[@Drunken Conquistador][@Laduguer][@Amaranth][@DeadDrop][@Hank][@Cash78]

“He's not wrong, you know?”

The half-question was spoken from somewhere nearby, in a voice like the rumbling of waves within a cave, although who had spoken them could not be discerned...at least not until the shadows nearby began to move.

How long he had been standing there and listening was anyone's guess – possibly he had moved into that position within the last few moments, more likely was that he had heard the entire conversation and listened with wry amusement – but the man that stepped forth from a spot near the hangars bulkhead was, ironically, someone you would wish never to meet in any shadowy area.

“You got guts, son,” came another statement as the speaker stepped into the dim lightning, addressing the former cutman as if he had known him all his life, “I like guts.”

Thick wisps of smoke from a chubby lho-stick temporarily obscured the face of the man, clenched tightly enough between scarred lips that it didn't fall out but gently enough that the smoker could continue speaking, a practised habit indeed. When the smoke did decide to clear, the view was no more appealing; now bought into its full [i]glory[/i] was a visage that possibly even a mother couldn't love, a singular representation of square-jawed masculinity and piercing blue eyes no doubt, but marred forever with twitching reddened facial flesh, a splash of Tyranid bio-acid seeing to that - standing out distinctly against the buzz-cut hair was a red bandanna, a singular scrap of red cloth worn only by a particular set of Guardsmen.

“Phrike, is it? Lips, or what were left of them, drew back and pulled the ruined face into what would have been a smile, hardened eyes – both fully functioning surprisingly – running over the gathered (and gathering) crowd of Eighth Squad legionnaires.

When others called the denizens of Catachan 'baby Ogryns' you could be forgiven for thinking it was a silly moniker, but looking upon this newcomer – clad only in his bandanna, a sleeveless white tank-top, and a pair of jungle-pattern trousers – you'd never think to question it again.

Standing over six feet tall, arms as thick as a man's neck crossed over his expansive chest, the Jungle Fighter before them was – in more or less every aspect – a smaller version of the sub-human warriors that often marched with the Guard throughout the galaxy; legs like tree trunks, a torso like a barrel, and barely a neck to speak of.

“Well-” he began, only to pause momentarily, one foot lifted and placed on the lid of a footlocker, “well, I suppose I should introduce myself. I am not a prisoner like you...a criminal...but I am here, just as they are here,” he pointed toward the other squads in sharing the hangar, each crowding around a Guardsman or two of differing stripes, probably from regiments involved in the crusade already, “my men call me Sergeant Mason, you can call me Sergeant, Sarge or 'sir', and nothing else.”

A deep inhalation bought a hissing sound from between his teeth, the chunky lho-stick rolling from one side of his mouth to the other, those eyes moving once more and falling quickly on the only knot of former Guard and others that seemed to be mingling with one another.

“I'd listen to Phrike, if I were you. You are expendable, but aren't we all?” In one smooth motion he pulled out the knife at his side – more like a short sword than a dagger - and held it up, running a thumb over the blade until a small trickle of crimson appeared on his digit, “you will nevertheless be trained to the standards of any other regiment, so I [b]suggest[/b] that you become familiar with your weapon real quick.”

Almost as if pulling himself out of a trance, the Catachan snapped his gaze away from his [i]Devil's Claw[/i] and pulled his foot off of the footlocker, returning to stand upright and raising his voice so that those of the Eighth Squad who had gathered around could hear.

“In exactly two hours you will all be required to follow me, your armour and weapons in hand. I suggest that you get some rest.”


[hr]


Sergeant Mason returned exactly as he said he would, this time with Arbitrator Kenelm in tow, an illuminated dataslate clutched in one gloved hand.

Eighth Squad was ordered to gather up and follow the pair, weaving their way back through a series of cramped corridors, the ship shuddering as it moved through the swirling hell that was the warp, until they came to their destination...

“Welcome,” intoned the Arbitrator, “please proceed through that door,” a finger pointed at a thick door that stood ajar, “and await further instructions.”

What they would find through the doorway, one that slammed shut with a [b]clang[/i] once all thirty of them had entered, was quite unique. Aboard ships it was common for the Guard regiments to train with firing ranges, impromptu assault courses, and so on. What stood before the legionnaires was something designed specifically for their own benefit and that of their superiors...particularly for their superiors.

Contained within the dimensions of an arena - twenty-five metres wide and forty-two meters long – was a near perfect replica of a 'generic' battlefield in miniature form, designed to imitate the ruins of an urban environment. A couple of one-story buildings could be seen, rubble and twisted metal strewn throughout, a central road running through the middle of it all, low walls and even an overturned/burnt out vehicle or two were present.

If one were to look up and to their left, they may see a 'box' from which everything was being viewed, groups of shadowy figures barely visible through a plasteel window. Large speakers protruded from either side of the box, and presently crackled into life.

“Legionnaires of the First Redemption Penal Legion, welcome to your first training session. Please load your weapons and check your armour. There is no way out, so I would strongly advise against any attempt at escape.”

Imperious in tone and exact in enunciation, the bodiless voice drifted to all ears, filling the room.

“There are near one hundred of you present here for the first round of many this day, by the end of it there will be far fewer.”

One hundred men and women, three separate squads of legionnaires jammed together in this simulated surrounding, for one purpose alone.

“Live fire is active, and only one squad is returning to the hangar. You may engage when ready.”

A klaxon sounded, and 'battle' had began.



[hider=Please Read]Okie dokie,

Pretty self explanatory, you're going to two other squads in live-fire war games; feel free to kill pretty much as many of the others as you like, or none at all. I expect posts of quality here, and I know I'll get them from you guys (and girls?)[/hider]