Prohorova's Long Night (IC - Dark Heresy Mk I)

[ArcturusV]

Prohorovan Precinct Fortress 16
1920 Local Standard Time

The trip thus far had been far from pleasant for you all. Passage on a Charterist Vessel with only a sparse servitor crew. You had been told the transport was carrying fresh water to the Hive World, helping to keep their recycked water somewhat safe enough not to instantly turn the occupants of the hive into gibbering Chaos Spawn.

The lander taking you down was a dank, dark heavy cargo lander, with the largest of you having to curl up so tight that you had to kiss your knees to fit. The lander struggled through toxic storms and turbulent reentry, the cabin entirely dark except for the flash of light that seemed triggered by the storms outside. How that momentary flash of light got inside what was hopefully a sealed cargo bay is something you most likely rather not actually know about.

Hours later, your bodies ached with the cramped spaces and inability to move about, but you were finally 'down' in one of the spaceports of Prohorova. The place smelled of bad meat and the filth of countless billions of unwashed bodies packed into enclosed spaces. Machine Incense did nothing to obliterate the stench, but only added its own layer to the miasma that felt wet and sticky to breathe. Servitors were ramshackle and showed signs of age and wear without proper rites as they went about their tasks on the pad, ignoring you all as you stumbled out.

Gravity here was a bit heavier than normal, not enough to really impact you, but enough that you could notice. An awkward feeling, especially after the months in the void and the warp to get to this point.

It isn't more than a few meters before a cherubim flits up to you, its wings sparking with the irritation of the Machine Spirit, producing loud, bright flashes from moment to moment. Out of its mouth came, "Auxilia of Arbitrator Hanson, follow me," not waiting for a reply before the engines of the Cherubim carried it off across the Space Port, past several other landers, and even a flight of Lightning Fighters from the look of it, ones that had clearly seen better days to be certain, but definitely Lightning Fighters.

The Cherubim stopped before a flatbed truck, a hiver in a boiler suit and greasy, plastered black hair looking over you. With a grunt he nodded at the acolytes. The Cherubim added, "It is customary to tip your driver."

The trip to the Precinct Fortress was short, and brutal. The flatbed sputtered and threatened to die several times, the machine spirit firing loudly when it did so. The path filled with large holes in the rockrete and tight corners the man took as fast as his vehicle would allow... and totally slamming into hab blocks on the corners (And from the look of things, not the first person to do so) as he fishtailed through the corners, making for a very hard, very terrifying ride for you in the back.

But 12 minutes later, you were there. The big grey brick with a commanding view of the nearby habs. No windows or the like beyond a few lasgun slits in the wall, the large mark of the Arbiters central on the top third of the building's facing wall, and one set of 15 foot tall double doors that looked to be of reinforced metal. No Glow Globes or anything hanging from the building, keeping it in shadow compared to the lighted streets and hab blocks around it. The driver had stopped a good 30 meters from the building, keeping to the lighted areas of the street.

The Cherubim remarked, "Have a safe journey. Please tip your driver for his Excellence."

[Col.Straken]

Tychris was used to cramped spaces, but even he found his entire body aching from the journey down to Prohorova. He wasn't even given a chance to stretch before a crudely built Cherubim flitted over and began directing them to what he assumed was their transport. He carelessly lobbed his backpack onto the back of the flatbed before climbing up with his fellow acolytes.

He may have talked on the trip had he not been gripping on for his life, teeth gritted and eyes clenched shut. His bag left to freely slide from side to side, banging loudly into the sides. When the finally reached their destination he climbed back down and looked to the driver and cherubim, "You may need to seek advice regarding your driving. Also, your cherubim appears in need of repair." he said flatly, his pale lips stretching to an odd smile. Despite his words he reached into his pack, and rummaged around, clanging metal and the smell of various chemicals eminated from the opening before he pulled out two glittering coins and dropping them into the drivers waiting hand.


Tychris is happy to drop the tip, he kept plenty of cash for just incase of this situation.

