was reflexively terrified of emerged from the shadows. Ursus Arctos. A massive she-bear.


    W̴̢̛̩̻̝̰̘̥͚̣͉͕̱̞̥͉̗̪̿̄̑̐̑̐͐͗̿̒̓̐͘͘Ò̴̢̮̺̦̞̤̤̮̭̹̮̙͜ ̳̪L̴̢̢̢̨̨͓͙̖̺͈̣̰̰̙̪̘̽̊͑̑̍̐F̴̧͍̜̻̼̠͍̫̩̘̲̪͈̗͂͆̈̐́ͅ.̸ ̮̳̃̈́͋͊͗́̑̋ The word drizzled out of its mouth as spit, code, hate. W̴̢̨̜̣̟̳̦̹͕̦̮̤̬̞̫̱̓O̴͙̳̓̇̿̌͛̾͑̾́̀̑̏̀̓́̑͝L̸̛͐̾̊̎̏̍̚ ̢̞͔̔̀͆͠F̷̡̢̖̻̖̘̟̩̰̞̲͑̿̾͆ ̴̧̡̈͛̎̍̈́͂̈́̌͊͊̉̚G̴̯̣͕̓̌I̴͉̙̰͈͎͙̘̙̭͋̀́̈́̒̾́́͋͘̚͝͝͝ͅR̵ ̡̛̮̳̺̣̣̺͇̤͇̤̜̞͂̊̈́̓͜͜͝L̸̨̖͎̭̲͕͂͊̉̀͒́̈́̑̓̊̔̃̏̔͜͝.


    +Luperca!+ someone very distant canted at her. It was enough to snap her out of her fear. She stepped towards the monster, the bear, and threw her arms wide, roaring back at it. The massive, primal monster flinched, whined. It sat on its haunches, staring at her, surprised.

    +I’m not your enemy.+ Luperca canted. She stepped forwards, towards the monster. It looked at her curiously, far too intelligent and aware for a simple animal. She reached out, and ran a hand down its hot, furry muzzle. +Can we be friends, you and I?+

    W̴̢̨̜̣̟̳̦̹͕̦̮̤̬̞̫̱̓O̴͙̳̓̇̿̌͛̾͑̾́̀̑̏̀̓́̑͝L̸̛͐̾̊̎̏̍̚ ̢̞͔̔̀͆͠F̷̡̢̖̻̖̘̟̩̰̞̲͑̿̾͆ ̴̧̡̈͛̎̍̈́͂̈́̌͊͊̉̚G̴̯̣͕̓̌I̴͉̙̰͈͎͙̘̙̭͋̀́̈́̒̾́́͋͘̚͝͝͝ͅR̵ ̡̛̮̳̺̣̣̺͇̤͇̤̜̞͂̊̈́̓͜͜͝L̸̨̖͎̭̲͕͂͊̉̀͒́̈́̑̓̊̔̃̏̔͜͝ L̷͎̩̥̼̲̼̄̿Ư̸̧̞͕͕̞̖͋̿͋̈́̚P̴̮̯̟̣̀̕ͅE̴͉̻̣̟̙̓́͛͑͘͠R̶͗̚ ̯͍̥͖̤̱͉̿̾͒̀̔̓̅̀͆͠Ċ̶̛̦̤͇͉̮͔͓̒̔̓̀͂͌̀̾A̶͗̿̈́̇̒̀́͐̆͆̈́̚ ̗̣͉͇̲͖̣̾.̸̧̰͈̝̤̬͒̽͗͐̉̉̕ FAMULOUS LUPERCA. LEGIO-IDENT LI87739. The memory of a huge,


    wet tongue licked out, over her face.

    +That’s me.+ She let out a breath, laughing. +Luperca means wolf+

    The vision collapsed into swirling motes of data, and she was back on the bridge, the tactica overlay locking into place. She blinked, and looked down at Hange. The Princeps was looking up at her with a wide, earnest smile.

    “I think she likes you, Famulous.” Luperca smiled back, even as she tasted blood on her lips.

    ++++++

    +Prepare for tactica update+ Hange canted as she turned from her Famulous. She was joined in the manifold by Levvi, Harmathoe, Rosen and Morais. She could feel the other crews as ghosts, and the Famulous in each cockpit watching intently. For a moment, the maniple was one, massive organism, fifteen women and three titans, heart beats, breathing, plasma reactors moving in time.

