Footsteps along planks battered their eardrums as the requisitioned suicide crew were heading over to their assigned salvos. Shouts and orders were flying about them and maintenance crewmen cleared the areas and calibrated the torpedoes to maximum efficiency. Grimri only knew a modicum of the technicalities of such an action. He recalled and old greybeard named Halki Lasercut who would ramble about the process in how one made a torpedo into a boarding torpedo, and the ritual before they were deployed, but it was usually at the end of the night when Grimri was dead drunk. He knew they had uranium tips and specialized hulls, but that was about all he could garner from his days back at the mines. 

He had his weapons strapped and ready. His shotgun racked and loaded, his axe-spade, and his combat knife, as well as his nail-driver auto-pistol. He strode beside his comrades, somehow keeping up with them despite his stubby legs. He supposed the milling throng of workers running back and forth kept them from sprinting to the pods. What's more, there was something in the air. A tension only blood could sate. He had been in many engagements like this, but he had never boarded a chaos vessel before. 

Once Grimri found the torpedo slots and saw the silos, he recalled just how vast they were. Nothing shorter than fifteen meters shot at ludicrous speeds could puncture a battleship's hull, and these were even bigger by his estimation. He saw a mechanic placing in last minute preparations, unhooking a pipe attachment and moving out of the way for the Squat to step forward. There was a compartment in the hull of the missile, like the mouth of a cartoonish fish. He looked at his comrades once more, making certain none of them had cold feet now that they were here. 

He climbed in and crossed his arms, a grim visage on his face as the hatch slowly shut.