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Sergeant Rojack was only being given more and more confirmation that treading the skies was not a great idea, though he forced himself to keep his face level and focused. At least he hoped he was, feeling the incoming fire against their transport as they hurtled further downwards towards the surface. His eyes half closed as he offered up a prayer to the Sky Father, continuing to wait to be released from the harness and to be free to get down to blessed ground. As much as he didn't like the idea of throwing himself from the transport into a brief free fall to the ground, but it beat getting shot into pieces before the transport could ever simply touch down properly and let the cargo walk off the transport as if it were a stroll into a sky port. The count down to the harnesses being released was a relief, a brief moment of respite in the face of the impending warfare. Rising when the harness released, heading for the nearest available exit and, the moment he could, throwing himself out of the transport almost eagerly.

Adrenaline pumping as he plummeted downwards, hitting the ground with a tumble and a roll, he didn't immediately throw himself upright, keeping to a knee and not simply throwing himself upwards into the line of potential fire. The classical sounds of warfare, the screams of dying, the rage of weapons fire, battle cries and incoherent noises that one could not simply piece apart without risking their own well being. He snapped the Lasgun to his shoulder, familiar weight of his cut down shotgun and large sword on his hip a reminder he hadn't lost his kit on the landing. The first he spotted was the Lieutenant, as others were landing, he barked out, the loud, booming voice capable of overriding the sounds of warfare and weapons fire. "This way! We regroup over here!"

The sergeant was quick to move, joining the Lieutenant in cover, hopefully having rallied the others who were landing and giving them a location to rally to, a direction to go instead of simply wallowing in a hole, getting shot at and waiting for an unlucky weapon to strike them down. There was issues with sitting put, even if it was in a solid spot, eventually someone would find something to hit the position with that would end up wasting the Father's soldiers. Still, per the Captain's orders, no splitting the squad, so he took cover and waited by the Lieutenant for the rest to rally so they could advance towards actual objectives and do the Sky Father's bidding.
Ansgar Staudinger


Ansgar growled as he worked his way back through the ship's corridors, ripping through panels and wiring, cursing at the sprays of sparks and smoke that sometimes, too often, emitted from the panels as he dug into the guts of the ship, isolating the sections prior to repairing what he could before resuming the functions of the panel, closing it back off and making mental notes as to what was done, what wasn't done, and what wouldn't be effective prior to being docked. Of course, a casual observer would simply see this irritated, annoyed human seemingly tearing into things at random and then just cobbling the parts back together with seemingly no regard for any sort of safety or concern. Eventually, he was nearing the med bay, and given what he had heard and what was going on, he paused what he was doing to march in and assess what was going on.

"Right, since I happened to be passing by. How the hell did we end up with a tin man on the ship, and who the hell thought it was a bright idea to bring it online?" The mechanic crossed his arms, his protective garb singed and blackened superficially from the work he'd been doing so far, showing its worth in keeping him from getting injured by his work. Of course, the fact it was even necessary to begin with marked how delicate his work was despite surviving both the beating it took, and the attention of the man who put it together. He knew about the pilot being effectively downed for good, but he hadn't heard nor even been told about the other being put on death's door as well. Narrowing his eyes at that, no doubt the poor bastard of a medic was going to need a drink or three to get over that one's loss. Two dead, replaced by some pink cyborg and a tin man. What the hell world did they live in?
Aboard the escort vessel detached from the Explorator fleet, Magos Eldarian Null was in what passed for personal chambers on board such a vessel. Numerous mechandrites hooked into dataports, sifting through countless records and data streams, observing and waiting for the Inquisitor Hera to finally begin tasking. The Skitarii detachment had arrived promptly, and instead of immediate tasking, they were left waiting for the other responding Imperial forces to arrive. Inefficient, which was noted, otherwise it was time to continue preparing the protocols and upload relevant information to the Skitarii Alphas, preparing them for the operations to come. The moment an incoming comm was received, a small portion of the Magos' attention and processing immediately diverted and, by unaugmented senses, responded to the comm hail immediately. The magos, at least over the line, was hooded and the facial features nigh undetectable, three glaring red dots from where the eyes should have been located indicating the to be expected extensive augmentation.

As the Inquisitor prattled on through taskings for each group, information and data was gathered and stored for further analysis and diagnostics. Hive side HQ has not been established, inefficient, and that meant, as the escort vessel would not suffice as an appropriate HQ position for the Magos, he would be accompanying the Skitarii until a local position, that did not deal with interference from the Hive constuction, could be established. Servitors were already fetching the Magos' gear, a sub directive snapping the appropriate subordinates into action. The escort vessel lacked the appropriate equipment for orbital guidance of Skitarii assets, acting as little more than transport to bring the Skitarii Ranger Alphas and their Magos to the planet and fulfill the obligation required by the Inquisitorial call for aid.

