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

  1. #11
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    “Are you coming or not, you mercenary fraks!?” he bawled at the Jotunhel shield line.

    "You heard the fucker, advance!" Jarn bellowed, gesturing forwards with his axe. With a clatter, the improvised shield line jogged forwards to catch up with the Nebula's. Jarn would never admit it out loud in front of the Adranteans, but he had thought all the talk about the Nebula's had been just that: talk. Seeing them in action was different. They were impressive, and deserved respect. But Jarn had fought the Imperiums Angels of Death, and lost. He had seen better.

    “Well we can’t stay here and wait for them.” captain Tarran broke in, shrugging away a spasm in a damaged shoulder joint as she rejoined the others. “With the barriers down this loading bay is one big shooting gallery.”

    "I might have some people on that." Jarn had jogged up beside the officers, Ulf in tow again as his men spread out to make best use of whatever cover was left. "Get me a decent vox link in this shit-can and I can confirm one way or another."

    ++++++

    "Spread out! By the numbers!" Droplaug yelled into her vox, and peeled away from the sudden wave of Imperial reinforcements. In one smooth motion she unlimbered a grenade launcher, and punched a shot down range over her shoulder. She grinned in satisfaction as the krak grenade found a skitarii torso and explosively disassembled them. Around her she could hear other squads hitting and running, harassing the enemy with blasts from autoguns, shotguns and whatever specialist weapons they had been able to pry away from Herkja and Starolf. She had no flamers, but she did have a good supply of launchers and smoke, and they leaned on that now.

    "Boss!" One of her troopers yelled. She pulled up next to him as he gestured to a length of flakboard leaned up on a shipping container. A wheelbarrow, on its side and spilling its contents of salvaged parts, lay nearby, clearly abandoned.

    "A ramp and gangway system? Where does it go?"

    "No idea. Gotta be better than here."

    Droplaug was inclined to agree. But they'd need a distraction to make best use of it.

    +Droplaug, you still alive in here?+

    From the other side of the market, a series of fireballs reached to the high ceiling, accompanied by panicked new screaming. The whole market chamber seemed to shake. Herkja.

    "I won't be if you keep cutting the hull!" She unfolded her map again, orientating it as the man next to her summoned a few more squads over. "Can you pin them there?"

    +Oh you know me, I love killing cog boys! They burn so good!+

    "Then hold your position. I need to find and kill one specific toaster fucker."

    She killed the vox link and nodded to her man nearby. He started gesturing for bikers to scramble up the ramp, abandoning their bikes. Droplaug followed.

    "Hold your fire until we have him." Droplaug ordered to the squad as they moved forwards. It was different up here, more exposed. She wondered if the mechanicus had deployed any of their snipers. She hoped not. Around her, bikers pushed forwards as quietly as they could, autopistols and lascarbines at the ready.
    Last edited by dakkagor; 05-06-2019 at 02:11 PM.

  2. #12
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    Spoiler: Maniple Alpha-Rho-Phi, the Damned 88th - Baraspine 
    Last edited by Azazeal849; 04-11-2019 at 04:06 PM.
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  3. #13
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    "Torch it." Droplaug snarled. As her small strike team fell back by the numbers, one of her men with a hand flamer moved up and washed the machine with a wave of burning promethium. She didn't want even the chance of someone repairing the damn thing.

    "Now we fall back. And pray that we don't get left behind."

    Her men jogged up the wide set of stairs, many holding pistols for quick response in the warren of tunnels they would soon enter in the atmosphere processing sections. Droplaug counted them off and slapped her voxman on the shoulder as he kept working his set, trying to reach Herkja.

    As they fell back into the warren, the bolter fire caught up with them. Rounds spanked off pipes and walls, and two men dropped in chunks. Droplaug dropped into cover and returned fire before crabbing backwards under a heavy pipe.

    The flashes, the profile of the armour, the tremor of the deck. . . For a horrible second, Droplaug was watching the Astartes rout her finest warriors with contemptuous ease again. But above the roar of the bolters was the sound of female voices raised in song to their cursed dead god. . .

    "I have Herkja!" Her voxman cried as they fell back, now being definitely chased by the thudding bootsteps of power armour. Droplaug grabbed the horn away from him and yelled into it.

    "Sisters! Herkja, we have sisters coming, and you took all my fucking cookers!"

    +++++

    A moment ago, Herkja had been admiring her work. The market was a blazing ruin, and her men were laden down with all manner of booty, and few civvy prisoners to haul it all back to the ships.

    Now she was running her short, flame retardant arse off.

    Droplaug was only a few minutes away. She had the rest of Droplaugs command with her, and her own specialists. About 300 soldiers. Ahead of her, they were falling into cover and lining up for support fire.

    At the far end of the market, with a nice lane blasted and burned through the lean toos and scrap hovels, Herkja saw Droplaug and her fireteams emerge from a transit way, running at full pelt.

    "The trench you silly bitch!" She yelled into the vox. She watched as Droplaug's eyes widened and she threw herself into the ripped up crawlway, as good as a trench dirtside, and her men piled in next to her. At the hatch, hulking armoured figures emerged from the gloom, bolters blazing.

