[color=598527]"You know the hypocrisy of it, of course? Despite how much of a coward you've proven yourself to be, though, but you know it none the less. Of playing at soldier, when you are nothing of the sort."[/color]

The half dead PDF lieutenant, commander of this isolated post, was set in his chair, bound and gagged of course, to prevent him shouting out and alerting anyone else in the building. He was eying the man sitting on his desk, eyes full of a mixture of fear and hate, though that assailant could only be identified from the sound of his voice, muffled as it is through the rebreather the man wore. The lieutenant's wounds were fresh, bleeding openly from the bayonet wound in his gut, and the broken nose from a strike that had rendered him unconscious before he could scream for aid. He wouldn't last for overly long, but long enough for the man to speak his bit. [color=598527]"Playing at soldier, sending men to die, too afraid to lead them and claim the glory personally. They earned their place as warriors, but you? You don't get any such honors, and neither do the cowards hiding here, playing at honor guard."[/color]

The Lieutenant tried to focus on the man speaking to him, and the first thing he noticed was how gaunt he was, despite the flak armor and cloak he wore, chameleon by the looks of it since it blurred and made it hard to make out anything beneath the cloak. However, he didn't wear it for concealment right now, showing off the dirty brown colored armor, stripped of markings of either Imperial or regimental markings, thin as the man was already. Facial features were indistinct, the non regulation pattern rebreather covering his face, the red lenses giving his eyes a violet hue, though this surely had to be just a trick of the light due to the previously mentioned lenses. Despite his puzzling, the Lieutenant couldn't place the man, neither who he was or where he had originated, though the gear made him suspect mercenary of some sort, or possibly renegade Guard or PDF. One thing that was noted was that he had several drum magazines on webbing about his waist, certainly nothing that was standard issue for any PDF or Guard forces the Lieutenant could think of.

At that point, an explosion, one that interrupted the man's train of thought, could be heard from the front of the post, and the masked man pulled a knife, cutting the gag free and, though grinning beneath the rebreather almost feral like, watched him scream for help that wouldn't be coming. Once it dawned on him that help would not be coming, that the sounds of isolated battle from the PDF forces fighting unseen foes, ironically unrelated to the main goal that the masked man had used them for. He had been a mercenary, paid to assist the PDF, fighting for cowards that hid behind the manpower that they could use to elevate themselves, but had discovered this harsh truth at the doorstep of death. He refused to accept this and found an offer in his mind at that moment. He would find the strength to fight, to wage war, and all he had to do was keep fighting, keep killing, to embrace the rage that he held against the cowards that sent true soldiers to die.

His rage, however, was a cold rage, focused, bitter, but clarifying anger that gave him purpose. Cowards like this man, and those that would fear warfare coming, would know what their true calling should be. The sounds of battle, of the PDF being overrun by proper warriors, clad in rags and gang markings as they were, but feared no death, and used any tool at hand to achieve their goals. However, none of them would be getting into the room, barred and locked as it was after the fact that he had gotten into the room. The Lieutenant paled, unaware of this, fear overcoming him fully. "Pl..please, I beg of you! I am no soldier, it was demanded of me! I'll do anything you wish, spare me!"

For a few moments, the man's posture did not change. He had appeared, at a casual glance, to be relaxed whilst sitting on the Lieutenant's desk, but closer view betrayed otherwise. He had swept the room already, but he kept a wary stance as he leaned forwards, arms pressing against his thighs. His posture showed a man who was used to operating on his own, never able to trust anyone or anything around him as he listened to the sounds going on, considering what was going on. Frankly, he didn't seem overly concerned with hearing voices and resisting the death that was intended for him, having risen against such supposed fates. All he seemed concerned with was the task at hand, the man in front of him, and had every intention of exacting the punishment he saw as fitting for the man he had cornered. His seemed to be a singular focus to tear down the entire rotten structure, burn it away through war, and let a more fitting structure be built in its place.

The rebreather wearing soldier then sighed, pushing himself off the table, walking towards the door, grabbing his autogun as he walked towards the door. Pausing at the door, he turned and decided against letting the gangers and criminals have this man. No, he would not get to die at their relatively quick hands. Walking forward, he planted a heavy kick right into the wounded man's gut, throwing him down onto the back of the chair, shattering it and forcing the man to cough harshly, sending blood everywhere. The man scrambled, hands raised to shield himself as the man kicked his hands away, ramming the bayonet into his torso again, twisting and ripping the blade free, sending precious life blood spraying across the floor. He raised his hand, a pistol feebly grasped in his bloody hand, but another kick sent it spiraling away.

The Lieutenant was forced to watch as the man checked over his weapon, almost in a caring, doting manner. It had the trappings of an autogun, clearly rechambered for a larger round than originally intended based off the almost strained looking barrel size, though the bayonet lug remained in place, a serrated, blood coated blade still attached. It had an optic on it, and considering the aformentioned cloak, he was likely some sort of scout or sniper of some sort. The toggle that controlled method of fire seemed to not easily switch to fully automatic, clearly used to remaining in a single shot setting through a lot of rough grime and trouble. But toggle it did, and he tugged the drum magazine out, ensuring it was loaded with the preferred ammo. Each round looked like a hollow point with notches etched into it, meant to maximize suffering and damage. Intended for fighting people who cared about their comrades being crippled out in the opening, a sniper's tactic for baiting out others to help them, only to die themselves. But all this meant little to the Lieutenant now as the magazine was slammed back into place, round already chambered from before, and it was pointed right at his chest. 

[color=598527]"Now you know the truth, facing death with no way out. There is nothing else in this universe, but to fight. Pick a cause and give yourself to it, body, blood, in totality. Yet you hide from it, and look where it got you. Beneath the boot of someone who you aren't worthy to stain the clothing of with your blood. Yet, you will, and you will know who killed you. Tell your corpse god that Ansgar Staudinger sent you, and I will be coming for him, in time."[/color] The man's eyes were wide as saucers as the man leveled his autogun and squeezed the trigger, hosing the Lieutenant down with autogun rounds, going well into the overkill territory. He had made his decision far before now, this was just an eventuality.