The world was all a tilt. The course now a mess as the quake stopped. It had not lasted long, but the damage it wrought was massive. The Recruits were a shell of their former selves. Between the veterans and the quake, they were dead, dying, or panicked. The observation station was all but completely destroyed, no one survived the metal that showered it. In the bunker, things were a little better. The veteran's equipment survived well, including the vox set aside for orders from high. Sergeant Major Alton was calling on all bands for head count of survivors. The distant hive looked to be in mass chaos and hysteria. Fires burned all over the place. So far everyone was just panicking, reacting and trying to figure out what happened.

Gerborov rose from the ground rubbing his head. In the mass hysteria of getting as many recruits as possible into the bunker he had been knocked out by something that had managed to knock his hat off. "If anyone is still alive say something." He said this over the box bead and made his voice loud enough so anyone in the bunker of over the channel could hear him. As he got up fully he saw the culprit that Knowles him out the las carbine he was carrying had discharged and shot him in his exposed face. Once he got his bearings he noted that the two he had carried on his shoulders had made it but they were both unconscious the sane could be said for the 30 other guardsmen that had followed him. The lights had gone out as well but he could at least see that the equipment lockers were untouched.

Acrid smoke wafted from the scorched corpses littering the cause walk. Vassar had seen similar situations during spontaneous volcanic eruptions on the less developed settlements on her home planet and stopped briefly to acknowledge the dead. Stepping lightly over the strewn trappings of an impaled PDF staffer, she fought to hold her stomach down as the stench of hydrochloric acid permeated the thickening air with fumes.

Fires flared out of control across the metal gantry and most of the command post. There was little to save, and even fewer recognizable corpses. While there had been little love lost between the Guard and the PDF, the Corporal would not have wished such a fate on any servant of the Imperium...to die slowly as the inferno sucked out the last tendrils of oxygen, lungs imploding even as arterial fluids burst from atrophied flesh. Vassar ducked under a low lying metal strut and continued towards the communications console in the hope of finding something that was serviceable but knew that it was most likely a wasted effort.

Behind her, explosions blossomed as gas mains ruptured. Screams of the dying, injured, and mentally incapacitated bounded off the city's walls creating a symphony of hellish proportions yet she drummed it all out. Focusing on the displays which flickered with unstable energy, Vassar gasped as a hand clasped around her ankle. Turning down with her rifle pointed one-handed, she lowered it as the source was located. Long dead, the Colonel of the PDF, face melted and bubbling still from the sporadic flares of electricity still pumping into it from the couplet that had impaled his corpse. The necrotic flesh had grasped for her as synapses fired uncontrollably and with a slight shake of her armored boots, it fell to flop across the ground.

With her attention once again focused against the displays, Vassar was able to piece scant information together. Sigils flared in and out across the holofield table as information was updated again and again with conflicting reports. Hair line fractures ruptured across the reinforced armorplas coating of the display causing shimmering distortions from the readouts but the obvious was clear...utter chaos had consumed the surrounding area and most of the command hierarchy was now dead.

Wrapping a clawed hand across the vox-horn as nerves misfired from her injury, Vassar brought the receiver towards her ear but threw it down with enough force to destroy it as the only sound was the hissing screech of static. No communications, no command that was reachable, no reinforcement...this day was just getting better and better.

Vassar bashed her fist against the display angrily. Crimson rivulets began to flow out as the glass shattered cutting deep scores in her ebony flesh yet the Corporal paid them no heed. Instead, her soulless eyes stared out into the horizon and she sighed. Closing herself off from the world, she slowed down her breathing and let the years of training assume command over her actions. Her senses renewed, Vassar exited the gutted remains of the command bunker and headed towards the rally point. If this was indeed some attack and not a natural catastrophe, they would need every gun they could get and Vassar would be damned if she wasn't the first one to get revenge.

Swooping over the balcony, hand grasping the vox-line which had been severed partially by the fallen masonry, Vassar had already secured it to the railing above and rapidly descended down the sheer drop towards the ground below. Impact throwing up even more refuse into the air as the atmosphere continued to deteriorate within the enclosures, its vast space filling up with smoke and chemical compounds. The Corporal pulled her hair back as she fitted a rebreather that had been appropriated from the bunkers supply locker and began to advance at the double quick towards the rally-point. It might take an hour or several to reach it but hopefully the others would be there.