    +We form up and push through the sprawl, full stride. Warhounds on point and keeping pace with Rosa, House Calyx covering our rear. We move as fast as possible, hit hard, and withdraw. We aren’t here to take the hive alone, we only need to knock out the generator. We cut down anything that gets in our way, as quickly and efficiently as possible with no grandstanding.+

    There was a chorus of affirmatives.

    +As much as I hate to say it, the best way to achieve our objectives is to keep Rosa intact and functioning for as long as possible. We have the longest ranged guns, so should be able to start hitting the generators as soon as we have line of sight.+


    +Feeling nervous Hange?+ Rosen snarked. +I didn’t think losing your prize Moderati to the big seat would knock your confidence.+

    +What can I say, I’m just useless without Morais in the chin seat+ Hange canted back. +I hope you’ll all be up for covering my obvious deficiencies on this assault.+

    There was laughter, and Hange settled back into her seat.

    +Remember to keep your scopes lively. I wouldn’t put it past the hive to have seeded ambush predators into the sprawl.+

    +Any void noise?+ Levvi asked, serious.

    +None that we have detected+ Morais confirmed. +But they could be running on tick over.+ ‘They’ was Legio Fulminata. The last thing they would need would be another clash with the renegade battle titans.

    +And what about the Patriots elite?+ Harmathoe asked. +Will we finally see the Nebula Corp deploy against us?+

    +It would be an ideal environment for them+ Hange allowed. +Let’s hope not. Crusade Command has struggled to pin down that elusive hulk of theirs, however, so we can’t rule out their presence. If they are detected, eliminate them with extreme prejudice. No prisoners.+

    +Are the rumours true that they have augments based on our own?+ Harmathoe asked, startling Hange and making the link fall silent. That was the rumour that had spread throughout the Mechanicus elements of the Crusade, when the baselines had started to point out the similarities between the augmented, power-armoured Nebulas and the augmented, power-armoured Amazoneum.

    +I’m not lending any credence to that.+ Hange answered at last. +Tell you what, ask them yourselves. Even better, kill one relatively intact and the priestess in orbit can dissect them to know for sure.+

    +Affirmative.+

    The tactica link died, and with a rolling, sonorous bellow of war-horns, the Titans and Knights began to march forwards, forming up.

    “You have a question Famulous?”

    Luperca twitched, and Hange smiled. She could feel it through the link. The girl would learn.

    “Why are we doing this?” She asked, and the question so stumped Hange that she turned and gave the young girl her full attention.

    “By. . .this?”

    “This is a hard target drop. Single objective destruction. Surely. . surely they should have sent Space Marines?”

    Hange let out a quiet sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t a philosophical question.

    “If the Crusade had Space Marines, they would be here.” Hange admitted. “You are right, this is exactly the right kind of environment for the Adeptus Astartes to shine. However, there are no Space Marines in the Crusade Force, so it falls to us. We can do this. Titans can conduct beach head operations. Its not ideal, but there is an important lesson in it for you.”

    “Which is, Princeps?”

    “You rarely get to fight a war with the weapons you want. So you make do with what you can scrounge up. Like yourself, really.” She smiled as Luperca nodded, chewing on that. “And, for the other part of your question you want to ask, but don’t dare: Because if the Imperium lets every successionist movement have its way, soon there wouldn’t be an Imperium, just a thousand feuding pocket empires that would fight each other, each one easy prey for the lurking Xenos of the galaxy. The Orks, Eldar, Hrud, the things in the warp, they don’t care about our politics. They want our worlds and territories. They want us dead, or enslaved. If we leave the Adrantean rebels to themselves, in a few generations this region would be a seething mess of Orks, enslaver plague and psychic abomination. They’d come crawling back to us on their hands and knees begging for salvation, and in the meantime all that production output that was lost could have been spent on other wars, protecting loyal imperial citizens.”

    “It’s the big picture.” Luperca said. “Team work. Stand together, or die alone”

    “The sisters taught you well.” Luperca smiled at the compliment. “Now, watch and learn.”
    Last edited by dakkagor; 02-22-2023 at 04:44 PM.

