"I'm sorry… Investigator Mulroy, Intelligencer Murdok, you can't possibly mean the Moebin Sixth, now, would you?" My voice was all but trembling as I began to realize when and where I've been dropped into.
"Hmph. I see even the sublevel scum like you have heard of the glorious Sixth! Our finest troops, the cream of the crop, the anvil on which xenos and traitors alike break!" Mulroy exclaims, thumping his chest.
"Now then, what's it matter to you, freak?"
The Sixth! The Darktide! Fucking Nurgle!
"I know! I know what's been eating at me, sir!" I begin to shout, probably looking like a madman, as both Arbites begin to level their weapons at me.
"We're too close to the underhive!" I stutter out, "We need to leave, now! The sewers, the damn muties and freaks, and…a-a-a-and cultists! Cultists! They're all making their way up! This' no skirmish, this' an Emperor-damned uprising! The Sixth have been recalled to purge the lower levels, sir!"
"A psyker," Mulroy drawls, "knowing about an uprising in the lower levels?" he shakes his head, looking over at Murdok, "How fortuitous."
He cleared his throat, reaching for his rebreather, "Load him up, Murdok."
As he turned away from me, he began to hack and cough, a nasty phlegmy sound coming from his rebreather, pulling his mask off as he began to spit up wads of green, red, brackish mucus, along with blood running down his nose in a chunky flow.
Gasping, choking, and losing the strength to stand, Mulroy slides down the wall before resuming to cough up his lungs.
Infected. He's fuckin' infected. Was it his office? What about the rest of us? Is it in the air, the water? What about the rest of the precinct?
Oh, he's really not looking good.
"Back away! He's not right!" I yell to the others. Backpedaling once again away from the Investigator, no longer worried about the corpse lying on the ground.
The prisoners thankfully understood the weight of my words and tried even further to meld into the walls at their backs. At the same time, Murdok quickly shifted his weapon to his superior, who was making his best attempt at sounding like a butchered grox.
I quickly looked over the supplies adorning his carapace: various leather pouches, a drop bag for ammunition, extra magazines for the bolt pistol, a wicked-looking knife on his lower back, and, there, stims attached to his forearm bracer.
"Hey! Murdok, there!" I gesture to the stims, and he quickly comes to the same conclusion. Dropping to one knee and ripping off a stimshot filled with a bright, almost neon green fluid before uncapping it and jamming the needle into Mulroy's neck with enough force to cause him to start hacking and choking all over again.
"Fuckin, take these restraints off, damnit!" I raise the shackles keeping me bound, "Let me help him before we're down an Arbite!"
He hesitates for but a second, quickly taking out his dataslate and sending the release codes, the shackles falling from my wrists and ankles.
Wanting to prove my worth and the importance of keeping me alive, I rush over before attempting to understand what was wrong with the Investigator's body. Pushing my senses outward once again, beneath the carapace, under skin, the augmetic plating, and into his organs themselves.
Blink.
I see his lungs, hearty and whole on the outside, but stuttering.
Blink.
His throat is filled with the same brackish mucus, which lines his throat and travels up his nasal cavity.
Blink.
Inside his lungs, fluid, pus, and blood from the raw acidity of whatever seems to be eating away at him from the inside.
I hum. I really don't want to perform CPR with what's most likely some Nurglite infection; compressions should work for now. Thankfully, for one not so strong in the warp, I can more easily control my telekinetic abilities. I doubt Murdok would've let me take off the man's armor anyway; his trust only goes so far, and I wouldn't want to overstep so soon.
Slowly, I began the compressions, all the while I attempted to create a vacuum to try to hoover out his lungs. Even succeeding somewhat, as Mulroy coughs up an even larger amount of foul ichor.
Please don't explode. Please don't explode. Please don't explode. I chanted in my head with each downwards push of force.
"We need to get him to a medicae. I can't help him any more than this; he needs a surgeon. His lungs and nasal cavity are damn near scrubbed raw with what I pumped out of him." I say as I try to get whatever foulness he coughed up off of my skin.
Murdok nods, scanning the various convicts before settling his eyes on the stronger, cleaner, middle-hivers before pointing at them.
"You three! Get over here! As of this second, you are all under the employ of Hive Tertium Adeptus Arbites Fortress Precinct Three, under the purview of Intelligencer Murdok Kisner. Do not fail me," he outright threatens, not bothering to mince his words.
He turns to me, "Watch them, wytch," and while leaning over the body of his superior, gently parts him from his bolt pistol and baton, holstering the gun in his shield, and tucking away the baton in a drop bag.
