Zidio Overwatch Adeptus Astartes Scout Infiltrating Unit One second-in command Harlech, sat crouched behind a descending bilge pipe, sighting along his bolter, his target half hidden in shadow. The rusting, yellow pipe, broad as he was across the shoulders, creaked slightly as Nuran adjusted his aim, the long barrel of his silenced long rifle wavering slightly as the Scout rebalanced himelf.
“Hsst!” said Nuran. “There is the Veteran Sergeant!”
“Where?” asked Harlech, “oh, there he is.”
Over the iron sight of his matte black bolter, Harlech saw a shadow move and billow out. The Ork had no chance as the kill team’s leader swept up behind it and slid his curved power sword into its lumbar, the tip hissing and popping as blood burned, the blade blowing a hole straight through the crown of the xenos’ head. The Veteran Sergeant immediately doused the glowing blade and returned the shadows, waving forward Talari and Hamsa. Talari sprinted forward, raking the bolt of his shotgun, and Hamsa tottered behind him, weighed down by his heavy bolter’s bulk.
Nuran squeezed off two shots, each sounding like a popped bubble, and nodded to Harlech and Graut, who moved forward as well, spreading to cover the firing arcs leading from the Orks’ encampment. All was well until a squig heard movement, and in seconds the small group of Space Marine Scouts was embroiled in a shooting battle, dodging for moments at a time to pull their arm-length combat blades and employ them gruesomely, as the Grandfather had intended.
Adreneline pumping through his brain, Harlech fired off a trio of bolts and grinned fiercely, relishing the battle.
Temebor, rappelling down a sump-pipe from a gantry, leveled his silenced bolt pistol at another Ork sentry, winging its arm as he tumbled to the ground. “Should have listened to old Vendrek,” he grumbled as he picked himself up, the image of a grizzled and heartless drill master rising in his mind’s eye. The Ork boy looked at his wound for a moment, stuck its finger into the dark green goop that passed for Orkish blood, and let out a yell of rage.
Four Orks came piling around an incinerator, their sluggas blazing away indiscriminately, their hefty blades raised as they charged the Space Marine raiders.
Temebor was immediately caught in melee, and he was hard pressed to block the shower of clumsy, if effective, blows raining upon him. Nuran popped off another couple of rounds, the toxic darts taking a moment to run through their victims’ bodies, but dropping them as surely as a serf would drop a brick. The pressure off, Temebor dispatched the last Ork, the other groping around for purchase with one remaining arm and a leg, each on opposite sides of its body, roaring with bloodlust.
Breathing heavily, Temebor, armed with combat blade and bolt pistol, Harlech with his bolter, Talari with his shotgun and Graut with his own basic kit assembled. Temebor and Hamsa redeployed on opposite sides of the hab-dome, waiting for the next rush of Orks. Talari steadied his aim and, Graut beside him, carefully circumnavigated the crude hutch the xenos had built, wondering why no other Orks had manifested: the filthy brutes congregated en masse, and eliminating a group of six seemed far too easy. Temebor and Harlech approached from the opposite direction, Nuran and Hamsa scanning the surrounding area on overwatch. Harlech nearly pulled a header as he stumbled into a booted foot, evidence of a wickedly curved power blade marking the Ork’s torso.
With another raucous cry, another half dozen Boyz, along with a handful of gretchin and the mob’s Nob, came pelting out of their hutch, thinking themselves dead-clever to have waited and sucked in the ‘Oomies so neatly. Their heathen gods were not with them, and Hamsa and Nuran mowed down the weakest of the band with rapid shots, one or two popping like blisters under the massive bolts roaring from Nuran’s weapon. Talari and Graut unloaded their weapons with dispatch into the Ork’s rear, and finally the kill team’s Veteran Sergeant made himself visible, blocking the powerklaw-armed Nob’s downward swing. Harlech counted himself lucky and rolled out of the way of the two titans fighting over his head, coming up into a crouch, his boltgun’s red-dot sight dancing over the combatants, its wielder waiting for the right moment to fire.
The Veteran Sergeant knocked the Nob back on its heels for a moment, but the long klaw caught Graut under the chin, ripping his head from his shoulders. The man’s weapons – and body – slumped to the ground, genetically modified red blood already congealing. Harlech popped off another couple of bolts into the darkness, and, as predicted, rooted out another group of cunning Ork boyz.