[Caimheul]

The trip was slightly more comfortable than Father Reuben was used to, as when the Emperor called him to move on he normally found a berth on whatever vessel was next departing, paying for his passage through administering blessings and helping in the mess. After spending the last few months spreading the good word of the Emperor on one of the myriad barely civilized frontier worlds in the Imperium, not to mention the time spent in transit, the myriad smells assaulting Father Reuben's nose were almost a welcome change. Once again he was in a place whose air really let you know you were still breathing.
Father Rueben is the last to board the truck and consequently the first one to disembark, offering a hand to his fellow travelers. He addresses the driver before beginning the walk to the Arbite building. "Thank you my son for a safe and expedient journey to our destination. May the Emperor's blessings shine upon you," he says shaking the man's hand concealing a single throne therein.

[Engine]

Prohorova, a place that resembles home; even if home is a murderous hive, it's enough for Jace to sigh of relief. He's strangely quiet for a hiver, which he obviously is: skin that has never seen a sun and clothes that could be worn only by a ganger or something like that. Still, he follows silently the others to the flatbed and hops in without fuss. Unfortunately...Jace get a spot in the back: so the trip to the Precinct is entirely unpleasant and he mutters some curse words directed at the driver while he tries to not fall over grabbing everything he could; when the damned journey finally ends he immediately disembark but loses his footing, his sense of balance utterly screwed by the driving style of the driver.
So Jace lies on the ground for a couple of seconds, trying to not puke and maybe suppressing some murderous urge. In the end he manages to stand up, breathing heavily and shrugging "No Thrones. Enforcers took them." lying (or at least trying to) his way out of the "tip" part: maybe he just wants to keep his Thrones, or maybe the ride was so awful that he doesn't feel like he owes anything to the driver.

Deceive (Fel 37)

[Revanus]

The travel on the Charterist vessel was the best part of the mission thus far. Some of the other travelers made fearful mention of the Warp-- but the Warp did not crack your ribs for failing to stand at attention during Hour 8 of roll call. In fact, no one did. There was no roll call in space.

As such, Spoons spent much of his time in the mess hall. As every chime of the shipboard clock announced a new meal service, Spoons was at the front of the line. He had also taken the opportunity to stock up on the various serving utensils, none of which were kept under any sort of surveillance. Five sets of forks and knives had made their way back to Quarters, and an untold number of spoons were liberated from their previous environs. These were good times.

During the lander trip, Spoons sat quietly in his crash seat. His flak cloak absorbed many of the harsh bounces and jostles of the turbulent trip, while the highly modified rifle that sat in Spoons' lap was gently cradled until the landing skids scraped plascrete.

The ride to the Arbiters Station did not rattle Spoons--a high-speed death in a jalopy was far from the worst way to go. His rifle remained motionless between his legs, braced for the ride.

At the mention of tipping, however, a look of wide-eyed horror washed over Spoons' face. A equally palpable expression of relief was visible, as Tychris paid the cabbie on the group's behalf.

Only the suicidal and the dead ever give things away for free.

Spoons exits the jalopy, shouldering his rifle.

Just another day on the hump...

"...almost like being back with the Guard..." Spoons whispers, to nobody in particular.

[LeSwordfish]

Mag had been feeling the same way as Spoons, and his instinct upon leaving the vehicle was to combat deploy, but he suspected that wouldn't endear him to the locals. Instead he dropped down onto the hive surface, and looked around at the environs, rifle in his hands.

"Cheerful place," he said. "They're not big on lights."

He headed for the arbite station.

[Revanus]

Spoons continues towards the compound, his pace steady and even.

"Lights create silhouettes. Makes it easy to spot targets from a distance."

[GraaEminense]

Varus did space-flight poorly and grav-flight worse. He spent the plunge through the storm into sudden death gripping his restraints and determinedly not making audible whimpers. The flatbed was pure comfort in comparison.

Disembarking, Varus waits until the driver has gotten his tip. Shambling over, he fumbles with a ragged, Ecclesiarchy-looking book and puts on his very best down-hiver mystic voice: "Ahuh. We are truly thankful for your efforts, my child. Hrm. The Throne looks favourably upon such as you. I have come to know that with the next holiday properly spent in meditation and sacrifice, things shall unfold as your heart desires. Hahruuughh. Hruff." Varus rolls his eyes ominously for the grand finale and then makes sure to move on before any response comes, harrumphing into his respirator as he joins the two Guardsmen. It's important to keep practicing, after all.