Murdok looks down at the shotpistol in his hands, opening its chamber and checking the loaded ammunition before harshly shoving the weapon into my hands.
"Six shots, not enough to get through my armor before I kill you." He growls out. "There's a holster in Mulroy's desk and extra sets of flak armor in the evidence room. Grab them."
"Yes, sir."
I quickly enter the room, all but fleeing his presence before he could second-guess his absolutely fucking stupid decision to hand me a gun.
A shotpistol at that!
Reaching for the drawer, I find the holster as well as some loose ammunition. Opening the gun's cylinder and checking the shot he's got loaded.
Oh boy.
.45 long(?), and I see some shells resembling .410 slugs lying about in the drawer, the shells certainly having a weight to them.
Thank you, God Emperor on high. Thank you for FNGs!
I offer a silent prayer before rifling through the drawer, tossing on the belt, holster, and ammo pouches before walking over to the evidence locker, tapping at the door, and listening in.
Blink.
Nothing, the fuckin lights aren't on.
Blink
Still nothing.
Great.
Hitting the release button, the door slowly hissed open. I immediately spotted three off-blue flak vests, piecemeal that is; one looked to be missing its lower half, while another was missing a pauldron. Pockmarked from small arms fire and painted in various harsh Low Gothic slang, all of which I'm sure would earn me an earful from the local priest.
And I'm damn well taking the only vest that's complete. As I secure the various clasps and belts, I feel as if I'm finally somewhat… kinda… not really, but all too willing to fake it, ready for what comes next.
Before exiting the room, however, I look over the room.
Boxes, files, sketchy-looking stims... Bingo, rebreathers, and filters. Most certainly not Guard-issued, probably belonged to some chem dealers, but they'll do the job.
Collecting everything in a nearby cart, I move to rejoin the others.
"Good, you didn't try to run off," Murdok said to me as I wheeled out the cart full of supplies. "Put the flak armor on, you ingrates! Double time!"
The trio of men hastily donned their new armor, rebreathers hanging around their necks, looking all the more smug as they each grinned at their fellows, knowing that this was their first step towards being more than hiver scum.
At least before they all died horribly.
Welp!
Time to play lapdog.
X
Kill me.
Kill me before I try to peel this annoying little shit out of his skinsuit.
"Look, I just don't see what they have that I don't!?" the noble brat whined, shaking his shackles and glaring at the Intelligencer, stumbling as he lost his footing.
"I! Am! A! Barquette! Damnit! Proctor Kelsi will have my sister knocking down the door any minute now! You don't want your first impression with a Noble House to be with a scion in chains!" he cried out.
Even taking point didn't make his nasally, whiny voice any less annoying.
"Intelligencer Murdok, sir," one of the newly deputized Enforcers, Ryse, if I remember correctly, addressed our nominal superior, "S'the sentence for assaultin' a highborn prick?... sir."
"Death, and a fine of 10,000 Thrones for your next of kin." Murdok looked ahead at Ryse and… Barley? Who was pushing the cart containing Investigator Mulroy, while our third, as of yet, unnamed companion was keeping the rest of the chain gang moving with quick swats, courtesy of Mulroy's baton.
"But, I'm willing to make an exception if he opens his mouth again." He threatens, his visored helm looking directly at the back of the Prick.
"Hey!" the Prick screeches, "You can't just do that! I'll have your– "
And down he goes again. Emperor above, he just can't shut his mouth.
The chain gang bursts into laughter, a mixture of wheezing croaks and malicious cackles. Doubt they'd ever get sick of seeing him all but crying on the floor, each of us wishing it was us who'd walloped him.
"Alright, up you get, Barquette." The third member of the trio moved over to help the Prick to his feet, pushing past Ryse and Balrley, looking as if he was about to swing on either of the two if they even looked at the Prick the wrong way.
Suckup, I think I'll call him.
As we begin walking again, I can't help but attempt to sense whatever it was that set off the alarms in my skull. There's the usual warp-taint permeating the precinct, leaving the Empyrean filled with chaff, and everything but the purity seals on the Arbites' armor feeling sickly and wrong.
Suffocating, cloying, and downright nauseating when I attempted to look too far outside my usual range.
I slow my pace, falling into lockstep with the Intelligencer at the back of the line, letting him oversee everyone.
Leaning in, whispering in a conspiratorial manner, "You know what this is, right, sir?" I glance around, making sure the 'vics are listening in too closely, "The Sickly One."
