[DH1e] The Damocles Contingency (RPG IC)

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"Ordo Xenos i'll wager, not the first today." nodding towards the machine, "if it spots us down here your friend might not be so agreeable. Even without a signal it can leap across metal like a current, deckplates and the like. Something else Galleus didn't warn you about i'm sure".

 

Falk kept his gaze steady, as much to allow his photo-contacts to adjust, "As you've been watching the Aldarios tell me, do you know what happened to Kreavus?"
 

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

"If that isn't the first, it means you've shot up more than Cal. Shame that, he owed me fifty Thrones."

 

There's a professional dispassion.

 

+We're being careful with our gear. Roughshod has a few tricks up her sleeve apparently. Although if what you say is true, that remains to be seen. As for Kraevus, no idea. He gave our lads the slip a while ago. We were on him, then he starts moving fast, decoys up top, he goes below. We were...busy.+

 

You can feel his eyes narrow.

 

+Like you, I suppose. Whatever did happen to the Praefector Secundus?+

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"Dead by his own hand, a few hundred levels below while the walls around him bled and burnt as Galleus' prize tore at the veil."

 

He offered half a shrug, "She denied any knowledge of it's warp-spawned nature of couse, but she also struck at the one witch to have confronted it and lived. I need to know if she truly is just a fool in over her head or something far more malignant."

[Trokair]

Bardas

 

Not quite believing that this ploy had worked Bardas took off; back the way he came, he had to get to the door. As soon as he was out of sight he slowed to a brisk walk, a running figure drew too much attention.  

 

As he spotted another menial supervising a group of servitors he headed over. Gesturing franticly in a random direction away from both the door and the stricken Jonas.

 

+Von Bosch said to search in that direction, take anybody you can spare with you, I am getting more support, hurry.+

 

He hasted on, not waiting to see if they had taken the misdirect.

 

Spoiler

Command (or Charm) test I presume, untrained basic

Fel: 34 /2 = 17

D100: 27 1 DoF

 

Edited May 22, 2023 by Trokair

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

Falk:

 

+Good, he was a greedy, self-serving knob by all accounts. Some good news then.+

 

He offers a short barking chuckle. He's definitely off to your right.

 

+If you haven't already guessed, old Roughshod is a believer. Her - our, master, studied under Kryptmann, dig? Name-dropping is for s but you need to know who you're fiddling with here. I don't doubt for a second she thinks she's doing the right thing. That's one of the reasons for her nickname.+

 

A sigh.

 

+How she goes about it, well that's up for debate. I didn't say she listened to reason. If it's daemonic,+ he breaks off to spit, +that's what I think of that. Orders, though. You know the score.+

 

Escape From Cog Dorks:

 

Bardas:

 

The group of menials and Coggers look at you., then at each other.

 

"Can't," one says, staring. "How will I fulfil my service level agreement?"

 

"Von Who?" another claims. "Don't know that pattern, is it new?"

 

+Designate Search Parameters+ a servitor drawls, rolling back and forth on its treads.

 

The group then break out into an argument over superior patterns of hammer drill, with the Servitor just standing patiently by, with a strange look on its face that if it were able, it would roll its eyes.

 

Edited May 22, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
Bardas gonna Bardas hard, like it's 19.M39

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

Slowly, but surely, the ringing in his ears, what remained of them, subsided to the background level tinnitus he had become accustomed to as a lifelong line soldier constantly exposed to artillery and small arms fire. Voices, muffled at first, came to him and clarified; his vision followed shortly thereafter, with grey figures emerging from a murky grey-black, while the jarring purple-green afterimage of the outline of his superimposed hand slowly faded. With some effort he pushed himself to his feet and staggered towards Falk, or at least a man he presumed to be the Arbitrator based upon his silhouette. He scowled and gritted his teeth as he walked, his fingers curling back around the grip of his boltgun.

 

 

Full Action: Full move (10m)

 

Awareness Test: 36

Awareness: 1d100 78: fail, 3 DoF

Edited May 23, 2023 by Necronaut

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"There is no if. The subterfuge and summary executions in pursuit of some archaic form of tech heresy could have been passed off as unavoidable... as just orders, but now? Consorting with the daemon, spreading the influence of the arch-enemy."

 

"There is no defense, not even for Galleus and she knows it." He tilted his head to glance sideways towards the voice, "I can believe her deluded enough to think that history would vindicate her, belief absolute in death even as the Malleus brings down its hammer upon all she has touched."

 

"So tell me, do you share her belief or can you be reasoned with?"

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

+Depends. If it's anything like 'hey man, let us come in and blow your arm off', then no,+ the edge returns to his voice.

 

+So tell me, pal. What do you call reason?+

[A.T.]