"Yes. Well. Not a welcoming place. Ahruff. Posh habs though. Windows and glows and everything. Hrm."

[Col.Straken]

Tychris looked around at the assembled group with bright eyes, "Shall we make our arrival known to the occupants of the building known." and before waiting for a reply he strolls up to the giant doors, unperturbed as they were hardly the first oversized doors set in shadows he had walked through. If anything this whole place felt like home, dark, smelly and a deep sense of fear.

[Revanus]

Spoons keeps up his steady march.

I'm sure the guards already know."

The guards usually know...unless you're being crafty.

"Feel free to knock."

Let someone else catch the watchtower's spotlight.

[Caimheul]

"Brother Tychris I'm sure they are responsible for dispatching the efficient transportation that brought us to this location," Reuben adds.
Besides, it is the Adeputs Arbites job to keep tabs on such occurrences.

[ArcturusV]

The cabbie gave Jace an incredulous look at the blatant lie, since he had picked them up right after planetfall, no time for a shakedown, still, the Cherubim flitted about, picking up the throne gelt offered as a tip, and he gave the group a gruff nod and a throaty noise as he went back to the cab of his noble transport, the busted up Cherubim flitting to ride on the top of the cab, head twisting around in unnatural, slow, 360 sweeping scans, apparently looking for more 'fares'. While the man inside seemed to sit back, relax, and prepare for a nap.

If the occupants of the Arbiter Block House knew you had arrived, there was no sign of it yet. The place remained dark, though there was no telling what eyes might lurk behind the lasgun slits, be it servitors monitoring for a Riot outbreak, or some itchy enforcer looking at the new batch of thugs offloading outside their place.

[Caimheul]

"Well then brothers, let us see what awaits us," Reuben says striding confidently towards the fortress station's entryway.

Reuben looks for some sort of intercom or door knocker.

[Revanus]

Quiet...quiet...too quiet...

Continuing on with his trudging, Spoons casts a wandering eye over his surroundings.

Where are the guards? Where are the watchers?

In the mines, there were rules about looking around. It was forbidden. Too much rubbernecking was bad for one's health. A prisoner could lose an eye or two, as punishment for not paying attention to one's work.

Losing an eye was a death sentence--it meant you were first on the culling lists. Dead in a month's time, at best. If the guards were feeling particularly disciplinarian, they'd take both your eyes. Nobody needs a blind miner--such a punishment was usually swiftly followed by a lasbolt to the head. A warning to the other prisoners to mind their work.

As such, Spoons had learned to see without looking. The sound of footsteps on soft mud, the heavy breath of a burly man patrolling narrow tunnels, snatches of conversation carried by stale downdrafts--Spoons could paint a picture of his surroundings without taking his eyes off the rock in front of his nose.

Now, as the group approached the Block House, Spoons did not rely on his eyes alone. He trained his honed ears upon his surroundings, searching for the telltale sounds of life and activity.

Awareness Roll:
[roll0] vs. 45 (35 +10 Heightened Senses: Hearing)

[ArcturusV]

Reuben sees a small little panel that seems to be a rudimentary Vox, just to the right of the large doors, marked with the Holy Rune of 'SEH'IND'.

It's very, very faint, on the ragged edge of your range of hearing but you think you hear from somewhere below your feet a sobbing sound.

[Engine]

Jace just shrugs in response to the driver's look, moving slowly forward to see what's going on in the Block House...but nothing happens. A quick glance to the others, but apart the one who seems in a dire need of a meal - what was his name now? - no one looks worried. Still he starts gently caressing the holster of his gun, that he keeps in a reverse carry as it's customary for people of his ilk; his eyes start moving around slowly but intently trying to notice if something is off...

Signs of a recent battle? The faint scent of blood? The flashing of weapons trained on them behind the slits?

"Maybe I'm just being paranoid..." he mutters mostly to himself. Still he doesn't seem to like the silence, the apparent lack of any sign of Enforcers' activities. As far as he knows, Enforcers are always busy doing something...like throwing him and his sister in a Emperor-forsaken cell.