Murdok tenses, looking uncomfortable as soon as the words left my mouth, turning his head and lifting his faceplate to whisper back to me.
"Yes, wytch. I had hoped your warnings were misplaced, but there is something deeply wrong here. Patrols should have reported in as soon as they heard the explosion outside, and combat servitors should have been deployed by now. Yet it's far too quiet, and I'm unable to recall my hounds; the vox signal for their return isn't going through."
With his faceplate open, I could see the worry and beginnings of fear on his face; the boy was barely in his early twenties, at a glance, maybe even younger.
"The last I heard from the vox was that blasted sermon!" he spat out, looking chagrined as soon as the words left his mouth, and quickly forming the sign of the Aquila with one hand.
I hum in consideration, opening my mouth to reply before we both stop dead in our tracks.
What was that?
We look to each other in confirmation.
"Shut it! Ryse, Barley! Get those frakheads out of the way!" I shout.
In the distance, we can hear it, howling, barking, and the screaming of men.
Murdok and I rush forward, barreling past the frightened prisoners, pulling weapons free from their holsters. Murdok takes point as I take cover behind his bulk, with him moving to better cover his front with the large suppression shield.
"D'you think that's them? Reinforcements?" I whisper.
"It damn well better be, otherwise we're dead." He grits out
"Single file, boys, and girls! Stay behind the Arbite! Do not! I repeat, do not! Attempt to rush ahead!" I shout back at the skittish 'vics behind me, and I point at Suckup as well, the only man other than us who had a means of defending themselves.
"Suckup! Get your ass over here! Stay on my ass and make sure they don't kill themselves while we're not looking!"
Ignoring his no doubt scathing retort, I tap the back of Murdok, and we begin advancing forward.
Step after agonizing step, we moved forward, adrenaline already pumping through my veins, eyes twitching at every door we passed, shotpistol gripped far too tight to make an accurate shot, but damnit, the most I ever got close to action like this was on a weekend at the range!
Another step, and whoever was up ahead was clearly put on the back foot as a roar of gunfire echoed throughout the building.
"Stubberfire. That's an autogun." Murdok states, his eyes widening, "Those're my Enforcers in there!"
He quickly moves to a run, abandoning any chance of stealth we might've had. The ringing of boots on metal flooring gives us away, and I cringe at the loss of our stealth.
But I grit my teeth and follow his lead.
Breaking into a run and leaving the 'vics behind, we clear the hallway, hearing the clanking and clattering of the men and women behind us trying to catch up. More gunfire and an agonized wail come from the hallway ahead.
Murdok slams down the release lever for the sealed door and is immediately brought down.
I see it now as I get closer, in bold High Gothic:
KENNELS - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Fuck me.
As I enter the door myself, I'm immediately hit with the sickly-sweet smell of rotting flesh and the nauseating sight of once proud canines reduced to torn apart carcasses.
They never made it out of their kennels.
And the ones who did were an even worse sight, their fur matted and bloodstained, flesh sloughing off in chunks of rot, while others were pushing augmetics out of their bodies, one squelching inch at a time.
"POX HOUNDS!" I scream back at the approaching 'vics.
"GET BACK!" I scream again, slamming the door shut behind me.
I raise the shotpistol, already sighting in on the pox hound Murdok is grappling with, his shield the only thing stopping its maw from closing around his throat, and with a twitch of a finger and loud, ear-ringing bang, the hound's head ceases to be.
Damn.
The weapon's got more punch than anything resembling the similar-looking calibers we have back home.
Murdok shoots to his feet as soon as the weight of the pox hound is lifted off his shield, and with a wordless shout, he charges the two remaining pox hounds gnawing on his Enforcers.
His shock maul quickly discharges into the head of one beastie, letting the weight of the weapon do the rest of the work for him as he utterly decimates its head, maul slamming against the flooring in an almighty CLANG!
As I switch targets, it proves unneeded as another spray of bullets shreds the already wounded remaining pox hound, an Enforcer slowly lowering his rifle as he leans back against a woman carrying a riot shield and club. The two sagging from the harrowing brush with death, the only thing keeping them standing being the weight of their fellow Enforcer.
Murdok briefly glances over them, the two covered in small scratches, with their flak armor taking the worst of the hound's claws and teeth, the pair looking like life-sized chew toys.
Damn lucky, any slower and there wouldn't be anything left of them.
"Manny, Allicent, you're alive!" Warmth flooded Murdok's voice as he reached forward, steadying the two of them as clarity began to return to their eyes, training seeming to kick in as they started to straighten up and regain their breath.