Orders were first dispatched to Adeptus Arbites and Astra Militarum elements. Arbites, law enforcement, typically well suited to urban combat. Ideal deployment for such forces, Militarum forces an unknown. Lack of uniformity between regiments means planning for requires further information. Typically useful for holding positions, likely able to hold cordon while Arbites secure the prospective HQ position. Given the likely number of specialist forces, this HQ prospect likely able to house and store not only relevant parties, but resources and munitions to execute their operations. Initial orders had already been issued to the Ranger Alphas, and they had already begun rituals to arm and prepare the machine spirits for war. The next orders finally, almost painfully slowly, came from the Inquisitor.

Leadership among the traitor forces split three ways between offspring of the former Governor. Assassin operatives confirmed with orders issued to such individuals. Most appropriate use for such individuals, three targets to be removed in tandem with the seizing of an HQ structure, organizing multiple prongs to strike at the same time. Likely best solution for Assassin forces is long range, near simultaneous elimination. Jamming or interfering with communications to eliminate ability to warn between targets also optimal if efficient means to eliminate all three at proper moments. However, the most relevant current information came forward next. Marching orders for the Skitarii tasked with assisting the Inquisitor, and secondary orders were uploaded to the Ranger Alphas as relevant information was downloaded from the data archives.

Upon mention of a foundry that housed Melta Torpedoes, the Magos already was linking to and cross referencing relevant information on operations in the hive. Quickly narrowing it down, the foundry in question produced great deals of voidship munitions, significant levels of torpedoes. No imports or exports, and a cessation from work order had been issued in response of the Damnatio sentencing. Loyal servants would have continued producing arms and munitions for the Imperium even in the face of such a thing until they had no further resources. The magos spoke candidly, at least as candid as one could expect of a senior member of the Mechanicus, though there was almost no humanity left by virtue of augmentation to the voice. "Inquisitor, there is no peace for the scrap code of the heretek. Objectives logged and downloaded. Departure routines underway."

Schematics for the Foundry, likely numbers and hierarchy, and other useful census and logged data was being searched, scrubbed, and prepared for use by the Skitarii team, while the Magos continued waiting for the call to end so that he would go join the Ranger Alphas. Final orders were given to Adeptus Sororitas and Adeptus Tempestus to sow discord among the gangs of the hive by eliminating the highest two gangs in terms of authority. No survivors, complete ruin. Vanguard operation should the full might of the Explorator Fleet have been called in, but it was not. Radium weapons poor choice for joint operations, despite high effectiveness in urban environments. Without senior gang leadership, lesser gangs rebel and turn on each other. Inefficient, but expected of such forces. Initial operations noted as securing vital resources, locations, and sowing chaos and preventing effective responses by hostile forces within the Hive. Ulterior motives of Inquisitor, as of yet, unclear but expected. Upon the closing thought of the day and cessation of the communication, the magos disconnected from the ship archives and communications directly, a weathered, worn servo skull hovering down from its dock and joining him as he strode out.

Servitors waited, weapons and equipment of the Magos waiting. Mechandrites and superior metal arms reclaimed weapons and equipment, arming and preparing without missing a stride. The Magos Null would arrive at the hanger of the escort vessel in short order, the Ranger Alphas in perfect ranks, already armed, online, and prepared for further orders. At the head of the ranks was Alpha Primarus RT-A-221, effective second of the Skitarii task force. No words were exchanged, blessed binary communications happening in far faster succession than verbal communication could ever possibly imitate. The Magos would not normally deploy directly so soon, but the aformentioned lacking HQ functionality currently available dictated initial operations must be overseen directly. The Ranger Alphas, upon deployment with their Magos, would operate even more precisely than normal. Such direct guidance had its benefits.
Ansgar Staudinger


Ansgar was growing steadily more irritated the more the damage reports scrolled across the diagnostic tools. The bridge would need the ship to be effectively docked to even begin salvage efforts to make room for the repairs. Between that, and the fact that there were several sensor lines that had burnt out, he would have to repair those as well. Nothing that would prevent them from departing once the Captain was done babysitting whatever newcomers they were dealing with. As well as sorting out casualties, which was unfortunate but something he had to worry about later. He wasn't injured, surprisingly, at least not that he was aware of, so he could focus on in flight repairs while they were moving. Sure enough, the comm buzzed and the captain was asking about whether they could get moving or not.