Awareness (Per) 40+10=50 [roll0]

[Caimheul]

Reuben confidently presses the 'SEH'IND' rune before attempting to speak. "Hello?" he says questioningly towards the grilled segment of the panel, releasing the button after speaking as is occasionally required of such devices.

If get a response:"Greetings and the Emperor's blessing be upon you. We brought here to speak with an Arbitrator Hanson?"
If he doesn't:"Hmmmm, I guess no one is home?"

[Revanus]

In the mines, the noises that could ruin your life did not always come from a level direction. Rumbles from above could signal a collapsing tunnel--screams and sobs from below were harbingers of a failed demolition or the presence of things that go bump in the dark.

Spoons notes the sounds below his feet. Faint sobs. The complex perhaps had interrogation rooms that extended in a subterranean fashion. Moreover, at least one person was present in the building. This was useful information.

Two people. Sobs don't just happen without someone to twist the knife...

For now, Spoons would keep this information to himself. The Watchers were watching. No need to tip one's hand.

[GraaEminense]

Varus moves up close to the Cleric at the door, while trying to keep to the shadows. The Guardsmen seem to have the street covered, let the professionals do their job. He's as ancient and non-threatening as he can be, while leaning in to overhear what the Vox might have to say.

Awareness, 33/2=17: [roll0]

[Col.Straken]

Tychris stood dead centre of the doors, seeing that others had activated the comms he simply waited, admiring the construction and assessing if a melta bomb would be enough to break inside. Perhaps if he rigged a couple more explosives aswell, redirecting... He stopped himself, remembering the old proverb "Thought begets heresy..."

[ArcturusV]

As the young Reuben pushed the sacred SEH'IND rune from the grill of the vox came a series of soft brass musical tones in a dull, droning melody. A voice, quite tinny came through a moment later and uttered, "Thank you for your presence. Your case is very important to us. If you are here to report Heresy, Intone 1 now, if you are here to confess Heresy, Intone 2 now, if you are here to report for Arbitraitor Schola, Intone 3 now."

The music continued for a few more moments, the place was silent. No spying of lasguns trained on you from their firing holes. No sound of booted feet tromping behind those doors. Reuben could swear that music was a poor performance of some classical Ecclessiarchal Hymn, but it was hard to say exactly what hymn it was supposed to be, for it was so off from the prescribed standards of holy hymns as set forth by the great Ecclesiarch Urias II.

After about 30 seconds the vox music was interrupted, and you heard a sleepy sounding, "Mrh'yea? Emperor be praised," coming from the Vox in Low Gothic, "Here to inform on someone?" you could hear lips smacking a bit, and a heavy sigh a moment later as the vox spirit apparently awaited your answer.

[Revanus]

Was he here to confess heresy? Confession was a death sentence.

Was he here to inform on someone? Informants got their throats slit in their bunks.

Was he here to report heresy? Without elimination, there was nothing to report.

Spoons silently grips the sling of his hunting rifle, keeping the weight of the weapon off his shoulder.

[Caimheul]

Rueben furrows his brow as he listens to the tune, trying to place it in the repertoire of hymns he had learned. Psallam Imperator? Gloria Imperator? Laut Nichte? It takes him a second to process that the "music" has ceased and a new voice has been projected from the vox grille.
"Praise unto the Emperor," Reuben says as he makes the sign of the aquilla across his chest subconsciously. "Not on this particular evening, sir. We just arrived on world and are supposed to be acting as Auxilla to Arbitrator Hanson?" he says half questioningly.

[ArcturusV]

A sound of a yawn, and a few more smackings of the lips, and the voice said, "Yeah? You from you know who? Ug... guess I should put some pants on... dammit don't send everything... I hate you..." You hear what you think is the hammer of a slug throwing weapon being cocked back loudly, and the vox switches back to the mangled hymn.

15 seconds later the voice from before cuts in, "Your case is very important to us. Your purging is the..." a different sounding voice chimed in for the word, "... third..." continued back on the original voice, "in line. Please stand by for judgement."

