Ishmael and me are in are in the back, Albrek, Rico, and Ivaanov are in the front.
Savalos and Iacton are walking the shadows.
Ishmael and me are in are in the back, Albrek, Rico, and Ivaanov are in the front.
Savalos and Iacton are walking the shadows.
Iacton grabs the medkit from the trunk and hands it to Uriah. "May the Emperor guide you. Savalos, lead on."
Invocation(+psi focus)(60) =
spend fate point for reroll.
Healer(7) =
power fails to go off.
Try again
Invocation(60) =
healer(7) =
Uriah is tired, but he will try one more time.
Invocation =
Healer =
Heals Ishmael for wounds.
Savalos drags the protesting indigen screeching and caterwauling from the rear seat, marching him around to the back of the car. The babbling, bird-boned man begs to be freed, his words almost indecipherable so thick is his Orcut VII Underhive patois. Sav tries to be gentle, but the man is fighting like a cornered animal, making it difficult for him to maintain a good grip.
As he does this, Iacton gently lifts Ishmael into the back of the cruiser, laying him across the seat so that his head rests in Uriah's lap on the far side. The psyker tries to steady the cleric's head with one arm, while the other reaches across to Krade's aide for the proffered medicae kit. Making the sign of the aquila over Ishmael's forehead, Uriah begins to meditate. The power of the warp, still preternaturally strong in the vicinity of the hospice, proves difficult to harness safely at first. He manipulates the chunk of oddly carved bone he uses for a focus, muttering wordlessly to himself. Soon the malleable power of the Immaterium is flowing through his fingers into the worst of the Ishmael's burns, changing some of the blistered tissue for the better, warping it back to its natural state and healing it in the process, undoing the ravages of the daemon's fire.
The psyker chuckles to himself, wondering what the Redemptionist would say if he knew he was being healed with what he would consider the tainted power of the Warp.
By this time, Savalos has slammed the trunk, returning to the front despite the muffled protestations of the indigen locked in the trunk, and he hands over the combat shotgun found inside to Albrek. The tech priest now sits, nervously sandwiched, between Albrek on the passenger side and Rico in the driver's seat. Albrek still glances around, his tension as evident as the lingering paranoia that is afflicting him. Johnnie seems exponentially worse. He still looks unhinged, but is unquestionably the better driver of the three. He nods to Savalos and Iacton as if to say that he is alright, but everything about the man says otherwise. Having little to no time to argue, Savalos turns to Iacton again, and the pair lope toward the nearest of the darkened, trash-strewn alleyways.
With a shriek of rubber, the Vesper speeds away, turning sharply seconds later to enter an access road little wider than the alley that their companions on foot just ran into. The over-sized engine rumbles loudly beneath the hood as Rico slams through dirty plas garbage containers and discarded packing materials that clutter the narrow roadway's sides. Two towering manufactories and their attendant loading ramps and delivery docks flash by to either side, little room left between the car and the walls, blocking all views save to the front and back. Not taking any chances, Albrek passes the bulky combat shotgun to a somewhat surprised Ivaanov before bracing Druuther's powerful autocannon in the gap between the passenger side alley-light mount and the frame of the door. He checks the drum for jams, mumbles to himself, and satisfied with the results, slams it back home into the feed.
"I did what I can for him. He will live. The rest will have to be done by someone who knows medicae and can use this kit correctly. I do not think he will be happy when he finds out how he was healed"
The bright blue, cylindrical plas trash container rebounds off of the Vesper's hood with a dull crump, the force of the impact sending it over the cruiser's roof to rattle around the narrow alley in the rear view mirror. Uriah nervously lets out his held breath. He could read the spray-painted logo on the side as it flew by the windshield: "Vertwerks Industries". Rico is driving fast, very fast, but until the loud impact with the barrel, he had not really been aware of everything around him. Actually, he had not been much aware of anything around him.
Nevertheless, he refocuses now, taking in his surroundings, putting the stange fugue state he had entered behind him like the broken barrel in the car's wake. He takes a deep breath and smells the sickly sweet charred stench of burnt flesh. The few working luminen plates on the alley's wall give the tight accessway they careen down just enough light to make out the edges of the factory walls to either side. Under the dull roar of his car's engine, Johnnie can hear the loud sirens of what are easily dozens of Arbite's vehicles closing in on Saint Trobriunds. He thinks he can even hear the buzzing hum of an ornithopter from somewhere overhead. They needed to make it back to the abandoned processing plant where he had originally found the others...where Kalaziel had led him scarcely an hour ago. As if this idle thought made the cherubim spring into being from his very unconscious mind, Johnnie looks up to see the strange servitor fluttering ahead of him in the alley. Where the accessway forks a short distance ahead, the tiny angelic form performs a wingover, flying headlong down another narrow alleyway to the left, forgoing the wider truck route to the right.
Rico grimaces, and not from the smell. At this high a speed, he has about six seconds to decide which way he will go.