  3. #83
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    Lorelei took the seismic feed, and washed it for spoor trace. There. Ten seperate seismic tracks, combined with data from the carapace microphones, provided a match with the Titans data-stacks. Leman Russ pattern armour, ten of them, moving in a staggered V formation. Standard company deployment. If you had asked Lorelei to put down money, she would have said that six would be standard patterns, with the 120mm battlecannon. The command vehicle, left of centre, would be a variant, probably either an Executioner, or an Exterminator to provide AA cover. One in every three, ideally, from their point of view, would be a tank-hunting Vanquisher, but more likely, a Demolisher with its anti-fortifcation cannon. No IFF, but plenty of encrypted vox noise between crews as they advanced, slowly, cutting through streets and the lighter structures. As much as Lupus was a skittish animal, still untrustworthy from its wounding, salvage and new allegiance, its sensors were first rate. Probably a necessary adaption, as its parent Legio had a fondness for jamming techniques.

    She reached out to Hange as she re-cycled her shields, and primed her weapons.

    "Need supporting fire in my grid, and permission to examine a data source. Data attached. It could be a trap, but we have reports of Imperial assets on the ground. I want to check it out."

    She wanted to show her initiative, but she wasn't stupid. This was her chance to win battle honours, and blood her Titans guns against a live foe. She couldn't do that by being timid. But she couldn't do that dead.

    +Supporting fire confirmed.+ Hange responded, a half second later. +I'm tasking the twins with close support+

    + + + + + +

    Thump thump thump.

    The turret mounted icarus autocannons tracked and fired automatically. Anna watched, dispassionatly, as an enemy fighter, some local pattern, came apart and slammed into a habitation block.

    So end all traitors.

    Her brother moved up nearby, Pietrs Knight also re-equipped with an anti-air weapon system, paired autocannons servo-slaved to cogitators and tracker spirits. It wasn't why she felt unbalanced, disconnected. It was because. . .because of what she had lost. And her brother had kept.

    She remembered the pain, and the soothing ghost of her grandmother trying to keep her calm, speaking from the throne as she bled and screamed. The left side of her cockpit had compacted in, breaking every bone in her left arm and leg, mangling muscle and skin beyond any recovery that wouldn't take months of work. She had chosen to have the limbs removed, out of duty, but she hated them now, because they were a point of divergence. Anna and Pietr, they were one soul in two bodies, bred to live in each others heads, to be completely modular with Sinister Witness and Dexter Warden. And now there was a gap between them. Two limbs of metal.

    The orders came in, sharp and hot, and Anna turned Sinister towards the mining complex.

    +Sibling+ Pietr, close. Dexter was alongside her. +Your left side motive is lagging.+

    "I know." She ground out into the comm link. "I know."

    The replacement limbs were exquisite, high value, high function. Full replication of sense, motion and strength. Coated with a thin layer of treated plastek, tuned and coloured and even warmed to simulate human flesh.

    Not hers.

    The guns on their backs opened up, together. A heavy fighter, a Thunderbolt, had its wings clipped, and spun into the ground, a kilometer away. Its payload of missiles and bombs cooked up a split second later.

    So end all traitors.

    The other point of divergence was the anger. Pietr was no longer the mirror to her soul. She was wounded, angry, shying away from social contact, broken. He was still the mercurial half soul, but now truly a half soul, uncompleted with his sister dead. Dead, but still living.

    She snarled, twitch fired the battlecannon at a distant infantry section setting up autocannons. They died.

    So end all traitors.

    Her left arm twitched, the fingers clamping. It was a traitor. She wanted to cut it off. Be bereft. Better than being different from her brother.

    +Should I have the left or right removed?+

    She brought Sinister Witness to a halt, and stared at her brother. He was serious. She could hear it through the vox. Feel it through the throne they shared.

    "Right" she responded, automatically. Paired. Mirrored. In synch again.

    +After this deployment, then. If you promise to be there for its removal.+

    To do that, I have to live. She nodded, fierce, rekindled back to life. "I swear, Pietr. Thank you."

    Nothing else needed to be said. The twins, moving back into synch, stalked towards the mining complex.

    + + + + + +

    The engagement began with a long range shot from Rosa. The Volcano cannon reached out, a pulse of light that cut the sky, and bored through a slumping hab block. Lurking behind the hab block, a Leman Russ, the likely company commander, had her hatches open, and the tanks commander was in discussion with an infantry platoon officer, directing the PDF troopers to assist the advance into the confines of the complex.