Checking the charge on her lasrifle, Vassar kicked open the bulkhead which exited out into the neighboring street and charged headfirst into the chaos raging through the streets. Like a vengeful shadow from the nightmares of a child's corrupted dream, the Corporal penetrated deeper and deeper into the hive...

Barren as he reached the bunker with the wounded began placing the wounded down before going to his equipment locker to get his standard set. Things seem to have gone bad and since the cause was unknown it could be anything from Xenos or a unknown force. Grabbing his kit he kept the shock maul in case he came with walls that needed to be knocked down.

As he finished gearing up from the training gear to live gear he looked to the vox that was currently waiting set aside for orders from High command. Looking to it barren went to see what was going on in the world and try to find out what in the emporer's name was going on. "Going to see what the status is of any other groups with a Vox." Baren said as he began looking for other frequencies and active channels that had to be sending out signals.

"Sounds like a plan, Maybe we should talk them with us." Gerborov motioned to the traumatized and very tired pdf force that were siting everywhere in the near lightless bunker. "It would also prove useful to contact the Sergant and Corporal to see if they are alive out there." After saying this Gerborov walked over to the equipment locker and grabbed his gear. He slung his shotgun over his shoulder and placed his sword in its sheath and his laslock pistol in its holster it's axe bayonet needed to be place in it's own sheath. Last came his long las his families pride and joy Gerborov thanked the emperor in a quick prayer when he saw it wasn't damaged.

He then placed the grenades in their correct pockets and then put his hat back on with the rebreather still attached the red tint of the lenses and a small light attached helping him to see in the darkness. He then sat down near Barren as he fiddled with the vox his long las over his lap.

The Tempestor Prime arose to ground level, having been moving during the cataclysmic event causing a stymie in his movements; more particularly causing a fall into a flooded maintanence pit- severing linear vox communications for a small amount of time. Tapping on his dimly glowing wrist mounted dataslate to check his vox frequency, only left with feedback hissing- what was missed seemed unsettling, nevertheless, an attempt at contact had to be made. Tapping on his slate, he made an announcement on the combined armed emergency vox- "Prime Votum. If Receiving respond with current status and location. Head to bunker with immediate importance if not already there."

With that said, the Prime would head to the bunker himself, his urbanized armor and cloak moistened from events in motion. The training unfortunately seems to have halted from the ensuing chaos, non-heretical, plain anarchy. Ferenien began to trudge atop the tremor-torn, stormy faux-battleground in the direction of the bunker, witnessing shell-shocked trainees running in many separate directions, some following the Tempest Troupe towards the bunker as it seemed Votum knew where to go-- being unfazed from the events; some impeded by other, maddened rookies, yet there was a following, a small human beacon to lead the weak and weary to a temporary sanctuary.

Out of the smoke and desolation, the grim form of Grenadier 923 emerged like a wraith of Terran legend. His stride was slow but deliberate. In his wake, a few dozen recruits followed, each laden down with the gear of those souls whom had been found dead, or giving the Emperor's Mercy by the remorseless Death Korpsman. Like the infamous Quartermasters of his own regiment, 923 would not let the useful gear of others go to waste.

Weapons, spare power cells, batteries, mag lights, leftover rations . . . anything that could be of use and was in working order was salvaged where possible. Who knew to what extend this disaster had spread? Were they the only survivors? Only time would tell.

Until then, 923 moved his weary column past the hastily assigned pickets around the remains of the bunker. The pickets themselves let him pass without a word, for even they wavered at the sight of him. 923 made note to have them flogged for failing to challenge him. For now, there were more pressing concerns.

Working the main door open, 923 ushered the recruits inside, their faces lighting up for a moment at the promise of safety and shelter. They rushed inside, their weary limbs suddenly alive with action. 923 waited for the last one to enter before following, sealing the hatch behind him.

Inside, the cramped rockcrete confines were poorly light and nearly claustrophobic in design. 923 felt right at home. Such accommodations were the norm for the siege regiments of Krieg and anything less made him anxious.

