Stukov listened to the rather uptight Sister smugly talking about her Cannonness and an audible, irritated sigh could be heard from the Armsman. Great, another one of these uptight, holier than thou, do no wrong Sororitas that sat so high on their damned horse that they couldn't see the problems they were causing not five minutes ahead of them. He'd found a burned out Convent of them on that damned world the Dark Eldar had put to the slaughter, and while he could not argue their skill in combat, their tactics had not seemed to be much beyond fire and overwhelming force. Not terribly useful against an enemy that specialized in evasive hit and run tactics. Sure, they did a number as far as he was able to tell, but with some sense and tactics they could have done a damn sight better. Skill and status was no excuse for pride and ego, and he was going to say as much, damn making friends, he didn't have energy for this. "And with my better judgement, I'm not going to sit here and let you act all smug and damn superior for setting those statues off, AND interfering with Inquisitorial work and setting into motion the chain of events that cost us that little outing producing anything useful."
The power armor, weapons, and attitude did nothing to intimidate or even impress the Armsman, for being simply human and from what most would consider a far humbler trade, he could bet money on the fact he had seen far worse in the universe than this haughty Sister. So he leaned forward from his seat, resting arms on his knees and looking her dead in the eyes, or visored eyes in the case of a helmet being in the way. "Let's clear this up right now, Sister, your high horse act doesn't impress. For all your armor and weapons, pride and pedigree, your still only human. Where you are now, your no better than me or Watchman here, another soldier in the constant war against the enemies of Man. And unless you can tell me what a Dark Eldar slave pit looks like, the sounds of the very souls of men being torn asunder, or the face of an eternal legion of Daemons as the warp itself invades your ship as the Gellar fields fail, you have no right to talk or be boastful. So stow the pride, Sis, before you get yourself or, Emperor forbid, someone better killed. Alexei Stukov, Senior Armsman, so you know who to cry about when you go running back to your precious Convent."
Coughing again after his little tirade, the man sat back in his seat and, by the fact he half closed his eyes and let his vision rest on the ceiling, he had utterly dismissed the woman from his attention. Was this going to bite him in the ass, now or later? Oh most probably, but if there was one thing he could not stand was the fact that this Sister of Battle had come walking in here, reeking of pride and status, and expected to be treated above the rest of them just because of who she was. Someone wanted to defend her or stand up for her, they were welcome to, but Stukov was not going to have this Sister come walking in and act like it was a curse she was stuck with them. That was insulting and uncalled for, and as they arrived at the safehouse and Alpha rattled off where to look for supplies and such, the Armsman nodded to the man in gratitude, none of the venom or callous tone present as he spoke to the man. "Sounds like I have some digging around to do, then. I'll holler if something comes up, then."
With that, the Armsman made his way over to the gun crate first. He needed something with a bit of reach, more so than his now lost shotgun would have provided. The thing got broken or sucked into the warp, either way, it was gone and needed replaced. Digging through the contents, he ignored the las weapons. Too flashy for his tastes, and he had far more training in shotguns and autoguns than las weapons, even if he could use them if need be. Sure enough, he dug out a Agripinaa Pattern, Type II if memory served, model of Autogun. Sure, it wasn't an M40 Armageddon that most of his brothers in arms preferred, but as usual he liked the Type II more than the M40 Armageddon. Foehammer was discarded as well, since the shotguns had not been doing him much good and he was looking to get a more rounded out set up, and he wasn't terribly sentimental when it came to guns, to the point he wouldn't replace them when needed. Digging around, near the bottom of the crate was not something he expected to ever see again.
A Naval Pistol, technically fell under autopistol, but some, including Stukov, considered the things handcannons for what they did and their sheer weight. Virtually useless against decent armor, the things would not damage components and systems in the fighting area and could do some sickening damage to the fleshy bits that the large caliber rounds got to, splintering into fragments on impact to rend and tear. A good backup for his rifle, a good back up weapon period, and he holstered it and slung his autogun over his shoulder as he emptied the remaining shotgun ammo from his pockets and stuffed numerous 30 round box magazines, for his Autogun, into coat pockets while several 10 round magazines for his Naval Pistol went into the inner pockets of the coat. Making sure the weapons were on safe, he went about digging up medical supplies to do what he could for the fact he was coughing up blood. Considering his usual solution was to bandage and splint the damage and keep moving, he might want to find someone who was better in the medicae field than him, but he might as well get the supplies together and see what he could do with some time to rest.
Type II Autogun: 5/5 Magazines, 30/30 Rounds Loaded
Naval Pistol: 3/3 Magazines, 10/10 Rounds Loaded
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