Savalos is impressed. Even with everything they have been through today, pushing their fatigued bodies to their absolute limits, Iacton easily keeps pace with him as he runs down the alleyway. He could have made a good Wolf, himself. Splashing through rank puddles of spilt coolant, leaping up to grillwork catwalks that audibly groan beneath their pounding feet, and dashing over deserted rockcrete loading docks, they race as fast as they can. Pulses thudding in their heads, breathing labored and rasping, sweat filming them and causing the ash and blood caking their bodies to run in gray-brown rivulets from their filthy forms, they hurry on, racing their companions in the groundcar, trying to pierce the Arbites cordon before it is airtight.
As Iacton vaults over the rusting railing on the far side of a deserted receiving platform that Savalos now crouches upon, the pair come to an abrupt halt. The alleyway widens considerably up ahead before a broader avenue cuts across perpendicularly. The industrial structures on the verges of Geltdown loom out of the pinkish haze of the artificial dawn on the far side, where more cut-through alleys continue on toward your destination.
Savalos narrows his eyes to look into the slanting shadows at the end of the alleyway. He is about to move forward when Iacton grasps his shoulder, and points to the flickering bands of greenish light, just faintly visible, illuminating a higher point on the crumbling walls. It can only mean one thing. An Adeptus Arbites groundcar, it's overhead flashers activated, must sit just out of view in the wider transit route ahead. About twenty meters separates this alley from the closest one on the other side.
I smile as Iacton catchs my shoulder, I would have run right into the patrol car. wariness finally catching up with me. I take a minute to collect my thoughts, and my breathe.
I watch the patrol car carefully looking to see if its driver is inside. A gauge the span seeing if where we need to go is narrow enough to keep the arbite vehicle from pursuing or if I need to back track having us go the underway.
Although you cannot see the Arbites cruiser in the roadway beyond the end of the alley, the emerald light reflecting from the wall shows that it is likely parked just to the right of the alley's opening. You can hear the engine idling, and plumes of exhaust are now visible to the naked eye.
Looking back over you shoulder, you do see something, however. The shaft-like beams of lumen stab-lights from arbitrators on foot, dancing along the walls from the direction from whence you came, suggesting that whoever is carrying them is running at a good clip.
It does not appear the cruiser would be able to pursue you down the alley across the way. In fact, with it facing away, it would have to turn around to go in that direction anyway. Just the same, both of you would feel a lot more comfortable if you could be certain that the arbitrators assigned to the vehicle ahead of you were, in fact, inside the groundcar.
Knowing full well no arbite can keep with a Duct Wolf. I signal to Iacton of the approaching lights behind us. On a quite three count we cross quickly to the other side. We don't have the luxury to perch and watch. I pray no arbiter see's us. Otherwise a very long day will get alot longer.
Knowing full well no arbite can keep with a Duct Wolf. I signal to Iacton of the approaching lights behind us. On a quite three count we cross quickly to the other side. We don't have the luxury to perch and watch. I pray no arbiter see's us. Otherwise a very long day will get alot longer.
Iacton nods at Savalos and attempts to get to the second alley without being noticed.
Being up for a day makes me sloppy when I accidently kick some trash making a rattle. I silently swear to myself, and signal to Iacton to just run. Frag finesse, its time for speed.
Iacton nods at Savalos and attempts to get to the second alley without being noticed.
Iacton and Savalos slowly creep out of the alleyway, stealthily moving from their position to the curb at the edge of the roadway, both trying to keep low as they move behind the rear of the marked Arbites cruiser, the reek of its exhaust filling their lungs. Whether it is the nearly blinding, flashing emerald light coming from the roof of the groundcar or the shadows cast by the sizable dumpster on their left, they both fail to see the tall arbitrator emerge from around the back of the hulking trash receptacle. He drags a heavy looking barricade stenciled with the Arbites seal and the words, 'Precinct 77' behind him for placement in front of the alley from which you just stepped out.
Two things happen almost simultaneously:
A loud voice squawks from the vox within the cruiser, stating the following...
<"Unit forty-two...this is Overwatch seventy-seven...unit seventeen is presently approaching your position investigating a possible visual sighting of two hostiles on foot in Vertwerks Passway Three. The terminus for this passway is just behind your present position. Move to intercept, over...">
...and the grunting arbitrator turns around to see the two you crouching behind the vehicle containing his partner. He curses through the mesh grill of his helmet, reaching for his handcannon. Savalos, as surprised as the lawman, stumbles backward and overturns a nearly empty waste receptacle.
"Turning left."
I choose flight. Most street arbiters are just doing there jobs. I already been covered in enough blood for one day.
Iacton also decides to flee, rather than fight the arbiters.
Charmed =
Fate point is spent.
Rico swerves the Vesper with an abrupt tug of the wheel, all of his previous compunction about following the disturbing cherubim forgotten. She led him to the others, and in a way, she had led him to Quincus and the Eviscerator, or at least where they were a short time ago. In his heart of hearts, Johnnie hoped she would take him to both again. He chuckles wryly to himself that in the span of less than an hour he had come to trust Kalaziel implicitly.