923 ordered the weary troops to hand their gear off to whomever was taking stock of the remaining supplies, even turning over his own weapon, glad to be finally rid of the useless antique. Remembering the route that he had taken previously, 923 meandered through the passageways choked with tired and injured troops. From a nearby ante room, he could hear the screams and moans of he injured, and the shouting of the corpsmen and orderlies trying to triage the wounded. He suspected that there would be more then a fair share of dead before morning, and rightly so.

Looking at the condition of many of the wounded, 923 would have left them outside. Few of them would be in fighting condition anytime soon. It was not, regrettably, his decision. The others would never approve of the Krieg methods. Few of them would be willing to make such hard choices. The Vostroyan Gerborov, most especially. 923 had heard the stories of the camaraderie of the First Born. Pointless heroism and wasted effort all to save those whom were unlikely to survive anyway. It did not matter, however.

It would be only a matter of time before 923's actions filtered their through the ranks. Let the rumors spread, he thought. If the others disapproved of his methods, let them confront him about it. Though most of them outranked him, he cared not for their petty sympathies.

They were now at war with an unknown enemy. Be it nature or otherwise.

923 arrived at last at the central command hub. The Catachan Barren was busy trying to get the vox set working, while Gerborov sat with his back to the wall, his ornate long las laying in his lap.

Was the Vostroyan patting his weapon like a favoured pet? 923 thought, as he moved past, to the waiting gear locker.

923 opened his storage cabinet and hauled out his power backpack, checking it for damage. Setting it down, he retrieved his faithful Hellgun and inspected it as well. Satisfied, he connected the power cable, feeling the thrum of power vibrate through it for a moment. Switching the weapon off, he lay the two items down on the floor.

923 retrieved his assortment of grenades and spare rounds for his Krieg-Pattern grenade launcher. With his webbing now properly laden down with ordnance, 923 unclipped it from his chest and laid it down on top of his power pack.

Next, he loosed the chest strap of his re-breather unit, allowing it to dangle loosely for a moment, before unhooking the hoses from his mask his an audible hiss. Hey placed the unit gently on a nearby table. His helmet soon joined it, along with his heavy gloves.

923 removed his mask last, setting it down almost reverently. His pale skin and close cropped hair revealed at last. His slate grey eyes were devoid of any warmth or emotion, like the empty sockets of a servitor. His features were gaunt and sunken, as if his skin was pulled to tightly over his scalp. A by product of the mass cloning techniques of Krieg.

923 so disliked to be so exposed, but he needed to preform the maintenance rituals, lest his equipment fail him a a crucial moment. Removing his heavy great coat, he draped it over his chair and sat down. He pulled out a small packet from the chest pocket of his tunic, tearing it open with his teeth, he laid out the contents on the table. Several sterile cloth wipes, a fine wire brush, cleaning fluid and blessed oil.

He set about disassembling his re-breather apparatus, quietly observing the necessary prayers and rights taught to him as a child. All the while, he could feel Gerborov's gazed boring into him, even from behind the red lenses of his own re-breather mask.

923 met the gaze with one of him own, letting the Vostroyan peer into the soul of a dead man. It lasted only a moment, but it was a moment longer then most could handle. There were few men in the Imperium who could stare into that sort of emptiness for any length of time. Those men were usually dead, mind you.

923 went back to his work without further distraction. He took no enjoyment from their little game. He only hoped that Gerborov would come to understand that his anger was better directed elsewhere, for it was wasted on him.

Death Korpsmen lived solely for the purpose of dying. Nothing more, nothing less. It had always been so. For while the families of Vostroya owed only their first born sons to the Emperor, the people of Krieg owed every son. Now and always.

For Krieg owed a dept so great that it would never be paid in full. A dept of blood, exacted for the sin of treachery. A dept all sons of Krieg payed gladly. For to die for the Emperor was the greatest feat any man of Krieg could ever accomplish.

All they sought to accomplish. All they would ever accomplish. All they wanted to accomplish.