"Anything that moving would disrupt I can't repair while we aren't docked. We can move whenever suits you, Boss, hope this port has a good docking setup, and you lot like the people at this port. These repairs will take a hot minute." Cutting the commm off again so he could focus, he pocketed the diagnostic tools and started ripping panels off the walls at seemingly random, watching his surroundings since they had complete unknowns on board, stopping whatever he was doing whenever persons that weren't part of the crew wandered by, glaring at them, almost like he was willing them to get a move on so he could get back to work. While working he would be muttering under his breath, cursing as well, as he started rewiring and scrapping the parts that were ruined. It was a starting point, getting the sensor lines back online, but it would keep him busy.
Ansgar Staudinger


The hatch to the engine room would grind open, a thoroughly pissed off looking Ansgar striding out with a sense of intense purpose, the hatch sealing itself behind him, a red light indicating only the Captain or Ansgar could override and unlock it again. The man was carrying his tools in one hand, and tapping the deck, wall, and ceiling plates seemingly at random, listening intently and sporadically tapping again to try and listen. He was tracing power and utility lines, and seemingly always pulled open a covering that would belch smoke of varying colors, curses and responses being thrown back as the man dug in and began implementing repairs, and if anyone dared to block his path he'd tell them off and drag the plate they were, likely unwittingly, blocking. His path would meander at seeming random, only making sense to Ansgar since, well, he was the one who ended up effectively rewiring and resetting the entire ship's systems to allow for things like the backup bridge and controls back in the engine room.

His mutterings, meanderings, and patchwork repairs would eventually lead him up to the bridge where Ansgar had to, in medical terms, triage the ship and focus on what could be readily kept up and running. Now that they weren't completely fucked, he could begin planning and prepping the area for potential void repair work. He hated the shit, but it was often the only effective means of undergoing repairs and refits of this scale. Plugging tools into a wall panel, he began running diagnostics while making mental notes, muttering and plotting how he would even void proof the space again, let alone get it up and running as a bridge again with the time he had on hand. A lot of sleepless nights ahead, he'd better be getting a damned good pay raise. "Fuck, might be easier to just cut the entire old bridge out and replace it from scratch, the damage is absurd..."
Walker was silent as Kaath went about responding with something bordering on excitement. The man glanced at Ruby as she broke out what looked like first aid supplies and seemed dead set on cleaning up his shoulder. He had better things to do than argue or fight over it, so he silently assented to her ministrations, shrugging off the cloak and pulling his arm free of the sleeve to expose his wounded shoulder. What was exposed was a patchwork of scars of varying sorts, the usual assortment of puncture, slashes, even burns, though this was probably nothing new for someone who dealt with would be heroes and adventurers. Cocking an eyebrow at her at the muttered praise, he redressed his shoulder and arm with little waiting nor fiddling about with the far more expertly done work. His normal approach was grab something suitably strong in alcohol content, take a swig, then rinse out the wound before crudely binding it. He could tell her stitchwork was a damn sight better than his usual approach, so he would leave it be.

"Deft hands, you've probably stitched up quite a number of people if I had to hazard the guess." The man didn't address the remark on having 'done great' according to the murmured remark. He was starting to get a rough picture of what to expect, skill wise, from this woman, doubly so when she went about studying the nightmare oil that she'd acquired. She'd have fit right in among the scholars and mage quarter of Istvargraad, and he honestly wasn't sure whether that was a compliment or insult. Depended on the week, he supposed. Still, with that, Kaath chimed up again, first asking two questions as to who was with them, and if anyone had been lost. The ranger captain, well, former ranger captain chimed in and answered those two questions before the other two could say something stupid.

"Just us meddlesome humans three, and in spite of efforts to the contrary, seems all of us made it. At least in physical body." As he answered, Walker fished out his lucky pipe, weighing it in his hand and huffing, going about cleaning the pipe since they had time to actually sit. He'd not given it a proper cleaning in awhile, and while no amount of effort would restore the former engravings and clean ivory, it was far better in craftsmanship and quality than someone of his standing would have. Still, since he didn't fish for a pinch of tobacco, he was at least cognizant of the fact smoking in here would be rude. Or he simply couldn't since it was needing cleaned out. It kept his hands busy while he evenly met Kaath's gaze, listening as she rattled off those that had come before them. Fantastical races, including those extinct or, perhaps, having never existed outside stories, including the fates of the Kites that had taken more barbaric sounding individuals.