"Sir!" the two shout in unison.
"Where is Handler Graham? You two were assigned as his assistant personnel for the week. We need to regroup and…" Murdok simply trails off as he registers the body the two were attempting to protect.
The body of an Arbite lay still, throat torn open, his body all but ripped to pieces, a look of terror and betrayal forever etched on his face.
"He called us over before we heard that racket outside, said the dogs were acting up and that we needed to help move them to their kennels. By the time we got here, the dogs were clawing at the gates." Manny quickly explained, taking Murdok's blank features as a sign of anger.
"Graham tried his best, he really did, but the dogs were all too far gone. D'you see the cyber mastiffs?! Their damn augs were being rejected just as fast as their flesh was knitting together!" exclaimed Allicent, a tremor in her voice.
"They got Graham first, he thought he could help them… hounds tore him apart before he could sedate them... always did tell him the dogs would be the death of him, just didn't think it'd be like this," continued Manny morosely.
Murdok, gently but firmly, pushed the two out of the way before kneeling next to the Handler, closing the man's eyes, and unclasping the dog tags around his neck, storing them beneath his carapace.
It was several long moments of silence until Murdok rose to his feet. Turning to us, he nods and stalks out of the room, the door closing where he begins to shout at the cowering deputized Enforcers and assorted criminals.
The two Enforcers look to me, assuming I'm the Intelligencer equal, all but ignoring the blatant ganger tags and markings across my own set of armor.
"Police the room, make sure everything's dead and stays that way… and move Handler Graham into the office," I turn to take my leave, hesitating before firming my resolve and preparing for a proper beating from the Intelligencer.
"Search Handler Graham as well," the duo snapped their heads towards me, anger already showing on their faces for telling them to desecrate their comrade and friend.
"The Emperor has need for all available arms and intelligence today, weapons, armor, dataslates, and whatever else you can scrounge up."
"Now!" I bark out, snapping them from their furious staring, the two now moving with purpose in their steps, but not before giving me one last irate look.
Reloading the shotpistol, I return it to its holster, sliding the door open and stepping back into the hallway.
"—hundred yards due West," a dry, pained voice replies to an unheard question.
It looks like our Investigator has regained some of his strength, but certainly not enough to walk on his own, as evidenced by his offput expression as he realized he was being carted about.
"The quartermaster…," he wheezes out, "should have the access codes… to the armory."
"Understood." Replies Murdok stoically.
Affixing a stern and collected expression to his once-worried face, he makes a heel turn and, with another shout, has the chain gang and the deputies fall into formation.
"Sir," I approach him, "Your Enforcers are policing the bodies and collecting supplies, we're ready to leave once they're done in there," I say while gesturing towards the door.
He lets out a small sigh, "In the room… the dogs… did you see any identification tags for my hounds?"
"Names?"
Another long pause.
Is that embarrassment I feel?
"Cain and Creed," Murdok replies. I simply nod before looking.
Blink.
Mottled flesh and torn apart beasts.
Blink
Manny and Allicent saying a prayer over the Handler's body, their hands folded across their chests, forming an Aquila.
Blink
Collars and identification tags lie strewn across the floor, no Cain, and no Creed.
"No, sir, your hounds weren't in the kennels," he lets out a breath he'd been holding.
"They're not here at least." I follow up, not wanting to give the boy any false hope.
I can hear the creaking of his gloves before he lets out another loud sigh and turns back to Mulroy, trying his best to coax out another question before he inevitably slips under again.
A slight hiss of the door opening, and the two Enforcers join our motley band, looking warily at the varied 'vics and deputized forces, one of whom's armor didn't quite fit right, leaving him swimming in his flak vest. Skinny little fucker that Suckup is.
Both doing a double-take at the bruised Noble Prick, knowing damn well to stay out of line of sight lest he take out whatever meager power he has on them for being nearby while in a foul mood.
"Alright! We'll be moving out in five, get your gear stowed, and take positions on either side of the prisoners! Wytch! You'll be with me up front! Let's get to it, people!"
Oh, great. Now our new Enforcers are jumpy, gotta hope there aren't any 'accidental discharges' sent my way.
Best to nip that in the bud now…
"If either of you so much as sends a single shot my way, I'm turning you inside out!" I shout, this time not letting my voice show how terrified I am.
That should do it.
Murdok doesn't even deign to respond to me threatening his men; he just grins back at the two spooked Enforcers before cuffing me over the head.
Fuckin, getting dope slapped by an Arbite, what a time to be alive.