After what seems like hours of desperation and static, the vox suddenly springs to life. Sergeant Major Alton’s crisp, unyielding voice cuts through the static: “As you have no doubt noticed, we have entered a crisis situation. Intelligence reports say that a large object fell from orbit and struck the hive, inflicting considerable damage upon its structure. A riot has begun within the hive, but local authorities say that it is surely nothing but panicking scum from the underhive. I am not willing to assume as much. We may well be the only functioning military force on this planet, and the Emperor has called us to defend this world as we have countless others. Your orders are to quickly establish a secure perimeter and maintain security within the city. Notify your unit leaders if you encounter anything out of the ordinary. Be vigilant, and let the Emperor guide your way. We shall show Solan Guard how Veterans faces the enemies of humanity.” The Hive is now functionally broken. Nothing is stable. Basic systems—including power, ventilation, and plumbing—are thoroughly disrupted. You all realize Sergeant Major likely believes the situation much worse than he stated explicitly but also that he genuinely does not know anything else of value at this time. Veterans of the regiment might remember a similar steel in his voice during an Ork strike upon a voidship on which they were travelling and his steady demeanour throughout the brutal boarding action that ensued.

It had been several hours since the Lance Corporal had begun her ascent up the steep slopes of the Hives grotesque mass. Power outages, raging mobs, and gangers from the lower levels had overrun most of the normal ways of transportation or rendered them inoperable leaving only one other way to reach the primary PDF and Guard station near the Hives central districts.

Vassar had not been looking forward to making the fifteen kilometer ascent on the outskirts where a single mistake meant certain death but at least it would be quick. However, she had not anticipated what had caused the disaster. As soon as the pressurized seal of the containment door to the outside hissed the remainder of the recycled air, the Corporal was rewarded with the cinder rich firestorm raging outside. It reminded her of home. Double checking the rebreather unit was in place and slinging the rifle over her shoulder, Vassar followed the outer scaffolding to the nearest ladder and ascended the steep sloping flanks of the structure.

Metal sheeting had been shorn off in many sections, deteriorated from the incendiary backwash, or warped and bubbled under the intense heat making it impassable causing many delays. After three hours, Vassar had only ascended roughly two kilometers and decided that she would have to re-enter the hive in order to ensure better progress.

Up ahead at a junction of the platform, Vassar saw an opening which led back into the Hive but knew getting it open would prove far trickier. Whipping out her warknife, the Corporal did what she did best and improvised. Slipping the thin weathered blade between the control panels casing and the wall, she pushed her full weight down until it burst off with a flurry of sparks. Ripping the flimsy panel off, the Corporal tore out the wiring and searched for the primary power coupling. Jurry rigging the coupler to override temporarily, Vassar raised her lasrifle as the door slid open and after checking to make sure it was clear, quickly hurried inside.

Secondary auxillary lighting flooded the bay as she entered bathing her in arterial hues even as the blast door slammed shut solemnly. Sliding the rebreather unit off and gasping in a large breath of air from having been forced to breathe in the low oxygen atmosphere, she steadied herself against the wall and waited a few moments for her body to normalize. Finishing with her temporary break, Vassar double checked her powercell charge for the seventh time that day and opened the internal hatch leading into the hive proper.

As soon as she entered, hatch squealing open on poorly oiled hinges, Vassar was rewarded with a hail of hard round ammunition which ricocheted down the corridor almost hitting her. Ducking back behind the hatch, she slid out a small mirror and used it to glance down the corridor to her opponent. Up ahead, the twin dead corpses of PDF troopers lie and a group of rioters had taken up position apparently intent at shooting anything that approached them.

Listening harder to the background, the sound of a large scale battle was unfolding mixed with the screams of the confused, angry, betrayed, and scarred. Deeper heavy thuds of heavy bolter rounds, shotguns, and the ionized hiss of las fire were harder to detect but it meant that at least a possible friendly unit was nearby if she could get past.

As if to reiterate the situation, another volley impacted against the hatchway kicking up sparks and scratching the chrome paint work. Standing up, Vassar breathed out slowly and then swooped around taking aim. Breathing out the Litany of Accuracy, the Corporal fired a single burst before ducking back. Further down the corridor, an unarmored form was sent reeling backwards. Ruby spray filled the air even as the wound attempted to cauterize and misfiring synapses emptied the remainder of the clip causing the other forms to take cover from the unexpected deluge of lead.

