The Angel of Death turns its head, turns its back, and flies away.

Guardsmen ten meters below reflexively duck as it roars overhead, landing upon the gallery where the sniper was emplaced. The moment the roar of its engines silenced it touched the ground as light as a gazelle and as silent as a spider, striding across the gallery. It reached up to remove its visor - noospheric baffles pixelating its face as you view it through servo-skull lenses - and then leaned down to cut the skull of the dead assassin open. It pulled out the poor wretch's brain with a practiced gesture and shoved it directly into the data-blur of its face. The privacy cubes went from silver to crimson.

November-Black, who had fallen into a kowtow, raises her head and lets out a shaky exhale. "Omnissiah. Did you have to -" a flicker of las-light "- you had to. Permission to -" she caught herself. "Fuck, I don't need anyone's permission. B-biotrash, you've got ten minutes before I start making big decisions about the security of my complex."

A grappling hook went over the side of the box. Then one - two more. Moments later the three chapter serfs came over the side.

The first was a young woman who had painted her face with a tyger's orange and black stripes - and triangular nose. She was robed in green, as they all were, but hers was traced with a golden mazelike patten that made her disorienting to look at. She held a nonstandard laspistol in one hand and her grapple in the other, and upon her back she wore some sort of Vox-Butcher, a combination electronic warfare suite and communications array.

The second was an Astartes in miniature - a child wearing her parent's clothes. Too-large battleplate, comically oversized pauldrons, loosely jointed servo-plates - a mortal was inside a half-suit of Astartes battle armour. These were replacement pieces for her master, to be hotswapped in the field in case of armour damage. The effect was so disjointed it took a moment to realize she was both uncommonly tall and wide - not large enough for the outfit she wore, but filling it better than most would.

The final one reminds you of you - as you were. A crone with silver hair and imperious features, bent beneath the weight of cybernetics. She is hunched beneath the weight of bolter and ammunition, of reagents and oils, of servo-claws and carapace plate. Her face is aged and thin but the weight she bears would be enough to crush a strong Guardsman's spine. The other two may be fools, but she is not.

"Prithee," said the youth through an accent as thick as a shieldwall, "nae riddles, if it pleases. Our gentle naf yonder isn't much for mindwork."
"Watch thy tone, Sarra," snapped the matronly tone of the half-Astartes. "Our gentle naf yonder has cut to the quick of things, short the need to spend a half day waving their jaw."
"Our gentle naf yonder is waving their jaw, t'is certain," said Sarra. "But one thinks with all the brains they ingest some of it might rub off."
"Children," snapped the crone. "The barrels a'roar and ye bicker? Wizard, speak swift as you please, for my gentle naf yonder has more appetite than patience when the mood strikes."

Knowledge is power. Guard it well. Know where to share some of it to keep the rest of it.

"Lady Sarra patches me into the magna-vox hailer network. You stand by my side as I make a proclamation pacifying the crowd. I tell you the answer to the riddle, proofs attached.", Secunda winced as she made another step towards the edge of the platform. "Should I say something too beyond pacifying the crowd or should you find my answer unconvincing, well, I bet that bolter is not just for decorative purposes."

Toros has secured her position, not in the least, through Astartes support. Addressing the crowds with a visible support of the First would provide a reminder, decently rhyming with that blood-soaked past.

"Gentle bain, we ken well enough what the offer is and what you expect to get out of it," said the old lady.
"You'd be surprised how often this comes up!" said the matronly woman, sitting down heavily on the stands with a crash.
"The second a political crisis hits half the maids in power start spillin' their tits out trying to get us to get our master to pick a side," confirmed Serra. "It'd be offensive, if there weren't so many tits."
"But what's this place to us? What's so auspicious about these couple dozen cyborgs that our gentle naf yonder can't take a spell to figure out what's actually happening and if it's worth our time?"
"Those are my men," snapped November-Black. "They're not disposable -"
"Och aye, then by rights I reckon you should be having them shooting back," said the armour-matron.
"Or have thy tits out," shrugged Sarra.
"So, how to?" said the crone. "Is this the work of the Archenemy? Is this the work of the Devourer? Mayhaps we are facing the wiles of the Aeldari and their wicked subornation of the Vindicare temple? Or mayhaps the priests of Mars are having a theological disagreement as to the operation of this arena, and you are trying to sweep us up in the momentum of the thing."

Adeptus Astartes, famously, did not involve themselves in politics. The reasoning behind that was something about humans getting to be ruled by regular humans, not transgened monstrosities bred for war.

This was a lie, of course, and a very flimsy one. The highest ruling body, the High Twelve, has been a testament to that lie - psykers from Astronomican and Astra Telepatica, abhuman strains from Navigator houses, bioengineered murder machines from Officio and Custodian Guard, an ascended form of Fabricator General - humans were ruled by things stranger and more alien than Astartes and nobody got to object that. The truth, as Toros assumed it to be, was hidden in plain sight all along.

Astartes were children, brainwashed and thrown into the hellish meatgrinders to do what no ordinary man could do. They could - they did - conquer the Galaxy. They could not comprehend ruling it, having no frame of reference outside of the battlefield. With time and effort, they could reforge themselves into decent rulers (Imperium definitely seen worse), but that would mean stepping out of the comfort zone and assuming accountability over their decisions as rulers. Children were never good at doing that. Too bad that their Allfather was not there to gently guide them in that direction.

Which is why Astartes, the spoiled bloody cherubims of war, enjoyed playing politics without a care about the consequences of their choices. They were not supposed to hang around and see how their momentary choices shaped the future of the Imperium; they were allowed to walk away to another deployment. They involved themselves in politics at every step, just preferring to hover above menacingly and fly away once they are not in the mood - leaving somebody older, smarter, and, likely, more depressed, to pick up the pieces. Just like Adeptus Mechanicus and Custodian Guard were left to sort out that scorching crater left in the Imperial leadership circa M36.

