An increase in rank hadn't meant the end of Ingran's normal duties, it had simply piled more on. The Tempestor Prime commanded some of the deadliest men and women the Imperium had to offer on missions too dangerous or high stakes for anyone else to handle but that didn't mean she had someone to take care of her gear for her. Each Scion was responsible for every item issued to them, the proper upkeep of which was as sacred a duty as any other. Everything from the Omnishield helms that allowed them to see in the dark and while floating in the vacuum of space to the Slate Monitrons displaying how close to death they were had required hours of training to use and maintain. She had earned the brands on her chest that gave her the right to wield them and to dishonor her efforts by passing the work off to an underling wouldn't have sat well with her or her troops.

So Isadora did what every Scion had to: disassemble and reassemble every bit of gear she had to make sure all was in working order. Her monoscope was the first to be inspected, its lenses carefully cleaned and the bulb inside checked for any dim spots. The Slate was up next, re-calibrated to sync up with her body's lifesigns so anyone could see her state of health. The Prime worked slowly, deliberately, the same way any good craftsman treated their tools. Her trade was in death and her instruments were designed to help her deal it but the same basic principles applied. Her equipment was kept clean because she respected it and she respected it because it allowed her to do her job.

The servitor's beep came just as she had ejected the hydrogen flask from her Plasma Pistol, Ingran ignoring it for the moment required to whisper the rites of handling. Any deviation from the litany would spell disaster, a second's impatience enough of an offense for the fuel to explode with the power of a sun. Only when the volatile fuel was set to rest did she turn towards the hologram of Hera, bowing her head in greeting. 

The first objective was standard enough. Get boots on the ground and capture an enemy fortification for their own use and ensure that no one in the area was left alive in order to take it back. The same sort of mission she had taken part in and led dozens of times now. Isadora studied the map as her fellows were given their instructions, calculating the fastest routes to and from the estates and all the back alleys and choke points branching off of them. Hive cities were interesting, much more tightly compacted than some of the flat agri and feudal worlds she had been deployed to. Plenty of spots for ambushes and and counter-ambushes, windows for snipers to pop out of and sewers where scum could scurry about in safety. 

So the Arbites, Assassins and Guard would be handling the estates? An interesting combination, one that would no doubt prove to be effective. Her fellow Progenium graduates were damn good at kicking in doors and what little she knew of the throat-slitters was enough for her to be confident in their abilities. The rank-and-file Militarum were valuable if only for sheer numbers, every lasgun fired at the enemy a hammer blow from all of humanity.

The Scion officer sent silent thanks to the Emperor that the Melta torpedoes were under someone else's jurisdiction. The digi-weapon version hidden in her metal middle finger was destructive enough for her to want to avoid being nearby when a stray shot set off something larger. Let the Mechanicus handle those, dangerous technology was their domain. She was much more comfortable with the work assigned to her and the Soritas, the eradication of the local lowlifes. "As you command Inquisitor so it will be done."

There was nothing else to say. The orders of the Inquisition required no explanation and allowed no questioning save that of clarification and Ingran wouldn't have thought to do so anyway, not when she still had maintenance to do. The sun gun was carefully pieced back together and its machine-spirit placated with prayers of function before she stepped out to relay the orders to her troops. There was no discussion as Strike Force Lambda filed into the Devourer that would ferry them to the surface of Yunnalin V, no sound except that of armaplas rubbing against ceramite and power packs being fitted into weaponry. 

Fifteen of the Imperium's best being sent to deal with a bunch of slum-dwelling thugs? The gangers should have felt honored.