    Every exposed human, on the far side of the hablock from the volcano cannon hit, felt first a prickle of dry heat suck the air from their lungs. Clothes and hair caught fire spontaneously in the next split second. Metal ran like wax a half moment after that, as the lasers heat bloom cored through the structure, depositing mega-joules of thermal energy as it went. The humans on the ground didn't even have time to register their deaths, before being cooked down to flakes of white ash, carbon particles mixing with liquid steel, burnt plastek, and water flash cooked to the point it became hydrogen and oxygen, then slapped back together as the air itself caught fire.

    The overpressure detonation of heat exchange and ammunition brew-up scooped molten road surface, tank plate and a tiny percentage of organic residue and flung it wide in an expanding ball of fire in the next half second. A weapon used to kill Titans, used to overkill a tank through a towerblock. Sticky, toxic fog hung in the air around the blast.

    The tank company, reporting as '2-2 Ajax' went in to panic, suddenly aware that their prey could see them through the cover they were using. A second volcano cannon shot, as the second squadron went into reverse, hit the central tank, completely vapourising it, and cooking the other two tanks to the road surface, turning 65 ton masses of composites and metal into pools of bubbling slurry. Infantry strengths nearby were reduced to stumbling, screaming torches, or were cooked to their cover like a burnt ration pack on a ceramic stove.

    The remaining six turned to their auspex scopes, and began firing as the two Knights hit the formations flank. Battlecannon shells hit weaker side armour like a hammer into sheet metal. One tank, a Vanquisher, had its turret lift off as the autoloader cooked off. Another, a main-gun lucius variant with extended trench rails and a superior vox-caster, was kicked over by Sinister Witness. If the tank commander noticed any drag in the left side motives, the observation died with him as the reaper chainsword chewed through the sponson mount, side armour, and crew compartment.

    The other squadron was caught backing up a highway, with Chimeras and Vandire mediums falling back alongside them. Lupus Vengea engaged them at optimal range for the plasma blastgun, slamming bolts of star-stuff into the column even as they fired autocannon, multi-laser and cannon shells in a desperate attempt to ward of the Titan. A Vulcan burst stitched through the thin roofs of the chimeras, slewing them to a halt as their crews and passangers died in blizzards of shrapnel. The final Russ died, boxed in, surrounded by blazing wrecks and dying men, a bubbling mass of toxic metal and detonating batteries, as Lupus plasma blastgun boiled it down.

    Lupus Vengea stood warden for a second over the graves of its enemies, shields flickering, weapons clicking as they cooled, then smartly turned and withdrew, slipping between the looming structures of the industrial zone. More armour was coming, more Russes, more Vandires, heavier tracks of sub-baneblade heavies like Dorns, Malcadors and Macharius. Mechanised infantry was mixed in with it, a lot of mechanised infantry. From her assesment, they had encountered a force pushed forward to investigate the signal. Scouts. Now, the main strength was massing, pouring through the out zones and readying to fight, and die, for their hive.

    +++++

    "I've got major surface movement in my sector." Lorelei canted to the battlegroup. "Me and the twins will hold them off for as long as we can. Get to that signal."

    +++++


    Vounoe loped through the ruins, spear held loosely in one hand. Four of her sisters followed, and they moved in a staggered line, straining out the sounds of carnage from ahead as the Titan and her Knight retainers bought them time to investigate the signal. Already, Rosa and the rest of the battlegroup had retasked, doing their best to deal with the incoming air assets. A small number of Onagers had landed alongside the Titans, and they would be sorely overtasked with keeping the Hives airforce of the Titans backs.

    Speed, then.

    Her sisters raced through recently abandoned mining equipment, and with weapons drawn and ready, approached the signals source.
    Last edited by dakkagor; 04-17-2023 at 03:31 PM.

  5. #85
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    Disgust. Raw, primordial disgust coursed through Vounoe.

    Macarro had a long, bloody history of dealing with mutation, rooted in the tech-abomination of the Mordaxia gene-lords and their oppression of the Venemus Sector, an oppression dead for ten millenia but indelibly stamped in the blood, bone and sinew of its people.


    +We have the needed data. Permission to engage.+ One of her sisters snapped over the vox.


    +Denied!+


    +They are mutants.+ Her sister insisted, as if she could not see that sad, piteous fact with her own eyes. +The tenents of our sisterhood demand their eradication! The impure must be cleansed, such that the tainted blood may not harm the gift of the Omnissiah to her children!+


    +They are loyal to the Imperium, and therefore our allies. Stand down and safe your weapons.+


    From an outside perspective, the only thing that visibly happened was the impassive warrior women, cloaked in furs, bedecked in tribal fetishes over their body armour, relaxed their stances by an inch, and shifted their grips on their trans-sonic spears. Vounoes command was ironclad, overriding tenet and creed. In the field, the commander on the spot called the shots. Anything else was heresy.

