Ferenien arrived at the bunker, a formation of injured and weakened trainees behind him, lined up to the beacon known as a Scion. They would be dismissed by the Prime, to assess and dress each other for future events. Scion Votum entered the bunker, the sound of his heavied bootsteps thumping against the concrete bunker floor pronouncing his presence. The Prime would head to the locker where his supplies were deposited, removing and unclipping his urbanized grey cloak from atop his armor, leaving it to dry some atop the locker door whilst the Tempestor began re-equipping, initially praying ceremoniously to the Sabre bestowed to an honorary Scion before clipping it to his belt, next the standard A.M. Issued Combat Knife. Now, the large power pack attached to a dormant Gravity Chute, attaching this to his back halve of his Greyed Carapace armor, a blue light now signalling the energy is being spooled. On to the beloved power feed, the Prime would grab the power belt and cable to the appropriate Ryza calibre, clicking it safely into the idly humming power pack and fastening it to lock in place; Quickly as to not waste power to a dead end of feeding energy, he would grab his beloved and cherished Ryza-Pattern Hotshot Lasgun, fastening the lower catch of the receiver, energy now having somewhere to go, yet there was nothing to fight yet-- Ferenien switched the beloved hum of flowing energy off by switching off the feed between the pack and the rifle from a switch atop the cable. Now came the familiar sidearm of a Prime, the Ryza-Pattern Hellpistol, this would be holstered quickly with a mobile cell resting near the holster itself for a quick activation of the gun's deadliness. The arduous tasks of equipment were finished, Ferenien would finish his re-equipping by clipping the issued grenades stowed in the locker along the sides of his combat-issue belt. The equipment was set on the Tempestor Prime, Votum grabbed his nearly dried cloak, covering himself in it's urban pattern greyness once more and attaching it to his armor. He looked around, assessing a headcheck of those inside the bunker, evaluating opportunities with what was currently there, a few veterans and an abundance of weakened, shell-shocked and cowardly trainees who received a fatal moralic blow from the deaths of their induction comrades due to unforseen events. He looked and evaluated, of course there were many things that could be done in light of events, yet most have to be ruled out in obvious vanity. Stuck in a course of evaluation, the Prime acted as if he were an obelisk, standing and thinking in gratuitous stoicism. His voice would be heard, projected from his Respmask's voice array. "Precincts of the hive are surely anarchistic from these events. The lower, the likelier it is for such acts to be in fruition. There must be a tightly wound perimeter at the upper segments of the hive set as a rendezvous area for nonviolent civilians to evacuate and guardian personnel and maintenance teams to assess damages and rectify such enigmas quickly." The Prime nodded.
"Understood" was 923's short reply, as he finished cleaning his re-breather apparatus. He reassembled the filtration unit, reconnected the hoses and set it aside. The Death Korps rarely made use of such munitions. They were too costly to produce on Krieg, as promethium was saved only for flamers and vehicle fuel. Besides, incendiary weapons were as much danger to the user as the enemy, and were ill suited for trench combat, as such narrow spaces were imprudent for the deployment of such volatile explosives. No, 923 preferred far more reliable Krak and Frag grenades. They were predictable in tight spaces. 923 like predictable. As he set about donning his equipment, he spared a glance towards the Scion, Ferenien Votum. Once again, 923 found himself taken aback. If Votum had appeared dangerous from a distance, up close he was borderline terrifying. An aura of lethality surrounded the Scion, just as much as his camo-cloak did. 923 certainly could respect that. His gear as also of a much higher quality then anything he'd ever seen. A perk of being one of the Militarum's finest, he supposed. He also noted that it was far less ostentatious then Gerborov's. Still fancy, but at least in a practical way. 923 hoped he wouldn't put the Death Korps to shame around Votum. The Scions were the finest troops the Imperium could muster, besides the Astartes of course, but 923 had never seen a Space Marine before so it was difficult to put their reputation into perspective. Some said the Astartes didn't even exist anyway, and that their reputation was overblown for the sake of the common man. The Angel's of Death, they called them. 923 didn't know what a normal angel was, let alone one who's purpose was to sow death. He supposed they were like the Battle Sister's, whom he was familiar with, but . . . better in some way? Regardless, the Militarum Tempestus Scions were simply the best Stormstroopers in the Imperium. While 923 was technically a Stormtrooper himself, he was nothing compared to a Scion. His advancement to Grenadier was simple due to his survival. He'd "lived to long" as the old Death's Korps adage went. This assignment was to have been his last trial. If he had completed the assignment, by training these new recruits to the exacting standard demanded by the Munitorum, then he would have returned to his unit and been advanced to the position of Watchmaster, and given command of a squad of his own. This assignment had changed drastically however. If he survived this ordeal, and providing he proved himself in battle, then he may be granted a place in the Deathrider company. An honour he had striven for since he was a recruit. Securing his re-breather mask once more, he strapped on his helmet and took up his power pack, tightening the straps. Checking to ensure the power cable for his hellgun was properly secure, 923 proceeded to join Votum. "Ready to depart on your order, Sir" he reported, saluting smartly.