Falk

 

"Spare me your indignation, Damocles and more will burn if the golem is not stopped here, and your friends have been pursuing that goal knowingly or otherwise with a blind stubborness."

 

He looks back at the corpse, "though you don't look like one of Greysons." He straightened back up before continuing, "No doubt you were given the same pitch by Galleus, follow your orders or the Imperium is doomed so I will skip the portents and grand ambitions and keep this simple - there is a daemon lose upon this world and I mean to see it destroyed, are you going to help me or are you going to try and stop me?"

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

"Greyson? Giving no names, pal, but no-one here goes by that."

 

Silence ticks by.

 

"Alright, come ahead, I give my word on safe passage. Any funny business though, and Jack kills you all."

 

+Compliance.+

 

+Just so you know, the rest of my Cell has been alerted. If they don't get the all-clear, they will sort it out. One-Zero isn't as chatty as me, dig?+

 

EDIT: Conversation in OOC

 

++ STRUCTURED TIME ENDS ++

++ NARRATIVE TIME BEGINS ++

 

Edited May 23, 2023 by Mazer Rackham
OOC stuffs

[Machine God]

The Tunnel:

 

Kerr Restal

 

From his observations, the grenade had caught Scourge and Nicios who both fell stunned to the floor to his front. Falk had weathered the effects better than he had. Falk had continued to the end and was in conversion, parley with their foe.

 

His being further away from the source of the blast and at the back of the bulk of the party had saved him from the worst of the effects. Although he was a little groggy and his ears rang.

 

 

 

The Machine Soul was impure...

 

Flensing knives and chainsaw tentacles lashing out to constrict, pull back and consume. To reuse, re-purpose and recycle forms into more drones...

 

Everywhere was screams and the rain of blood. Temptation...

 

 

NO

 

 

 

He pushed the strange thoughts away, with help. He was stronger.

 

He advanced down the tunnel, he stepped over Nicios careful not to touch him.

 

He could hear some of the parley, snatches. Too far for meaning. As he walked forwards his thoughts eased, not calmed.

 

 

He side-stepped Scourge, who was rousing. Bulk made a mountain, but easy to move past.

 

He holstered his Carnodon and fished around in one of his pockets.

 

 

 

"If that isn't the first, it means you've shot up more than Cal. Shame that, he owed me fifty Thrones."

 

 

So the ambush was a robbery gone wrong?

 

People in glass houses shouldn't play with knives!

 

 

 

Falk had calmed the situation down, they could proceed. At least he deduced that a favourable outcome had been reached. The area at the end was lit.

 

"Alright, come ahead, I give my word on safe passage. Any funny business though, and Jack kills you all."

 

Confidently he strode past Falk into the room and threw a pouch to the speaker.

 

 

"Fifty Thrones for the Ferry Man!"

 

 

 

Then he saw Jack....

 

 

 

 

 

Edited May 24, 2023 by Machine God
typo

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

With a speed and efficiency born of equal parts training and controlled fear, the group - that Reynard had somehow got himself placed in command of? - made its way out of the Infirmary.

 

Their route began by opening a service hatch beside one of the Infirmary's full body scanners. The space behind was poorly lit, narrow, walls covered by pipes and conduits. It was a tight squeeze, but Reynard didn't mind. He knew the vile servitor hordes were frighteningly agile, but these confines should at least limit how many could come at them at once.

 

After pulling the hatch shut behind them, Reynard let one of the Judges lead, as the man seemed to know this place far better than he did. He went second, followed by the Medicae team carrying their patient wrapped in her macabre cocoon, and finally by the other two armed Arbitrators.

 

At the far end of the service space, they found a similarly narrow shaft rising into darkness. The stablights carried by the group sent beams of light upwards, illuminating a metal ladder fixed to the wall.

 

"It's twenty feet straight up, but it will take us to the top level. When we get up there, there's another service tunnel that takes us towards the Hangar. At the end is a short stretch of open corridor that leads from the tunnel out onto the flight deck, but I'm hoping these Mechanicus bastards won't have penetrated that high up into the Halls yet?"

 

The Judge smiled pensively.

 

"I always thought being put on pest control detail was a punishment. Now it might save us all."

 

Reynard smiled back, but inwardly he grimaced. It wasn't going to be fun trying to manhandle a body up that ladder. He wouldn't want to put odds on how quickly the enemy would progress up the levels either.

 

Still, Gwynne didn't weigh very much… and this was much better than trying to go past that brute-thing outside the Infirmary door. He could faintly hear the echoing sound of the piledriver still working. Good. Not quite through yet. He nodded decisively.

 

"Good work. Now, quickly, let's strip out some of this thicker cabling. A few lengths of twenty feet shouldn't be a problem. Most of us can go up and then pull Lady Gwynne up behind us? One Medicae to stay beside her and keep her steady as we lift, and one Arbitrator volunteer to stand guard at the bottom until she's up?"