"Luck or a by product of our rather lacking numbers. Maybe both. Given what you've said thus far, a guide to this 'Bruise' will be useful. Desperation is an old friend, I suppose, so no small shock to find it in the heart of the Kite's puppet master." The string, in a very metaphorical term, was linked to one of the first freed. Given their numbers, that was probably the gypsy looking one, as he'd woken up before the seamstress and then they ran afoul of Keepa. An unpleasant fight by all accounts, and a reminder that he was going to need something a lot more hefty than an arming sword, knife, and a crossbow. Satisfied with the cleaning efforts on the pipe so far, well, he went about mostly holding it and considering the situation at hand. He'd eaten his share of the fish before being tended to medically, so he had to keep his hands from being idle. Nothing good came of it.
Sergeant Rojack was fairly uncomfortable, by all accounts. Travailing the black skies between worlds was always unsettling, especially when passing into, well, he didn't have a good word for it in the Father's tongue. But it shortened passage between places, he'd heard others refer to it as the Warp, and he supposed that was as close of a word as he would get. Still, the worst of it was always setting off into, and back from, the black skies. Violent, shuddering, and thoroughly alien to anything that the feral worlder could have ever imagined before departing his home. It was something he never got used to, and he had to do his level best to keep a straight, even face as they descended into the oncoming fire. What was interesting to the man was how others had handled this so far.

The masked one, a Krieg Man as he was told, muttered grim prayers to the, he assumed, Father as a response to the one having said something about here we go again. The one that spoke in such a thick manner that he went completely understood also replied something in return, lost between the sounds of flak and anti sky fire, and the descending sky ship. Lastly was the Captain singing and then telling off the Krieg Man about not marching simply off to death. Blind death wishes didn't make sense to the Sergeant, but he didn't question it either. Different tribes had different beliefs, but this was their new tribe, so new traditions had to be respected. It seemed this tribe leader, the Captain, was not having any of that death seeking attitude.

"Aye m'um, though sooner we're off this sky ship, the better." Rojack was worried about this whole 'command squad' thing that was being talked about. He was hoping that didn't mean sitting in some far speaker hut, staring at the fighting while the Captain barked orders into the far speakers. He suspected that the woman was not that sort of officer, given the explanation of their task, one couldn't really do that thing from a far speaker hut. Not effectively, at any rate, but there was only one way to find out. Find out and that meant sitting here, waiting for the sky ship to actually land so they could actually go about their job in the Father's name. So he mostly listened and waited, trying to quell the nerves over being stuck in a metal box loosely hurtling to the ground to disgorge its cargo.
Walker focused on recovering from the rather jarring series of events leading up to this while the other two went about insisting on offending their host, half closing his eyes and quietly sighing in response. Unintentional or no, was it really so hard to watch what one said? Tracking what was said and not chiming in until silence settled in, at least briefly, the man forced himself upright to accept the fish and consider what was said and going on. Plague surgeon had probably burnt himself out on mana, and given his limited understanding of mages, well, they were lucky they'd not just been torn apart by the onrush of forces pooling into the new, empty void. Given that hadn't happened, it probably worked differently here. Still, the odds were, given that he had not even stirred yet, he was a lost cause. Shame, that reality warping capability was useful, if completely disconcerting. He could also feel the mental lockbox he threw stress into straining to the brim, near a complete nervous breakdown given all the foreign, new, and, by all of his known standards, impossible things in such a short period of time. Several thing stuck in his mind, and as he moved to the fire to accept fish, a staple of Istvargrad diets, he would process while speaking.

"If the plague surgeon is completely burnt out of mana, we're obscenely lucky to have survived the incident. What interests me is the Kites, plural. How many times has this happened before us? A bunch of lost lambs, on the run from our mutual, well, bastard of an acquaintance, being dumped in a shrine belonging to a unique and, you have my gratitude for this, hospitable individual, only to be escorted to, what I assume to be, a relatively safe establishment in spite of unknown dangers in the woods..." Walker was thinking along far too many lines of thinking at the moment, in an effort to avoid glossing over details in the face of the overload of information going on right now. The gypsy was going about meditating and doing...strange mage tricks to attempt and fix her mental issues. He doubted it would work, she'd been far too quick to assume them enemies, even taking that Keepa puke in mind. Someone to keep a close eye on, though he wouldn't say as such. No, best to keep that on the down low until loyalties can be ascertained either way. Her questions after aiding the plague surgeon reminded him of the almost panicked focus when she learned he was inert, and he chimed in between bites.

"If these so called strings of his are cut, as none of us held them to my knowledge, I doubt there's anything to be done for it, doubly so being completely burnt out as it has been said. He got us this far, at least this one did, and if he isn't showing any signs of recovery by the time its time to leave, well, we can't be lugging around a corpse for numerous practical reasons." It was cold, sure, but Walker was in no condition to be carrying anyone, and more importantly, temperament since hauling that gypsy had only gotten a hostage situation and rather meek thanks. Beyond that, if there were numerous versions of this Kite doing this, there was bound to be more information and, possibly concerningly, the chance to run into another, less willing to help version of this plague surgeon. He doubted the others would be pleased to hear him putting things as he was, but there was not much to be done for it, so needs must. Once they were ready, they could ill afford to wait around for someone who may never wake up again.
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