You hear what sounds like two gunshots, probably a larger caliber slug throwing weapon.

The vox stops, no more music, no more voice.

[Caimheul]

Reuben looks slightly uncertain at the response of the person on the other side of the vox, and upon hearing muffled shots he reaches for a well worn laspistol. "I... uh... suppose that means we're next?" he says uncertainly.

[Col.Straken]

Tychris looks across to Reuben "I believe we are third to be processed, not next as you suggest" he says in a dead pan tone, it was hard to tell if it was a bad joke or he was just stating the obvious.

[Caimheul]

"Well... yes. And presuming it was two individuals and not two groups that were ahead of us, I think I just overheard them being... processed," Reuben replies.

[Revanus]

Glaring at Reuben, Spoons places a finger over his lips.

When he speaks, Spoons' voice is a whisper. "There's someone sobbing below us. Underground. Maybe second?"

He points to the door. "Open?"

Spoons smoothly slides his hunting rifle off of his shoulder, readying it in his hands. He then glances around his surroundings, looking for some form of nearby cover that might also give a vantage point of the door.

Combat with Imperial Arbitrators...not ideal. Still, there were worse things than death.

[Caimheul]

"Well, I'd imagine that such sobbing is likely emanating from a prison cell, either from a repentant wayward soul weeping at their failure to uphold the laws of the Imperium, or an unrepentant sinner weeping due to the results of suffering the appropriate punishment for their transgression. Do you still hear the weeping?" Reuben inquires of Spoons who is now looking as if he expects to be attacked by one of the loyal enforcers of the Emperor's will.

[LeSwordfish]

Mag was now openly holding his rifle at the ready. "I'm not comfortable with this. Where are all the people?"

[Caimheul]

"Perhaps there is a strictly enforced curfew in this area?" Reuben says with a shrug. "All shall be revealed by the Emperor's will," Reuben says making the sign of the aquilla.

[Col.Straken]

Tychris looked at all the nervous and twitchy people he had been assigned to work with, mildly confused by their concern he simply dropped his bag on the floor infron of the doors and began tapping on it.

"If waiting is a concern, I can create access via alternative methods." he states before pulling a large Melta Bomb from his pack along with a length of coiled det tape.

Not sure if he would be able to test a doors thickness through knocking and listening. But I am pretty sure a Melta Bomb would do the job

But here is a Demolitions roll just to see if I can get an exact idea of how much explosives would be needed.

Demolitions: vs 36 [roll0]

[Caimheul]

"Seeing as we are supposed to be working with the owners of this particular building, I recommend against such an action. Additionally I believe that contravenes a number of Imperial laws, and would cause a number of machine spirits pain," Reuben states.

[Engine]

The underfed one said that someone is sobbing down below, but Jace doesn't seem to care; he cried and yelled for weeks in an Enforcer cell without anyone caring. So nothing seems off, yet two of his group ready their weapons. Gears start running in Jace's head, a healthy paranoia that kept him alive for all this years. So he lowers his head and starts talking in a whisper, now closer to his "companions" "Prohorova's Arbitrator should be Hanson. Who's this Schola?" he quickly looks around, trying to find something without success since he grumbles with dissatisfaction "Trucks too far, lights too bright. If everything goes south, best chance we have is to make a run for the habs blocks and try to lose them in there."

[Caimheul]

Rueben smiles reassuringly at Jace. "Trust in the Emperor and he shall see us safe. The word 'Schola' translates into 'school' in Low Gothic, not a name. Presumably that option was for people arriving here to receive training in law enforcement."

[Col.Straken]

Tychris had completely disregarded the Machine Spirit of the door, it was probably why he had never advanced very far within the Cult Mechanicus, "Erm... The door will cause the least harm to surrounding machines, and it would be a quick death, little pain for the Spirit. Probably." He replaces the clunky bomb back into the bag anyway and continues to wait, still square in the middle of the two doors.

[Revanus]

Spoons eyes the Techpriest's bag as the melta bomb appears, and then moves away from the door.

Blow it.

But...if Spoons was wrong...

He shakes his head. Too much risk. But...if enemy forces had infiltrated the building, perhaps their window of opportunity was still open.

