[b]HMP [i]Anson[/i], Mountbatten Sector, Albion[/b]
[i]Imperial Standard Date: 23rd December 3160[/i]

Carrington sprinted through the prison hulk’s narrow corridors, marines following close behind with weapons drawn and at the ready. Behind them, the Governor strained to keep up, a handful of guards accompanying him and watching the rear as they followed the source of the explosion. Past rows and rows of cells they ran, to the jeers and angry cries of inmates, rattling their bars and filling the air with a deafening metallic clatter. Up ahead, the sounds of fighting began to cut through the background din, shouts and gunshots and the sickening thuds of metal against flesh. Whatever had caused the explosion, it seemed it had provided a number of convicts with a chance to break free from the cramped confines of their cells and wreak vengeance upon those who had kept them there. A gunshot sounded closer by. Luther’s grip on his revolvers tightened as he drew nearer. 

Without warning, a convict burst out of a side passageway, a gaunt, rat-like, wild-eyed man – opium-addled, most likely – with crude tattoos and a length of rusted metal pipe clutched in his grazed fists. With a maddened scream, he leapt at Carrington, who stumbled back a split-second before steel split the air in front of his face. Firing from the hip, he loosed two shots at the attacker, one tearing through his groin and the second, driven upwards by the weapon’s recoil, hitting him in the stomach. Aided by a swift kick, he collapsed onto the hard floor, whimpering in pain as blood slowly pooled around him. Luther and his men marched on past the miserable sight without pause. His suffering was deserved. Rounding a blood-spattered corner, the scene that unfolded before them was nothing short of utter chaos. A great scorch mark spread across the entire corridor, scraps and shards of twisted metal bent into deadly spikes. Empty cells gaped open, and chunks of flesh and bone lay scattered across the ground. Guards and prisoners slashed and shot and swung at each other, locked in a brutal melee for as far as the eye could see. By the looks of it, the prisoners were winning, the guards quickly falling back into another distant passageway. Carrington waved his marines forward. “Section, form up two ranks deep! Present arms!” The soldiers hurried into position, battle lines stretching across the corridor so that nothing could pass through. The Captain raised his revolver. “Front rank, fire!” A volley of shots ripped through the closest convicts, hypersonic metal slugs punching through their bodies and throwing them back across the ground. “Rear rank, fire!” The next gang of escapees fell. Wisps of smoke rose from red-hot barrels. “Fix bayonets and advance!” Luther continued to discharge his pistols, marching alongside the marines as they pressed on, rifles held out in front of them like deadly spears, prompting the remaining convicts to flee. The privateer glanced back. Governor Larkin was nowhere to be found – clearly, he had retreated to safety rather than join the fight. Carrington sneered in disgust. He abhorred cowardice.

As the marines strode forth, stepping over the mangled corpses of criminal and guard alike, their captain sheathed one of his revolvers – it was empty now anyway – and drew his sabre, a gleaming steel blade sharpened to a razor’s edge that sang as it slid from the scabbard. The last convict disappeared out of sight, and the party quickened their pace, hoping to catch up before more of the prison was overrun. More shots sounded, and as Carrington’s men charged into the next corridor they quickly discovered their source. A couple of the convicts had managed to get hold of shotguns, plucked from the bodies of unfortunate guards. With their newfound weapons, they were making worryingly short work of blasting open the locks on their fellow inmates’ cells, bolstering their numbers with every second that went by. Buckshot whizzed through the air as they turned their attention to the rapidly approaching marines, pellets denting their armour and grazing exposed skin. Still the soldiers kept up their advance, a bristling wall of steel bayonets poised to skewer any foe in their path. As the shotgunners retreated, sustaining their steady yet ineffective fire, criminals leapt from their now-open cells with whatever weapons they had at hand, crude shivs and metal bars clashing against rifles and bayonets. It was a futile effort. Blades flashed, sliding into flesh and emerging with a dripping scarlet coat. Luther swung his sabre, its edge biting through the throat of a murderous escapee and spraying blood across the narrow hallway. Hardened and violent these prisoners may have been; they were no match for resolute and disciplined soldiers of Albion, the mortal vessels of the divine King's unassailable might.

The persistent shower of buckshot ceased as two well-placed bullets from Carrington’s remaining revolver bored their way into the skulls of the pair of gun-toting inmates, cries of despair ringing out from within the cells they were attempting to blast open. Little by little, the groans and screams of the wounded and dying waned, the sounds of raging combat now gone altogether. The marines relaxed a little, lowering their wall of bayonets. It was a shock, then, when a head, notably without any connection to its owner’s neck, bounced out into the hallway. Rifles were raised once more.

“Wouldn’t shoot if I was you, ya cunts.” A grim, heavily accented voice declared. Its owner stepped out into full view of Luther and his marines. A mountain of a man, broad and heavily scarred, with several teeth missing and a brass ring hanging from a boxer’s ear. In front of him, with a serrated knife held firmly at his throat, stood Governor Larkin – ‘stood’ in the loosest sense of the term, as his legs looked like they had given way entirely, relying on his captor to keep him upright. A thin trickle of blood ran down his neck as the blade’s teeth broke his skin. 

Luther stepped forward, holstering his revolver. “One miscreant with a knife, against twenty battle-hardened marines with EM rifles. Tell me, prisoner: how do you plan to emerge from this little altercation victorious?”

The big man looked puzzled, then angry, his grip tightening on his weapon. “Olta-cayshun what? You fuckin’ try shit and I’ll cut ‘im, clear?”

The privateer sighed. “Do you not teach your prisoners English, Governor Larkin?” A chuckle emerged from the rear rank of marines, swiftly suppressed. “Let us make a deal, prisoner. Single combat. You against I.”

“You want me to fight ya?” Surprise flickered across the convict’s face. “What do I get when I smash yer fuckin’ face in?”

“Your freedom, of course,” Carrington replied. “You may leave this place a free man – after all, if you win, clearly it is a sign that the King has granted you his favour. What do you say?”

The prisoner thought for a moment – clearly a challenge for him – and nodded, a sinister grin forming and revealing a mouth half-full of blackened, chipped teeth. “Alright mister fancy cunt, I’ll fight ya. Come on then!” Tossing the Governor aside and brandishing his vicious knife, he took a long step forward. Luther gave a nod. As one, twenty rifles blazed with furious fire, metal slugs tearing into the prisoner’s body and taking chunks of bone and gore with them as they left the other side. The knife fell to the floor, a second before the smouldering, half-disintegrated corpse of its owner did. 

A few marines rushed forward to secure the Governor, dragging the whimpering, blood-spattered man back to safety and hauling him to his feet. “Wh… what happened? Is he d-dead?”

Carrington gestured to the mangled body down the corridor. “Truly, His Majesty works in mysterious ways.”

Larkin managed a pained half-smile, as multiple sets of footsteps drew closer and a squad of prison guards rounded the corner. “Indeed he does.” He stood, slowly regaining his composure, and looked around. “I’d say we probably have it under control from here. Thank you, Captain, and good luck with your hunt. I hope Fort Rhodes has answers for you.”