    And Vounoe felt something else. Pity. These wretches probably fought in the hopes their loyalty would be rewarded when the Imperium retook this world. Little did they know, that if ordered, Vounoe would have herded them into the flesh furnaces herself, and done it gladly, in the wake of that victory.

    She said none of this, her face impassive behind its tattooes and piercings. She stepped forwards instead, and held out her hand. She towered over 'Sister Lila', almost certainly an Inquisitorial asset, and regarded her stonily as the data wafer was placed in her hand. With surprisingly gentleness for her gauntleted hands, she tucked it into a leather pouch.

    "I don't have the ability to upload this immediately. However, your information will be provided directly to the commander of my battlegroup." 'Sister Lila' turned, to speak to her flock, or to leave, Vounoe did not know, or care. She reached out and grabbed the womans shoulder, pulling her close and ignoring the weapons now being pointed in her direction, so she could whisper.

    "These. . .loyal cockroaches. Have you, or any of your party, seen an engine war?"

    "I haven't. None of these people have ever left this world. Most have not left this district."

    "In a handful of minutes, this district will be gone." Vounoe hissed. "Titans are not subtle weapons, and the mechanicus foot troops following in their wakes will not be gentle either. The best you can do for these people, if you truly care for them, is either lead them to a good and clean death against the Tranchites, or hide. Hide dark, and hide deep, and only emerge once the fires of battle have died down. And whatever you do, do not let them be seen by the larger titan. The one with the beetle back, long gun arms, and missile launcher on its back. Do you understand? If that titan sees you, I will not be responsible for what happens to. . .these people."

    "I do." Sister Lila nodded.


    +We depart.+


    She stepped back, and tried to smile at the Preacher, and the mutants that made up her flock. It was a brittle and false smile.

    "In the Name of the Emperor." She hoisted her spear in a salute, and set off after her sisters.

    +Incoming intelligence for Princeps Senioris Hange. Priority Aleph 1+


    + + + + + +

    Hange felt the surge of hatred, billious and corrosive, surge up from the manifold as she parsed the pict feeds and data from Vounoes brief contact with the data source. Rosa twitched, turning to the site, reaching out with sensors to lock it up and provide a firing solution. Just one missile from the box would level the whole building, and reduce the twists to charred cinders.

    She leashed that anger, and reined it in, hard. The last thing she needed was for Rosa to start going on a damn rampage.

    "Strike Team Aegia" She hummed, tapping the seat of her chair. "Move us behind that silo, Moderati."

    "By your command Princeps."

    She sunk back into the manifold, and parsed the data. She decided it was irelevant in the moment. If the Inquisitorial agents succeeded at their mysterious mission or not made little difference to her Maniple in the thick of it right now.

    +All forces, form up and press, vector 12-8. Hammer through, and leave none alive.+

    The Titans, and their knight servants, formed a ragged, inverted 'V' shape, warhounds at the tip, Reaver at the rear, knights and skitarii staggered between them. Guns cycled, weapons locked, and coolant vanes sucked in mega-litres of tainted hive air to cool reactors and gun-sleaves.

    And then they fired, and advanced, and kept firing, and kept advancing. Step by step, shot by shot, block by block, intersection by intersection, body by body.

    Hange watched the scopes, her ammo bins, her coolant levels, her shields, her ground pressure, her armour integrity, her maniple, their allies, the skitarii swarming at her feet, the warrior women clinging to her armour belt. But most of all, she watched a little red cone narrow and narrow in her left eye as she got closer and closer to the shield generators for a killing shot from her volcano cannon.
    Last edited by dakkagor; 06-03-2023 at 11:02 AM.

  7. #87
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    Cadian 2451st RAR, Regimental Attaché:

    Commissar Heinold had grown tired of dealing with the Cadians. The veterans broke minor misdemeanours on the daily, but there was never really anything to sink his teeth into. He needed something more, better opportunities to show his pups the ropes. They wandered around the mess, taking measure of the combined forces of the reclamation. A group of Cadian tankers caught his attention, one of the men reclined in his chair boots resting on the mess table and tankers hat pulled over his eyes. Perfect opportunity to have some fun.