    She didn't even need to issue the order. The entire transit way exploded under heavy fire, crew served autocannon, grenade launchers, and a wall of lasrifle fire. They kept it up for thirty seconds as Droplaug and her team crawled out of the side of the trench and out of the fire lane, then booked it through the shanty town and flopped down next to Herkja's men.

    "Clear! Blow it!"

    The market rumbled and shook, and the ceiling began to collapse. They were running again, scrambling back into corridors and accessways as bulkheads slammed shut behind them.

    "Did you breach that section?" Droplaug asked, incredulous.

    "I don't think so." Herkja shrugged. There was a dull roar, and a rumble that seemed to move up and down the station.

    "Ah."

    "Ah?!" Droplaug panted.

    Herkja and her men set off at a dead sprint. With a breathless curse, Droplaug was a half step behind.

    +++++

    "Starolf, start looking into a way off this damn station."

    The scout captain raised an eyebrow at his commander.

    "I thought we were using the main accessway?"

    Jarn looked into the distance, clearly deep in thought and shook his head slowly.

    "I don't think the Eudomania would have bugged out like that unless the orbital fight wasn't going sideways fast. So, we'll probably only have a few minutes to get off this station before the Imperials close the net."

    Starlof nodded. "I'll lean on our new assets. There should be some vehicle bays we can use to pack up our men, the loot, and the locals, as well as the few boats we pulled over ourselves."

    "Make it happen."

    +++++

    Jarn jogged back to the front line, not exactly confident in Starolf, but knowing that hanging over the mans shoulder wouldn't get much done either. The vox was already noisy with units beginning to pull back from the rear areas, wounded and the captured civilian toaster fuckers going first. He had two reconstituted platoons holding the long corridors, along with a few sniper teams from Starolf.

    Ulf pushed the vox receiver into his hand, and he automatically put it up to his ear.

    "Go for Jotun Actual."

    +Am I glad to hear your voice.+ Droplaug wheezed over the vox. +I'm incoming, mission accomplished. We have battle sisters following us in, so expect heavy company.+

    He didn't bother asking for a confirmation, or even a number count. If Droplaug had known, she would have given him the numbers immediately. He instead checked his map on a nearby bulkhead.

    "Head towards corridor A-23. Signal when you hit the Imps in the rear, and we'll push from the front. That should open a path for you to get back to us."

    +Confirmed. See you soon.+
    Last edited by dakkagor; 05-06-2019 at 02:31 PM.

  4. #14
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    “Acknowledged, Kappa,” Donovan replied, “redistribute and assume heavy reinforcement incoming.”

    Donovan looked out across the spar from the position his men shared with Jarn’s. There was no easy way out but then again where was the fun in an easy victory? The Tribune was not pleased by the prospect of enemy reinforcements when they still had no clear means off the station. But if the fighting around the station was any indication, they might have a ride out sooner rather than later. “Allied forces identified,” barked one of the vanguard marksmen as he fired across the connector and clipped an Imperial. It was a benefit of the enhanced optics that they picked out Droplaug and her men as they made contact with the Imperial forces they were sharing fire with.

    “Arrived right on time, colonel,” Donovan remarked to Jarn before he got an oddly distracted look to his eyes. “There’s a broadcast going over mainly Mechanicus local channels. An allied cruiser is preparing to dock but they need any survivors to make a fast exit.”
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  5. #15
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    Spoiler: Maniple Alpha-Rho-Phi, the Damned 88th - Baraspine 
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  6. #16
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    Jarns bolt pistol kicked in his hand as he emptied the last of the magazine. Bolts slammed around and into the Sister as she forced herself through the hole, and something connected. The woman jerked like she had been kicked, then slumped forwards. Behind her, her sisters pushed her body aside and started firing.

    "What’s the ETA for the rest of you?”

    "Fucked if I know!" Jarn roared as he ducked behind cover. He looked across to Droplaug who was hunkered down nearby. She flicked up a hand, three fingers extended.

    "3 minutes, I say again 3 minutes!" Jarn yelled into his microbead. His men knew their business. Squad by squad, section by section, they fell back under bounding fire as the Sisters forced more and more breaches, tearing melta-softened doors open with their armoured hands to allow them to push in in pairs and trios, boltguns barking. He watched Stepenvarn rise up to fire, and take a bolt shell to the chin that punched right through that ridiculous bum-fluff beard he insisted on and tear his head from his shoulders. He winced, rolled over to the blood spurting corpse, and got the lasrifle into his hands. He simply planted it on the conveyor, and not bothering to check his aim, emptied the cell and tossed it aside. The next second he was up, head low, and his section ran past one holding ground and pouring on everything they had.

    "Anarkos! Get your arse and the menites out of my mens way! We need to break clean and I can't do that with those militia fucks clogging the access way!"

    He didn't like admitting it, but he was putting a lot of faith in Anarkos to get the disorganised Militia falling back in good order. If the accessways became clogged in panicking bodies, then he would lose every man and woman he had deployed to the station.