Taking the advantage, Vassar charged down the corridor and vaulted the hastily erected barricade of crates and barrels. Warknife in one hand, service pistol in the other. The Corporal swooped over like a merciless aspect of death. Limbs filled the air even as casings ringed hollow on the floor, kneeling on the ground, Vassar stood up and flicked the excess blood from her knife before whipping it on what was left of the rioters shirt.

You were dead the moment you picked up a weapon. Vassar thought and walked out into the fray. Thousands of pounds of human flesh terrorized each other. In all sides the waves of humanity piled on top of each other as they sought to escape the advancing sweep of Rhino transports in the livery of the Adeptus Arbites. Clamoring around the flank or holding onto the rails, the menacing forms of the Arbitrators advanced with cold synchrony. Shields raised as they advanced in ordered formation, support infantry lobbed tear gas into the retreating mobs even as gunners fired bursts into those too slow to retreat or showed signs of resistance.

Despite the disaster, the enforcers of the Lex Imperialis had not missed a beat at restoring order in their precinct. Behind their sweeping advance, thousands of dead and dying forms were strewn. Many with weapons...many more simply caught in the crossfire as the Arbites brutally put down all disorder. Advancing out and waving towards them, Vassar had to throw down her weapon as several tightbeam lasers swept over her.

Pitch black forms advanced without emotion even as their commanding officer ordered the Corporal to get on the ground. Complying, she responded, "Imperial Guard, Rahlian Iron Guard. Lance Corporal Vassar Moon-ti Rahl, SN Alpha-Hotel-Romeo-Niner-Wun-Wun-Yankee." The officer grunted in distaste as he voxed back towards the local command post, the communications muffled but evident as the helmeted form nodded to unheard orders.

At an unheard order, the surrounding Arbitrators lowered their weapons and Vassar slowly got up and grabbed her weapon. Nodding a solemn "thanks" to them, the Corporal asked for directions towards the local Firebase to resupply and receive fresh orders.

"Maam. Precinct House Seven-Fower-Gold is in the next grid over. Our forces are just clearing out the last of the rebellious curs in this sector before regrouping their. Stick with us and we'll get you there. JOHNSON! Get a spare "Liberator" from the locker and give it to the Guard lackey...might as well get some work out of her. Rest of you, fall in back into formation. We're rolling out!"

Without another word, the sergeant jumped onto the side of the Rhino and banged loudly on the hull as a sign to advance. Another Arbitrator, presumably Johnson appeared from the second line and handed over a bandolier of shotgun shells and a Vox-Legi Pattern Shotgun with a few obvious modifications. The receiver was overly enlarged to allow larger shells and was drum fed...I guess that's why they called it the Liberator since they were liberating everyone of their life who was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end.

Slapping home a fresh magazine and double checking the receiver, the Corporal advanced with the Arbitrators as they continued their sweep through the hive. It would be another stressful hour of slaughtering "rebels" who were most likely innocents too slow to get out of the way and the occasional rioter or ganger who thought they could make a difference. It mattered little to her but this was not the job she had enlisted for...she wanted desperately to link back up with command and receive new orders...

Gerborov was woken by the all of a sudden activation of the vox and Seargant Major Alton's voice. With the message clearly received Gerborov rose from his seat and held his long las across his chest to prevent the tip from hitting the ceiling. He turned to Barren "We should assemble all able bodied men with in the bunker and get them prepared to move out again. If the corporal and sergeant are sill alive we might find them in the city."

Gerborov gave a quick glance at 923 as he sat on the other side of the room. He had seen him kill an injured PDF in the commotion to get to safety this had not at all sat well with Gerborov. Of course he has heard of the brutality of the death korps before but from he heard they only mercy killed the dying not those pined under some debris and begging for help. However the situation at hand called for cooperation between the veterans and so Gerborov would keep his opinion to himself for now.

He went over to look at the many screens that flickered on and off from time to time showing surveillance footage from across the hive city. The situation was probably the worst it could get the city above was in flames and there was murder in the streets as roving mobs of the insane and worse individuals did as they pleased. There was only one option a clear an hard hitting show of force these murders needed to be exterminated just like the ones in the trenches on that damned ice ball. "923 please avoid using any incendiary grenades during the fighting that is to come. The city is already in flames it won't need any new ones." He continued to stare at the screens.