    He mentioned over to the table. The rest of the tank crew caught his attention and stiffened up. Some nervously continued to eat their food. Heinold looked to his entourage of junior commissars, who were taking measure of the situation. The napping tanker hadn't taken any notice. The commissar gave a wicked grin and drew his swagger stick. Heinold brought it level to the mans boots and carefully brushed them off the table.

    "Who the frak? I'll kick your fokking ass..." Lt Linus blurted in shock.

    The Lt caught himself and straighten in his chair. Linus lifted his tankers helmet over his eyes. Then he noticed who had disturbed him and took a baited breath.

    "Heinold, sorry. If I had known..." Linus began.

    "You wouldn't have addressed me like that." Finished Heinold. "Remind me, who's ass were you about to kick?"

    "The Patriots, Commissar." Linus answered.

    "The very same. Now, now Lieutenant. Boots off the table. You have to respect your Munitorum given equipment. Get some more rest if you're so inclined, but I'll be watching." Commissar Heinold jested.

    Heinold turned away and looked to his Junior Commissars, a kinder smile framing his face.

    "Sometimes you just have to mess with them, remind them that you're there." Heinold said, his voice a whisper.

    Behind him the crew of Mad Man held back their laughter. Aridius slowly clapped his hands together then patted Linus on the back. Apparently enjoying the situation a bit too much. Linus gave a low growl and shook the hand off, before pulling his tankers cap back over his eyes for a much needed rest. They all needed a bit of R&R, the days fighting had exhausted them. After this let down they'd be back to their vehicles performing basic maintenance and taking stock.

    Heinold continued around the room, looking for something engaging. Then he spotted it a row between the regimental staff. He only caught the tail end of it, but it was certainly a learning opportunity for the cadets.

    “Your failure to apologise is noted, colonel.” he fumed, a subdued growl. “Good day.”

    The Commissar arrived just as the Kriegers Colonel had left.

    "You know?" He began with a question. "There may be some resentment between us. Do you think they might be a little hurt after their Vraks campaign? You probably never heard of it, I only know of bits and pieces myself."

    Commissar Heinold read the situation, thinking of the best approach. A lighter touch. Better to catch Groxes with food rather than chains.

    "Don't take mind of them. Kriegers don't have much in the way of personality. I think a congratulations is in order. Our objective has been secured, sure, she could use a lick of paint but given time she'll be spick and span again. Besides you should be pitting any resentment towards us, we Commissars love painting targets on our backs." Heinold continued.

    “Isn’t that right, Remus?” Heinold questioned. “What do we say?”

    “A million worlds, a billion cultures, but the Munitorum remains the same.” The junior commissar returned.
    Last edited by Jarms48; 05-17-2023 at 06:20 AM.

  8. #88
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  9. #89
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    The missile swarm came in fast and hot. Luperca blinked at the manifold as they darted in, like deck-lice racing towards a dropped food scrap. Each one was individually tagged by its heat bloom and acoustic signature, make and model helpfully provided so that penetration and yield tables were available for her analysis.

    The

    world

    slowed

    down.

    Biosupport kicked in hard at Hanges request, dumping combat drugs and stimulants into the deck crew. Luperca was dragged along, forced to watch at slow speed by the manifold, unable to react with the lightning fast responses the crew would have for the next minute of critical action.

    The first thing Rosa did, was swing up the volcano cannon, and discharge the shot she had been holding. Amoria worked the beam left to right on a plane, and the sudden laser discharge caught and annihilated nearly twenty missiles in one go, studding the sky over Tranch with a burning arc of light garlanded in dirty fyceline explosions.

    At the same time, Brenae earned her spurs. Identifying that a percentage of the missiles were infact dumb-fired rockets, lacking a tracking spirit, she dumped the hydralics in the left leg, and pushed back on the right. Rosa, an eight hundred ton Reaver, dropped to one knee, the adamantine armour plate over the knee joint driving into plascrete hard enough to stamp the Legios symbol into the road surface until the end of the war. The rockets, some lofted from VTOLs that had used their launchers as tube artillery, others direct fired at maximum range to avoid the Onagers, flashed over Rosas shield envelope.

    The rest, the rest would have to be taken on the chin.

    Hange siezed the shield manifold, angled the torso, and tucked the hissing, scalding volcano cannon against the Titans chest, like an infantryman holding their rifle.