    As he dropped into cover, a bolt round winged his shoulder. The force was enough to spin him to the floor, where he slammed, rebreather mask first, into the deck, cracking the plastek and blacking him out. He awoke to someone jamming a stimm in his leg and smacking him in the head.

    "Get up sir! Move!"

    He stumbled to his feet, some unbidden reflex making him aim his last loaded bolt pistol behind him and spray a fan of shots. Bolt rounds seemed to fly by him in slow moving shoals of bright pricks of light.

    Concussion. He realised groggily. He had no idea who was hauling him along. It didn't matter. Men dropped left and right as he was hauled down into cover again, breathing heavily. No. Struggling to breathe at all. The air was getting thin.

    "Oh, fuck" He propped himself and looked back. The sisters were still on his tail. It would be up to Anarkos now to make sure he could get his people out before they either got boltered to pieces, or suffocated.
    Last edited by dakkagor; 07-08-2019 at 06:44 PM.

  7. #17
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    “Docking arm 3-12!” Anarkos roared over the sounds of battle around them, ripping the bothersome remains of the synthetic skin from the leering sliver skull that was his cranial replacement. “Move with purpose, baselines, or be left behind! And if these Menoths don’t move out of the damn way, shoot them!”

    Any pretense of social niceties needed to be discarded. It was either make it to the docked ship or die. There was no in-between and no second chances. The Skitarii’s weapons joined the covering salvos as the group moved as mostly one, the Militia being somewhat bullied into motion by the uncaring advance of the Martians. It was time to cut any losses and move before they were overwhelmed by the advancing Sisters. Anarkos’s men were pushing the Militia to move and anyone who lagged too much was simply cut down. There was no time for kindness only the cold forward momentum of the Skitarii. The colonel’s men had proven their worth and continued use to the cause while the Menoth had become something of a burden.

    Luck was on the tribune’s side as the Militia quickly fell in line and joined the organized retreat to the docking arm. The returning volleys of fire covering the retreat were light up further by blazing salvos from the tribune’s rapid-fire plasma caliver. A saving grace of the fire from the Skitarii was the sheer penetrative power of the galvanic rifles’ ammunition when they did find homes in bodies.

    They were making progress.

    They were getting close.

    Anarkos had taken a few glancing hits but nothing enough to stop him from beaming regular orders to his men along with barking out orders to those still confused via his vocal projectors. There was no time for second-guesses or pauses. Not from anyone.
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  8. #18
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  9. #19
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    “You're the only one who knows the codes, aren't you?” Jarn asked. He stood up, pushing the man who had held him up away. “That would be just like you toaster fuckers, to make sure that only one of you knows the codes to let our ship get away.”

    Starolf raised his rifle to deliver another blow, but Jarn waved him off. The lean officer fell back a step, and started to wave more men past the knot of officers, busying himself with the evacuation. Some Jotunhel men had stopped to gawp, and he hurried them along while keeping the group in his line of sight.

    “Drop those tethers, and you have my word. Tarran and the Tribune here will look after your people. You'll never have to deal with me or mine again. I swear it on my dead homeworld.”

    “Your promise is worthless, baseline.” Brandt said without inflection. “I require the binding word of another from the machine cult.”

    "On my oath as a servant of the Machine God, they will have the protection of my Skitarii." Anarkos was in no mood for a prolonged conversation. Having some adepts and menials to aid in repairs and maintenance could be useful. Unless they just got turned over to the Rosa, of course.

    Brandt glanced back at Starolf with very human animosity. “Concordance, tribune.”

    The deck shuddered again, and the flickering grav-tethers vanished.

    “Anarkos. Can you lock him out? I don't want him changing his damn mind.”

    “Allow me, Colonel. The tribune hasn’t been granted such access for this mission.” The modulated voice of Magos Krypter spoke up as the hunched form swathed in red made his way through. “And you, Brandt, your actions saved many lives today including my own. And I will do my best to see your people are well taken care of and put to the best use possible.”

    The Magos locked out the tech-priest from the dock arm controls with a dismissive wave of his hand. Anarkos would have just shot the tech-priest had it been left up to him but the Dominus had a bit more decorum about the whole thing. “Now let’s get off this damned station before those uptight bitches blast us all into the vacuum. I think the gracious captain of the ship is getting anxious.”

    Jarn ground his teeth, tempted to have Starolf shoot the kneeling 'Magos' Brandt. But with Krypter suddenly present, he reigned in his anger and let it slide.

    "You better hope we don't run into each other again, Brandt." Jarn snarled, before turning on his heel and marching towards the ship, raising his voice to hurry his men along.

    "I suspect that we will not." the caliper-armed enginseer replied across the rushing press of infantrymen. His tone was dignified, despite his kneeling stance and bloody lips. "But while the Motive Force runs within me I will never let children of the Omnissiah become slaves to heathens like you."

    "Oh I like this one. We might just keep him." Krypter could see the potential uses for an enginseer like Brandt blossoming before him like pulses along a circuit track. Sure it might take some convincing to get him to see the nature of their cause but Krypter was confident he understood the enginseer just enough to make that a reality.

  10. #20
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    Spoiler: Maniple Alpha-Rho-Phi, the Damned 88th - Baraspine  
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