He mumbles his conclusion.

"We're sitting ducks here. If we can't open this door quietly, let's find another way in."

With that, he slinks off to the right, clinging to the shadows and the walls of the Block House and looking for signs of another entrance.

[Caimheul]

"Peace brothers. The Arbitrator indicated a need for pants, and the vox has only fallen silent seconds ago. Given that this is essentially a fortress, I doubt it will be so easy to access. Additionally, in the shadow of this monument to the Emperor's law we should be safe enough for the minute or so until the Arbitrator can locate his trousers," Rueben says as he stands patiently, listening for any further noises from within, however he has trouble hearing anything over the hymns he is unconsciously humming in an effort to place the tune from the vox.

[ArcturusV]

As Spoons starts to slink away:

As you move away you see that the priest's claims are correct. Smooth rockrete walls. The firing ports are too small, and too far spaced apart to really be used for the entrance of anything except maybe a small vat rat, and definitely not as hand/foot holds for a climb up the sheer walls without some serious climbing gear to assist. You do however notice that several spots around the wall the rockrete near the ground (And the ground rockrete itself) are darkly discolored, very hard to notice in the shadows but it is definitely there, and a that someone or anyone really approached the walls other than near the door.

A few moments after the priest starts to hum him hymnals, the door starts to swing inwards. You can see a single figure opening the door, about 5'6", medium build, wearing a long coat just thick enough you were sure it was as much armor as uniform. His right hand held a very sturdy, oversized shooting iron, large bore from the look of it, and indeed, the man did have pants on, stately slate grey, held up by a heavy belt which happened to have a large pistol holster on the left hip and from the right the tradition Arbitraitor Shock Maul. This also included a pair of very shiny black boots, probably reinforced judging from the way that he stood in them. Oddly enough the man did not have a shirt on, showing a mass of short hair covering his torso, a few of them discolored where they had apparently grown through some scar tissue, quite a bit of it from the look of it.

The man frowned as he looked you over, hard blue eyes and dark brown hair a mess. "You're early," he said gruffly.

"Right? Gah what time is it?" his tone became a bit more casual as he looked back over his shoulder. You could see a servitor, a civil servant model from the lack of armoring, synth muscle, and inbuilt weapons apparently, that was sparking and smoking. One large hole apparently recently blasted in its forehead, another in its chest. "Useless piece of ****..."

He waved you in with his gun, the light inside was kept very dark. You could see a few tables, some empty bunk racks, chairs, a small pict-caster which was on one table, apparently showing the Imperial Aquila Test Pattern for the night and playing a rendition of "By the Emperor's Light", a traditional hymn with a lot of planetary variations. A small machine seemed to be heating up some recaf from the smell, and another warming up some rations.

"Come on in... want some Recaf?" he asked as he headed in himself.

[Revanus]

Spoons observes his surroundings, studying the walls and grass for signs of entrance. After a few moments, he turns away--seemingly satisfied.

Spoons rejoins the group towards the rear, observing the shirtless Arbitrator and dismantled servitor.

Glad we didn't blow the door...

Still, he keeps his rifle casually in his hands...just in case.

[Caimheul]

"I apologize sir. The tides of the warp must have been more favourable than expected," Reuben said with a slight bow before following the shirtless man who appeared to be the arbitrator. "Please, and if it wouldn't be a bother, do you have anything to add a bit of kick to?" Reuben inquires in response to the question regarding recaff as he wanders in the direction of the reheating rations. "Are there any seasonings on hand?"

Trade (cook): [roll0] TN 45 (Int 35+10 simple meal)

[Col.Straken]

Tychris walked in behind the shirtless man, perculiar fashion in these parts. He stopped and examined the abused servitor, "Your servitor appears to have malfunctioned. You should probably get that seen to."

The people of this planet seemed intent on keeping faulty machines, perhaps it was a strange part of the cult, or some cruel jest at them. Either way it intrigued Tychris.