    +BRACE!+

    The missiles slashed in, blooming into flowers of fire against the rippling, popping voids. Hange angled the voids as best she could, drawing reactor power to push the generators as hard as they would go.

    In the cockpit, Luperca heard Generator 1, Port Side Forward, pop. Generator 4, Starboard Rear, followed a moment later. A third of the remaining barrage expended in less than three seconds.

    3 failed, overheated and shutdown by a failsafe Hange had scrabbled to override, and failed to get to in time. 2 was the last one. Blessed by the tech priests, freshly installed, it lasted the longest, but it failed too.

    The missiles hit. A dozen spent their fury on the thick carapace beetle back, designed to deflect orbital fire, and did little more than scratch the paint. A brace fell on the apocalypse missile launcher, and blew holes in its armour belt. Secondary explosions chained across the launchers left side, vented by cellular ammunition storage as missiles cooked of in sympathy. The launcher was still active, but had lost the left side load, cutting its ammo in half.

    Four rattled against the head armour. The head of a Reaver is its most thickly armoured component, barring the belt around the plasma reactor. They did nothing more than make the crew yell and flinch in primal fear, even Hange.

    Three smacked into the turbo lasers shoulder mount, and burrowed deep. Blasts disabled the power feed and targetting array. Possibly repairable in the field, but Rosas secondary armament had been crippled in one strike.

    +All stations report.+

    Luperca listened as the crew reeled of the damage report.

    +Could have been a lot worse. Get me motive+

    Rosa stood, wreathed in smoke and fire, a graven idol of war, broken but unbowed. Her targeting systems reached out, furious, seeking vengeance, spreading electronic wings that promised death to whatever they touched.

    The apocalypse launcher spoke, and three of the VTOLs, racing for cover, died. Her warhorn, strained and warped, rolled out over the burning hive 'burb, defiant. With a whine of servos and an ozone crackle, she walked backwards, piercing the hives shield, then turned to face the void generators as her volcano cannon re-built its charge and her shields re-lit.

    +Get me a clean shot+

    It was a machine snarl, part Hange, part Rosa, one admixing with the other, drawing in the crew stations, the weapon servitors, the deep, animal brain of the Titan. The pain, stress and rage, the hunger. The absolute contempt. Luperca was blinking, shuddering from the ghost of bio-support come-down, her lips skinned back from her teeth in a feral, clenched smile. She swore she could feel hot, animal breath on her back, wet and rancid.

    There! They/she had manouvered through a low-rise slum, kicking buildings down, missile rack snapping at distant targets. The laser blaster was coming back up to power, the voids relocking into place. But all that was secondary as the void shield generator resolved on the scopes. It looked strange on the thermals and energy read, a spider plunging its tendrils deep into the ground, then extending whiskers of projected nothingness into the churning atmosphere.

    +Firing+

    That word jolted Luperca out of the fever dream, and she seemed to slam back into her boots on the deck as the volcano cannon discharged at maximum power and duration, boring a glowing hole into the armour plates shielding the generator.


    +++++

    "Fall back!" Vounue yelled and pulsed, snapping a shot of from her sonic-spear. The ripple of focused, cutting audio energy caught a hiveguard and dropped him in a tangle of limbs as auto-fire rattled and spat from her refractor field. With her pelts flying behind her, the squad sprinted for better cover, away from the open ground.

    +I need covering fire! Squirting location now!+

    One of her squadmates went over as the fire intensified. She slung her spear in one fluid motion, and grabbed Thraso by the scruff of her armour, tossing the woman over her shoulder.

    +Leave. . .me . . .+

    She ignored the woman, and hurdled a low, broken wall, dropping onto her arse and dumping Thraso next to her, drawing a moan of pain from the Amazoneum. Her squad were next to her, snapping fire and ducking back as hard calibre rounds, las-bolts and bolt-shells seemed to drench their position. Trusting her squad to know their business, she turned to focus on Thraso. A round had penetrated the collar of her armour seal, and then fragmented. It was a dirty, tox laden wound, and her glands were fighting a losing battle to contain the festering pollution that now turned her blood to sludge.

    Vounoe shut her throat, bio-filters clamping hard, and ripped the damaged armour plate away. Clamping her lips over the wound, she sucked up a mouthful of heavy metal poison, tainted blood, and bullet shard, and then spat it onto the pavement, where it fairly sizzled. She went in again, and then washed the wound with water from a canteen, then her own mouth. She would have some bad ulcers if not immediately treated, but the cleaner wound gave Thraso a better chance of survival.