 

 

Edited May 24, 2023 by Lysimachus

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

As the small pouch flies toward the voice, the man doesn't dive or reach for it. He allows it to fly past him, before slowly standing up. His autogun is compact, suppressed, but there the similarities to Greyson's men ends. The weapon is fairly standard otherwise, and although it it lowered, the safety is still off, and his shooting hand still grasps it. He slowly pulls up his photo-visor to read on his forehead, before clicking a remote, and bringing up the lights.

 

He ignores the pouch completely, gently shaking his head. +It ain't the same thing, pal,+ he says.

 

Jack trundles on the spot to regard Restal, dousing the spotlight. He is a heavily modified combat servitor, with welded hard plates around vulnerable areas, as well as a comms relay affixed to his back. On top of his 'body' he is wearing carapace armour, and his burly right shoulder sports a gun emplacement with an elegant gimbal traverse for a munitorium issue heavy bolter.

 

He appears to be trundling about inside a patrol route marked on the floor, although he has ceased to come to the aid of the handler.

 

Racks of lasguns, autoguns and shotguns like up against one wall. Three, individual long weapon cases are stacked in a row, double-secured. Smaller cases sit nearby, marked with ammunition stencils. Explosive crates sit on the other side of a sturdy plascrete buttress. Flakboard has been added for safety. The whole room is laid out like a strange barracks, with ten cots set out, and heavy crates, barricades and firing points are interspersed between them. Coming in here shooting would have been...interesting, with plenty of cover for the defenders.

 

Of some interest are the red, blinking lights, tiny little eyes winking from demolitions charges placed strategically within the Forward Operations Base. A long-range voxcaster array and pict-screen sits on the wall adjacent to the entrance, on the right hand side as you all enter. Comms cables run from it, bunched neatly until they disappear into a panel. Signals and comms here would be better than vox transmissions as they are using hardlines.

 

+What happens now?+ the man asks.

 

[Lord_Ikka]

Nicios

 

Ears ringing and eyes still burning from the grenade, Nicios stares at the man and quietly speaks.

 

"We do our job and find Greyson. You stay out of our way." 

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

The man shrugs. +Fine by me, pal.+

 

He goes and sits in a corner, surrounded by weapons, a broken-open single-shot grenade launcher clutched in the crook of his arm. Whilst his posture doesn't change, it doesn't soften, never turning his back on any of you.

 

Jack's ocular array twitches as it re-focuses, rolling back a little to keep the group covered as they emerge from the tunnel mouth.

 

The operator sits down behind his parapet, fifteen metres from the door. He carefully arranges his kit and then pulls down his respirator. He sets the weapons down in easy reach and produces a ration packet, before stabbing a straw into it, and slurping out the contents.

 

"Stay away form the guns, mind," he warns, voice unmodified by the voxbox. His purple eyes and twang of cant paint him as Cadian. "Jack gets tetchy about his guns."

 

The Ducts:

 

Reynard:

 

The plan unfolds as you suggest, with the human cargo being moved carefully through the strange puzzle of vents and grilles. It takes long minutes before you can hear the furtive tap of metal on metal, the clink and jostle of sample jars and flex-steel rasp of joints slithering to find purchase and explore the nooks and crannies of a sub-duct system. As you manage to get Gwynne up and level again, heading in the direction of escape, a flurry of las bolts sear into the Judge bringing up the rear. He barks a cry of pain, tumbling to the floor.

 

A second Judge moves to him.

 

"Go on, we'll cover you."

 

He unslings his shotgun, fires a barrel down the duct, the pellets clattering against something metallic, the sound of the gun huge. He helps his comrade up, the fallen Judge still clutching his own shotgun, and props him against the side of the vertical ventway. There's enough space either side of the duct below for them to take cover, and form an impromptu checkpoint.

 

"Well, never thought I'd die in here. Off you go," the Judge says, quite matter-of-fact. "We'll hold them as long as we can."

 

 

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Reaching down to recover the inquisitorial seal that the man had mentioned earler Falk looks back over, "one more thing, your friends attacked an Arbites facility. Xeno-derived poison, but they carried neither the precipitator nor the antidote. Where are they?"

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

"You'll find three more rifles and cartridges over there," the man replies, through pulls on the straw. He nods at the sealed weapon cases. "No antidote. Makes us careful.  If you get pricked, feel free to tear the FOB apart looking if you want, pal. I'm told it's some Drukhari nerve agent, but more than that I don't know, nor do I care to."

 

He stops slurping.

 

"We did have an emergency contact, some hive bigshot supposedly, but only One-Zero knows who it is in truth. Roughshod has been pushing artefacts through here for years, apparently. Whatever you've seen with your beady Hereticus eyes, comes from a long chain she pulls."

