[color=9e0b0f]"Again! If I can't be here baby sitting you lot, then you must understand the appropriate response and standard to everything that could go wrong as a Naval Armsman. Now, AGAIN!"[/color]

Senior Armsman Alexei Stukov was standing on the walkways above a converted cargo space, now used for the intent of training new and rusty combat personnel aboard the vessel. And this included each and every armed member beneath Stukov's command, so he was seeing to it that each and every one of his senior members was drilled to perfection. Before long he would not be available to lead and command them on a regular basis, if ever, so he was making sure they could do their jobs without him, regardless of who ended up taking over or not. That was not his decision to make. So as the senior men and women beneath his command started the drill again, he walked down the catwalk, every other step resounding with metal upon metal as his replacement lower leg and foot came down upon the catwalk. He was observing their every movement and decision, as each time he reran the drill, he changed something, it was never the same problem twice. He would not let them become complacent that easily. He had gotten this far thanks to luck, and probably some help from the Emperor on occasion. He did not want them to have to hope and pray for that sort of salvation without a damn good reason.

Stukov was in his usual attire, which meant his carapace breastplate was on over a off white top, rolled sleeves revealing two intact organic arms, although the gloves he wore mostly obscured his hands, they were cut off so the fingers were exposed. He wasn't fond of the loss of dexterity that came from gloves, but they had purposes in providing extra grip, so he tolerated the variant he wore currently. Dark green trousers, with obvious modification for his injured right leg of course, and tightly secured boot on his left foot. On his back was his weapon of choice, a Lucius pattern Mk 22c Shotgun. Normally, the biggest users of those were the Death Korp, but one could not deny their effectiveness. Even if their most famous users were suicidal, fatalistic men and women in some hellscape of a homeworld. Beyond that, he carried a Foehammer as his backup, which was sitting on his hip right now, and loaded with slug. It wasn't the most flexible choice, considering the range limitations, but an Armsman rarely needed to hit out hundreds of meters. And slug could still reach a fair ways to rectify that.

And beyond his combat knife, sheathed for easy access on his thigh, a set of grenades and ammo pouches made up his utility belt. A pair of flash, pair of concussion, and as much ammo as he could carry for his weapons. Not a very subtle or complicated load out, but it did its job. A lot of armsman down drilling seemed to like to vary and complicate their set ups and tactics. Stukov, not so much. Keeping it as simple and effective as possible was the goal, complicated schemes invited unforeseen problems and backfires. And no one liked unforeseen problems and backfires, not in their plans and goals. So as the current drill finished, and they managed to get through it with no 'causalities', the general announcement for the Inquisitor's retinue to finally stop wasting time and go meet up with their new boss. Well, new for some. Stukov had never personally worked with the man, so it was a new experience for him. But he wasn't going to go in their fawning and tripping over himself for bowing so low to the deckplate. That might be why he never advanced very far beyond Senior Armsman. Stukov refused to kiss enough ass to get there.

[color=9e0b0f]"That's my cue, you lot. We've shifted out of warp space, doesn't mean relax. Get some water and food into you, and keep working on improving. Barely getting by without losses won't cut it in the real deal. Good luck you sorry bastards."[/color]

Stukov got his fair share of shit talking sent back his way as he turned and walked out, it was only fair really. They were his troops, and he was very informal about rank and command, so it was natural to see an organic chain of command and respect form in that kind of situation. They talked shit, bullied each other, but if someone outside the family made moves, the wrath of every one of em came down on that sorry bastard. No one outside that kind of family screwed with them. It was a sad thing to see go, but it was inevitable once Stukov had been told the new orders and arrangement. Inquisitor's don't get told no, though, so here he was marching off to see someone far too above his paygrade. Suppose he should probably at least be respectful, didn't need to get shot so soon after all. With that rather morbid thought, he arrived outside the briefing room and sighed, pulling off his face piece and pocketing it before walking in.

Inquisitor stood out rather obviously, armor and weapons kind of did that. Mask didn't help him decide the kind of man he was by expression or amount of scarring. More unknowns, great. Next, trooper of some sort or another, ex Guard maybe? Looked like his sole purpose was to make enemy tank crews regret their choice in careers. Either smart, lucky, or borderline suicidal to take on tanks on foot. Not Stukov's cup of tanna, really. And a pysker, God Emperor help him. He didn't dislike the psyker as a person, the powers freaked him the hell out though. Daemons were one thing, they were wrong by nature, invaders of real space. And nothing buckshot blessed by the local priest couldn't usually handle. Psykers used that very same wrong space to fuel powers, risk possession, and do a hell of a lot of damage. Didn't mean that it didn't unnerve the hell out of him though, which was probably obvious. But he swallowed that unnerved paranoia and nodded to the assembled group so far, damn him if he would let himself act out of his usual for superiors.

[color=9e0b0f]"Senior Naval Armsman Alexei Stukov, reporting as ordered, boss."[/color]