[right][h3]Interrogator Stanislaus Di Felice
[sup][CLASSIFIED] Site "Gravestone"[/sup][/h3][/right][hr]A wise voidsman once said that there was nothing elegant about a boarding torpedo. They were right. 

The hull of the boarding torpedo shook violently, casting some aside while launching others off their feet. The steel of the torpedo groaned, the sound distorted into something ominous and sickly by the void of space beyond it. All the more, without even a chance for the retinue to steady themselves back into their oblong formation, the front of the torpedo began to [i]scream[/i]. The wails of the space station hull quickly overpowered the groaning of the boarding torpedo, assailing the retinue with the sound of steel on melting steel. As the walls of Site Gravestone thinned, the pitch of the wails soared higher and higher, the whines threatening to bore through the crew's heads at its crescendo. 

Then, with relief not unlike popping a sore pimple, the banshee screams and ominous groans dropped away with a final, anti-climactic thud. What little remained of the wall separating the boarding torpedo dropped to the floor and rattled to a standstill. For the Inquisitorial retinue, some still scattered, it was as if they had only breached into empty space. The rattling of the leftover wall echoing throughout the halls of the station was little comfort when all the crew had to face was darkness. Pitch and chilling darkness.

A scratch over the vox heralded a voice: 
"Lights on," came Sergeant Agletdinova's voice. A mix of beams of light and gentle whirrs spread across the formation: some shining flashlights from their helmets and weapons into the cold darkness while others enjoyed the low-light vision of their own means. The team's newfound perception did little to comfort them: on the other side of the breach, there was nothing bar an empty hall. If there was, they would surely already be dead, given the delay. 
"That was sloppy," chided Stanislaus as he tugged at the mechanism of his Condemnor Boltgun. "Move out."

[hr]
Beams of light scanned the hallway, combing it in both directions. The stillness was almost suffocating. The team, assembled around the entry point, kneeled in a perimeter around Stanislaus, von Toor, Bruna, and Birgitte.
"Oxygen composition is approximately 20 percent oxygen and 79 percent nitrogen, Interrogator," explained von Toor, one of his metallic arms dancing at a personal cogitator while the other held his symbolic axe. His robotic voice flowed more smoothly over the vox than it did when spoken. "The air is safe to breathe."
"Which is curious, because the lights are out," observed Birgitte as she typed at her cogitator-tome, recording all events as they went. "Short of a systems failure, why would a crew leave the life support running but turn off the lights?"
"Either the station is running at such a power deficit that even red lights aren't safe to run, or the crew doesn't need it," explained Bruna. The navigator had spent countless time aboard the myriad vessels of the Imperial Navy. She had, quite reasonably, become the de facto authority on matters of voidfaring within the team because of it. "Or, at risk of making an assumption, perhaps it's beneficial to the crew to leave unwelcome visitors in the dark?" The team fell silent for a moment; the thought wasn't comfortable, but nobody dared question it, at risk of inviting disaster.

"Keep using your voidsuits for life support," ordered Stanislaus, while Scrutiny rubbed his beak on Stanislaus' shoulder through the eagle's own rather specialized voidsuit. "The Ordo Hereticus is not nearly that trusting. Where are the engines from here?" 
"There is no indication, Interrogator." explained von Toor, his gaze already shifting to Bruna expectantly.
"Dare I risk a hypothesis, I would suggest we begin by descending." suggested Bruna, her expression concealed by her voidsuit. "Likewise, it would be prudent to attempt to access a cogitator or cycle an airlock door, to determine exactly what systems are and are not operational. I imagine you're eager to begin your investigation, Interrogator." There were few who could make such assumptions of Stanislaus without repercussion, and Bruna - advisor and teacher to Stanislaus both - was certainly one of them.
"You imagine correctly, Bruna," Stanislaus affirmed as he turned his body to face squarely down one stretch of the hallway. "Form up. Watch for signs of life, cogitators, doors, and maps." 

The movements were well-practiced. The perimeter agents who were knelt rose to their feet and returned to their oblong formation, pressed out in two columns with one on either side of the hallway. 

"Move out."