 

He goes back to eating.

[Lysimachus]

Reynard:

 

After a long moment's pause as he tried to figure out another alternative, Reynard finally nodded, frowning. Like it or not, it was the right call.

 

He wasn't sure what to say to the two men. He'd never been on comradely terms with the Adeptus Arbites in the past, for obvious reasons. Words of 'honours earned' or 'duty to the Emperor fulfilled' might be appropriate coming from Falk or Haldane or even Locke, but Reynard feared they would sound trite or glib if he said them.

 

"Thank you." he instead offered simply. "We'll try to make it count."

 

He turned and nodded to the final Arbitrator, the pest controller who knew the hidden routes best.

 

"Get us to the Hangar, as quickly as possible."

 

[Machine God]

The FOB:

 

Kerr Restal

 

The money pouch was ignored. Well disciplined, alert.

 

Jack was an augmented servitor with a heavy bolter. He shushed the dreams away.

 

Absent-mindedly he fished around in one of his pockets.

 

 

What's it got?

 

May it bring you light in Dark Places.

 

 

From his pocket he withdrew two things to calm himself down.

 

A lighter and a votive candle, which he lit.

 

Suitably calm he took in his surroundings.

 

 

"It would have been hard to assault this place. Good set up!"

 

He noted the comm-lines and then the flashing red lights.

 

 

"Danger close."

 

 

 

[Necronaut]

Scourge:

 

He found his senses had mostly returned to him by the time he reached the heavy blast doors at the end of the tunnel and he shouldered his way through behind the others, noting the dismembered corpse and the remaining guards. Apparently they were having a parley.

 

He growled at the seated man and took in the room around him; the full weapon racks belied the original size of this Inquisition cell, which Scourge and his fellows had uncompromisingly whittled down, thinking them to be heralds of Ruin. Another meaningless battle between servants of the Emperor, more blood spilled amongst agents of the Throne toward conflicting ends, only to the amusement of the forces of Entropy.

 

He rasped at the remaining rival acolyte, "Thy weapons are impressive, acolyte. A man wouldst have a brace of thy grenades if ye can spare them. The first taste only whet mine appetite."

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

"Thank you, kind sir. If you like bombs, you need to talk to One-Seven. Now, that girl loves blowing things up. She rigged this, actually." He indicates the wired network of demolitions.

 

The comms array lights up with an incoming call. it beeps with an annoying insistence.

 

"That'll be for you," the operative says.

 

Beep, beep.

[A.T.]

Falk

 

Looking directly at the man, "perhaps not wise to take the message here if it is your master, I do not think it would be out of character to order this One-Seven to set off the explosives. A remote relay would do us both good."

[Mazer Rackham]

The FOB:

 

"I like your thinking, pal," he says to Falk, whilst staring steadily at him, "but I ain't going anywhere. Leaving my post isn't an option."

 

Beep, beep.

 

"Up to you."

[A.T.]

Falk

 

No point risking everyone. "Go ahead and clear the blast area, i'll relay the message".

[Mazer Rackham]

GM: I'm going to move us on a little bit re; Falk and co, and I will have to take a few liberties with narrative contrivance in order to wrap things up on time.

 

The FOB:

 

Come or go, as Falk steps up to the comms array, and depresses the receive button, the screen flares up into brilliance, displaying the grim face of a man. Grey, cropped hair and trimmed beard and moustache, his eyes are old, but piercing, intelligent. They flick across behind Falk to the operative sitting in his little fort.

 

"One-Five. Status."

 

"Operational, sir. One-Three Extinct."

 

"Understood," his reply is terse, completely functional. His attention swerves to Falk. "I have a data packet with a flagged name. Mr Greyson is currently in the employ of the Ordo Xenos as a second cell commander - Two-Zero. Priorities have shifted. The Arbites precinct have broadcast a Prairie Fire alert. All of our teams have been diverted to assist, including Mr Greyson."

 

He pauses a brief moment after dropping that bombshell. The implications are known to Falk, as they would be any Arbites or serving Imperial Officer, no matter his station. One-Zero's tone is totally without heat, or any compassion. To him the deaths of his men, the changes in his priorities mean nothing. This is man who prosecutes his objectives. The humour of his team would be easily explained by this demeanour.

 

"As of 1030 hours this morning, upon receipt of the Prairie Fire signal, Actual has declared the Golem of Antares to be perdita. Once the matter is resolved, our hunt will shift to the missing Aldario woman, Helene. Actual is in dialogue with a member of your cell about the Drukhari Remedy for the Sororita Tertio."

 

He smiles, tightly, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

 

"I suggest you return to your Precinct, Magistrate. They need you there. One-Zero out."