"We're both men 'a command, I'm just showing ya some leadership comraderie. If ya say so though. Colour-Sargent it is, ain't it?" His fingers continued to play across the handle of his melta gun, running along the individual little grooves, his fingernail plucking out little bits of grime and catching it in his gloves. "Besides, I spent a lot o' fuckin' time in tha guard, and I won't get much better than ya." He chuckled a little again. He liked the praetorian, he had decided. He was dry, and stern, but he was a decent guy, it seemed. "'Ey, not much different to me then. 'Cept I never 'ad a real love. Just a string af women in different travels. Or bunkers."

Black Fever was nasty though. Didn't wish that on anyone, that was for sure. Shame that. He nodded slowly to himself, feeling the ship shudder around him a little bit. The vacuum of space you couldn't hear point defences flashing and crackling, or ships imploding and leaking oxygen, and he preferred it that way. Hearing screams and such was always annoying when you were taking a lander. His mask continued to provide 'fresh' air to him, and he realised something. He hadn't put a fresh filter in. Reaching up to his face, he clicked off the thumb-sized filter and pulled it out, then replaced it. Rinse and repeat with the other side, and then he slipped his goggles on.

"Alright. Harakoni Warhawks." He took a few deep breaths. Perfect. He blinked, his eyes adjusting to the combat filter on his goggles. He was ready. Adrenaline started to pound through him, and he cracked his knuckles, slipping the strap over his shoulder.

[b]"Harakonari an tellika regala!"[/b] He held a single fist up. For all the bastards he had fought beside that had been cut down. For all the fuckers [i]he[/i] had cut down with his weaponry. To the fucker that would end up killing him. Time to enjoy another life or death situation.