[ArcturusV]

The Arbitraitor walks back inside as the rest of you start to filter in, his posture relaxed though he retains the grip on his pistol, and has not holstered it. His eyes flick over to the servitor at the mention of the Tech-Priest, "Useless piece of ****, just like all the crap on this miserable, throne blighted rock..." he growled out as he looked at the twitching cyber zombie. He spat down to the ground between the servitor's cyber treads and just in front of it, a nice, big, slimy wad.

He took a seat near the recaf maker, tilting back in his chair, looking over the acolytes as he poured himself a cup, not waiting for the priest to tinker with it, "Seasonings? Spice? Bah! Who do you think we are? Lord High Ecclesiarch?" He chuffed a bit, and poured himself a cup of what smelled like Recaf, but looked like a thick, olive green sludge more the consistence of a potato soup than a breakfast beverage. He held out the pot towards you all, "Want some? Puts some hair on your chest," he offered with a grin.

He took up his cup, swilling it around a bit in his hand as he focused his gaze back on you all, seeming to linger over some of you longer than the others.

"So, what all do you know about my humble little beat here?" he asked you all, "And what do you think so far?"

[GraaEminense]

Varus picks up a mug and accepts the offer of caffeinated sludge with hope. With some luck it's got the right taste of recycled ingredients only Hives and too-long space travel can produce.
"Ack. Quieter than expected, sah. We weren't told much. Hruff. But I thought there was trouble. Violent trouble. Ahrm. Not here, then, sah?"
He releases his respirator to sample the goods and backs a bit away from the Arbitrator.

[Revanus]

Spoons makes his way over to the recaf machine. He uses his right hand to cradle the rifle, keeping the muzzle away from the seated Arbitrator. With his left hand, Spoons deftly pulls out a disposable cup and pours out a nice helping of the steaming green sludge.

Was I always ambidextrous?, Spoons wonders idly.

The memories were hazy.

In the Guard...he'd adjust left by a click, to make up for seating the rifle on his right shoulder. In the mines...the blisters were worse on his left hand...to keep the right healthy for a fight.

Must've been the training.

As Spoons made his way back, he was certain about one thing. The recaf was delicious.

[Caimheul]

"Ah, well at least it's something to help with this time lag. Thank you brother," Rueben says as he takes a cup of Recaff and takes a small sip to test the temperature.
"Thus far I must agree with my companion, the area we have seen thus far is significantly safer than I recall a similar area of Scintilla as being. It seems you have this section well policed, I find myself struggling to determine what use we can be to you," Reuben states, cupping the mug in both hands.

[ArcturusV]

The Arbitraitor grunted a little as Rueben mentione Scintilla, "Well now, I can't say for other places. But this here is the upper levels, near the Spires. Pretty calm normally. Most here work at the Holy Burn Manufactorium. Makes this lot about the most peaceful in the hive," he glanced out towards the hive. "Nobles are a bit pissy. After trouble started I had to institute a curfew here. Cut into the shifts."

He downed his cup of Recaf in a single quick gulp, seething in the wake of its burn down his throat, and set down his mug, a fancy to do ceramite personalized mug bearing the words:

"GAZE INTO
THE FIST
OF JUSTICE!"

"Down below. Enforcers are PDF, and mostly useless. Lots of split loyalties, most of them taking coin from the nobles to make sure they look one way or ignore something else. Sure you all know the drill with that thing." He rolled his eyes, knowing that some things in the Imperium just were nigh universal, including the Game of Nobles on various worlds, be they feral tribal chieftains or the regicide games of spire nobles in sector capitals.

"Anyway... things started up about half a year ago, near as I can figure, not one of those things you can really pinpoint down you know? Anyway, typical hive world mentality here, down in the dregs people are doing their usual lawless gang thing. You tolerate it," he explained, shrugging as if it was out of his hands, "The Fists like it, you never have enough manpower, and the Munitorium likes having their experienced stubjacks ready to go shoot some Heretic or Xenos in the face when they ship out. So you tolerate a lot of the incessant little squabbles until it actually turns into something dangerous."

"But something down there has changed. Used to not see many actual deaths. Locals just typically don't do it. Maybe they're afraid of blood feuds? Who knows what those things down there think?" he shrugged at the idea, perhaps long ago having given up on actually attempting to puzzle out what makes a Ganger a Ganger.