    +On your six ladies+

    A knight shouldered through the crumbling structure behind them, ion-shields visibly flaring under the strain. Sinister Intent, proud heraldry worked back to steel in places, opened fire over the Amazoneum, melta-cannon howling, and then strode over their position. On the Knights heels, Vounoes augmetics reported the presence of Vanguard Squad Zentarin. Dust covered, they emerged from the ruins like ghosts, laying down a hail of squealing rad-rounds.

    Explosions chained off around Sinister Intent, forcing the machine back and into its own cover. Leman Russ tanks, cycling their guns at maximum rate, pushed into the square, infantry elements moving up behind them. The already dropped in forces started to leap-frog forwards from cover, using every scrap of rubble and protuding chunk of ruin to best effect.

    With a second to focus, Vounoe hooked into the tactical nets. Both sides had responded to the point of contact, and both sides were pouring reinforcements in an escalating pattern of response and counter-response. This was hive warfare, zone mortalis, close and brutal. Action that could decide the fate of thousands shrunk down to a firefight fought by a hundred at most.

    Another Knight, Erins Long Memory, strode into the boiling yard, warhorn blaring. His flamestorm cannon bathed a vast section of the enemy front in white, clinging flame, and his heavy bolter coughed through dozens of rounds, tearing chunks from the flanks of the Russ Squadron. Pressed on two sides, the heavy tanks threw their gears into reverse, scattering their infantry sections into the buildings they had ploughed through. More skitarii, more infantry sections and servitorised weapon carriers, pushed into the fire-zone, paying with their lives for the ground as the Russes laid down harrowing fire and the traitor infantry fought like men possessed.

    Sound, sight, smell, all overwhelmed by the shock of artillery, the punch of main-guns, the hail of lead, trans-uranium, las and melta. Men could go mad from the punch of the guns, men would break and fail in the face of such mechanised destruction.

    But they were not men. Not anymore. They were Amazoneum. They were Skitarii. They were Knights. Elevated by the machine to more than man, the battlefield was their domain. Bred and born and wired for it, more even than the vaunted Astartes.

    Vounoe took command, as was her right and responsibility. She swung the Skitarii sections out and wide, had their heavy guns support Erin so he could resume his attack. As the flames pushed the enemy back, her squad left cover, and they charged, screaming trans-sonic warcries, one more horror for the ordinary men of the hive to face on this battlefield of nightmares.

    They hit the first infantry section, the same men and women who had fast roped in to pursue them what seemed like an eternity ago, but infact had been scant minutes. Vounoe could smell combat stims, taste cheap hive-bulk augments. She could see stamped sigils of hive-guard elites which her augmetics tagged, analysed, and provided service records for, even as her spear stabbed, sliced and gouged. Rust-stalkers moved in alongside her unit, blades shrieking as they parted armour weave, blood, bone. Mortar shells fell around them, blitzing them with grit, misted meat, shrapnel, chem-wash. Men and women on both sides died screaming, died badly.

    A Leman Russ crashed through a wall, engine roaring. Its main gun, a massive gatler known to the guard as a 'punisher', swung round, already spinning, already firing. Bullets tore through the air, skitarii, Amazoneum, hive guard, servitors.

    Vounoe charged. She hurled herself at the tanks armoured skirt, and her augmented, armoured fists gouged handholds as she climbed its barn like flank. The tank seemed to respond, spinning like an animal trying to catch its tail, shake its unwanted passanger.

    She made the topside trackguard, and rammed her powerspear into the turret ring. The mechanism (Oh, forgive me, sacred engine!) howled as it came to a halt. She made the turret, and the turret hatch, and wrapped her fingers around it. Her armour and her augmented muscles screamed as she pulled, and pulled, and pulled, until the hatch gave way with a shriek and she tossed it aside.

    Looking down into the screenlit darkness of the turret, her eyes met the tanks commander. She saw herself reflected in the young womans eyes, blood and smoke stained, a filthy war-spectre, clad in singed furs and tribal armours. A thousand light years from the crisp tankers uniform, the gold frogging, the practical boots, gloves and helmet.

    And the pistol, pressed into the ammo tray.

    "For the Emperor." The woman hisses, her look of fevered determination a mirror to Vounoes own. And before Vounoe can do anything else, everything is light, and noise.
    Last edited by dakkagor; 02-08-2024 at 12:35 PM.

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