Astartes make moves, and you react to them. Sometimes they even make moves you want them to make. At all times, they are a major pain in the ass.

She turned around to the armour-matron, glancing her up and down. You can't bargain with Astartes. She was no Astartes. And the very fact that she was here proved that she was already bargaining.

"Words matter not, choices do. I chose to appeal to the Angel of Death to avoid pointless bloodshed. Your master chose to leave me alive and sent you here, fully informed of my proposal. You chose to come here and negotiate my terms, can appreciate that, no time now. In sixty seconds, I will have to choose to resolve the problem less elegantly, some blood of good men needlessly spilled, my proposal terminated, you'll have to get the answer out of me... less elegantly. Choose wisely.", Secunda's voice had a cadence of metronome until interrupted by a soft scoff. "If it makes the choice easier for you, I may solemnly swear to get my tits out for lady Sarra. In about a week, of course, once the surgeons are done."

"Well, when you put it like that -" said Sarra with a smile, a shrug and a -

- she's got a plasma gun!

You can't believe it. You should be better than that. You should have noticed. November should have noticed. Different wars select for different personality traits, and you both went through a war where anyone without a certain baseline of paranoia about being ambushed at any moment simply did not make it. And here you are, events playing out like you are remembering them. You see the blue glow, the strain, the thoughtless flick to the overcharged setting, the way the coils ripple as the shimmering cloud of cosmic fire erupts from the tip directly towards -

You feel the heat brush your cheek as the shot passes. You hear the detonation behind you as the majority of November-Black is outright vaporized.

"Ow! Fuck! Motherfucker!" the killer has dropped the gun (you flinch as the plasma gun hits the floor), clutching her hands. For a moment you wonder if it overloaded - but no? That was a successful shot? Then what - is she not wearing gloves? Even ordinary fire from one of those things builds up heat fast and insulating gloves are basic safety features, and this lesson would have been learned if she had ever fired that gun on that setting before. As deities go, the Machine God was at least always immediate with his judgements.

But even as the matron kneels down to tend to the maiden, the crone has her eyes on the prize. She has a laspistol in her hand and aimed at your head, drawn during that same non-moment before, standing just far away enough to avoid a CQB takedown. She has professionalism enough to cover for both of her comrades. "One goes to war with the army one has," she muttered, almost apologetically. "Less elegantly it is. Would you like to hear my counteroffer?"

"You might have started with it?..", Toros politely kicked the body of skitarii out of her way as it showered her with sparks and winced glancing at a barrel with her eyes half-closed. "I am all ears, lady".

It was not the first time someone held her at gunpoint. In fact, people loved having communications in this specific way - threatening violence to be in control over the situation. They always feel like you have no choice but to listen as you are held at gunpoint.

There was always a choice. She made sure about it a long, long time ago, when she figured out that being held at gunpoint is an inevitable consequence when dealing with people of violent professions. Photon flash grenades, inbuilt into the gorget of her armour, detonated a second before their blind-out cousins, blessing the area with a violent flash of light before putting it into a complete hazed-out darkness.

She wouldn't dare it against Astartes. The old hag was no Astartes. And it's not like a glancing hit from laspistol would have been the first or the last one she'll experience. Secunda knew her personal lodge rather well to operate blindly. It was a time to test the limits of the eidetic memory of this squad. Las-emitters in her arms warmed up, ready for wide-dispersal beams of punishing light.

Pulverise the girl's hands first - gloves are underarmoured after the plasma burn, even if she's painwarded, the loss of operational capability would be sufficient. Crone should get a full blast center-mass, almost point-blank - likely enough to throw her away, possibly enough to incapacitate her, probably allowing using her as a temporary cover against the big guy, unlikely to kill her outright. Should buy her an extra second in case the big guy is tough enough to penetrate the fog or just sprays and prays like people of his caliber often tend to do under stress. Hence, creating a window of opportunity to reach for a plasma gun and check if her own insulation is up to the challenge.

As she was diving forward through the chaos, she caught herself smiling. "Go with the flow". She missed these adrenal spikes ever since the war.

Blinded, staggering, stooped over with pain, the Maiden nevertheless dodges your lasers.

You cannot believe it. It's almost like a bad cogitator game. You fire and she's out of the way, fire, gone, fire, fire, fire, each time she languidly kicks, flips and bends like an eel to avoid each shot. Even though she's still rubbing her eyes with scalded hands she's started smiling, fully relaxed, like this is a calming morning dance for her. Her feet sweep and snap into positions, whirling her body around afterwards, barely held by the laws of physical acceleration, and in the beauty of it you can feel the pad of an approaching tiger.

So you change targets and shoot at the Crone. She dodges it too, snapping her spine back ninety degrees with the audible crack of vertebrae. You almost think she's somehow broken her own back with the movement, but no, she's coming around calm as anything, eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed like she's mentally rewriting her schedule for the day.

You realize you're bleeding. She shot you. She's still shooting you. You did not feel any impact, did not so much as see a glimmer of light at the end of that thing pretending to be a lasgun, but there are tiny holes in your armour, clean as if made with a las-scalpel. Luckily your predecessor had the foresight to put her organs in nonstandard locations - but the big one is, in a lesiurely way, bringing up what you now are no longer sure is merely an Astartes bolter and you're out of time. You have a second to try one last, experimental las shot. Despite her plate she dodges it too.

[Electronic Surveillance] None of them are voxing the Astartes for help.