"Started getting a lot of missing bodies, and reports of dead people just about sliced in pieces by strange machine spirits. Local Enforcers have been pretty outgunned down there so far. Every time they go in for a raid they just get cut apart, quite literally. Haven't had a chance to capture any evidence but I sure as hell know whatever is doing that ain't some cobbled together stubjack side iron or looted lasgun."

"So the curfew up here. Whatever they're getting, it didn't come from Prohorova itself. Spaceport is on this level. Figured I stem the flow of traffic, more likely to spot some smuggler bringing these in, if someone still is running guns in. Safest way to get my hands on some and figure out what we're dealing with here."

"I have some men on that, and it's mostly boring watching and waiting. Things meant for low level contacts, not exactly a mission of your caliber, as your boss assures me you are," he looks you over again, seeming to judge the quality of who you are compared to whatever unspoken thing he was promised.

"Now I don't know how you boys normally handle such things, I figure you got your own ideas. You want me to plug you into my operations directly, I can. But the big goal here is to find the weapons, find out who's supplying them, and cut the link. Figure worst case scenario if we can do that eventually we can wait for them to run out of gear before we run in and crack their skulls open. You want to work as independent operatives under my department? We can make that happen, providing you can follow a few guidelines."

"So... how you want to go about this?"

[Col.Straken]

Tychris took a mug of "recaf", and stared intently at it, it looked like the oils a servitor was fed and he didn't particularly fancy tasting that gruel. Keeping it held in his hand he listened to the Arbiter.

"Have you considered checking your manufactorum? Such places often hide the genius of progress. Your mystery weapon could well originate from there?"

[Revanus]

Spoons quickly guzzles the recaf--the habits of penal dining still ingrained. It is a mistake.

The docs told him to watch his food pacing. They said his stomach was still volume-limited and could not handle rapid caloric intake.

Spoons remains unconvinced.

Spoons quietly makes his way over to the garbage receptacle near the recaf machine. He knows what's coming. In the camps, you got used to gorging. Food was life. You also got used to involuntary purging--just because the corpse starch had gone rancid didn't excuse you from cramming as much of it down as you could. The guard were sadistic, but they weren't the biggest killer in the camps--not by a long margin. Starvation racked up the largest body count.

A few quick heaves, and it's done.

Spoons grabs a second disposable cup. He pours out another sludgy helping and slides on an insulating top. He might be hungry later.

[Caimheul]

A war began raging in Reuben's stomach, the likes of which he hadn't felt since before he learned how to cook and started working at Ol' Man Hoss's Mystery Meat on a Stick. He mutters a phrase any Scintillian would be surprised to hear from the lips of a clergyman, but manages to barely kept his last meal down.

At least until Spoons began vomiting into the waste bin, causing Reuben to join him, barely reaching the area the trash bin rests in.

[LeSwordfish]

Mag - who had been enjoying the warmth of the recaf - decided he wouldn't try tasting it. Instead, he gave the question some thought.

"Any other ways in but by the starport? Road traffic, smugglers on foot? Particularly if they know you've got the starport shut down... maybe they're landing them somewhere else and bringing them here?"

[Revanus]

Spoons looks at the Arbitrator with his large, saucer-like eyes. He felt a mixture of anger and fear.

Rationally, he knew the Arbitrator wasn't a guard. But in many ways, he was exactly the same.

Don't trust the guards...

"What...uh...what's your name...uh...sir?"

[GraaEminense]

Varus' coughing fit becomes worse than normal, and he lurches out of the room. The rasps can be heard turning into retching -hopefully after he finds a suitable container. When he returns, the respirator is back on and his eyes are watery.

"Probably spent too long Outside. Hrm. Good stuff. Yes. About our task. Hack."

He looks at the others, attempting an air of certainty and street-cred.

Rolling in OOC, just because.

"Heretical inventiveness is possible, ahrem, smuggling more likely. But we don't know until we, hrm, have evidence. I'm sure we weren't sent here as detectives. We should get Downhive."

He looks expectantly at the others, hoping no one notices the recaf-stains on the front of his robes or how much he wants to get properly underground.