Tearing down the narrow alley, debris and paperboard packing materials gusting in their wake, Rico realizes that the tiny little angel has guided him true again. No Adeptus Arbites barricades, cruisers, or troopers are anywhere in sight. A couple of times he finds himself scanning the thin strip of 'sky' visible above the two manufactories that block out everything to either side, the distant, shrill droning of an ornithopter detectable to his ears. Albrek seems to hear it as well, and if anyone's senses are particularly acute right now, it is the ex-guardsman. His teeth set in his grim face, he continuously casts his paranoiac's eyes about, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the autocannon joined on its jury-rigged mount to the outside of the passenger seat window. Bringing his eyes back down from a survey above, Rico yanks the wheel to the left again, narrowly missing the rockcrete peninsula of a jutting loading dock. Ivaanov, clutching the combat shotgun inexpertly in both hands with the posture of a neophyte holding a particularly complicated musical instrument, lets out a hoarse croak of surprise from his vox. Low groans come from the cleric in the back seat as well, ostensibly a good sign. He might yet survive if he is feeling the pain of his wounds. Severe burn victims who are otherwise placid have the most to fear in Johnnie's experience. Uriah maintains his silence, trusting the arbitrator's driving, something even Dove could not bring herself to do, and she was in love with him once.
He gauges that they are no more than three minutes out from the dilapidated processing plant where he had originally picked up the others, the refuge that Uriah and Savalos kept speaking of. Refuge, heh, they didn't understand Leprade or the men of Precinct #77. They would never stop looking. Not now. Not when they thought that they had the 'Eviscerator', Juan Rico, in their grasp. How had the Intelligencer spun it, he wondered? That Johnnie had finally cracked from the strain of bringing down the original killer and had assumed his persona like some depraved copycat? That he had kidnapped a Judge for feck's sake, and his former lover as some twisted personal psycho-drama with the intent of offering them as sacrifices to the memory of the killer of innocents that he had once brought to justice? Leprade. No, there was even more at stake. Intelligencer Leprade had found his scapegoat and the logical conclusion was that he himself had something sinister in his own agenda. The threads of destiny were winding together, Rico had a hunch that it would all come clear very soon. That was his curse, it always did for him.
Coming around a hairpin curve, rear wheels slipping slightly from the wear he has already put on his old car, Rico begins gritting his teeth like Albrek. Their luck had to run out, sooner or later. At the end of the arrow-straight alleyway, where it opens into a wider cargo-eight hauler accessway, protrudes the nose of an armaplas-shelled Adeptus Arbites cruiser, green lights flickering like the terrible lightning that sparked off the hideous daemon in the chapel.
Don't think of that, don't think of that, not the time, not the time...don't remember yet.
The meter and a half that the vehicle is not covering is being blocked by a portable metal barricade, stenciled with the seal of the Arbites and clear block letters in red paint, commanding all who see it to 'STOP', or face the consequences. Even worse, a squad of four of his former colleagues has just noticed the Vesper's approach, and are drawing combat shotguns and handcannons, dropping behind the barrier and hood of the parked cruiser for cover, their shouts distant and muffled by the roar of the car's engine. Rico glances at the odometer. 84 km/hr. If he nailed the brakes now, it would leave them about sixty meters short of the rapidly approaching roadblock. Close enough to probably be shot to pieces. What now?
As if they have worked in concert for years and not less than a day, Iacton shoves Savalos in the shoulder as he backpedals into the trash container, instantly returning the ganger's footing. Launching off his heel, Savalos dashes into the roadway, Iacton following him, taking long loping strides. The pair piston their arms and legs, running in a slight zig-zag pattern, ignoring the hoarse and confused shouts to stop coming from the startled arbitrator behind them. When the alleyway is less than three meters away, Iacton hears the sound of a vehicle door swinging open and the stomach-clenching noise of weapons being unholstered. A newer, more authoritarian voice, a veteran of the force, no doubt, barks a command.
"HALT! HALT OR I WILL FIRE!"
Having no intention of stopping now, even Savalos is surprised by the chastener's quick trigger finger. There is no doubt that the man was only giving them a chance to surrender for show, perhaps even for his partner who might not know the real score here. Just the same, the deafening roar of the handcannon makes the fleeing pair flinch.
Both the assassin and the scum are streetwise enough to know that if you can hear the gun going off and feel no pain, you probably were missed.
They keep sprinting for the alleyway, running at a breakneck pace. Looking ahead, a flight of stone steps on the right-hand side leads down to the recessed pedestrian accessway cutting between the two tall buildings. The drop is approximately five meters if you elect to leap to the level below. Negotiating the steep steps will surely slow you down somewhat.
"Rico, they are your former comrades. If we stop with no weapons drawn, will they fire anyway? Will they listen to inquisition authority?
Iacton vaults over the side to the accessway below.
In his exhaustion, he doesn't land as cleanly as he would wish.
Even though I will temporarily loose some speed I will take the stairs down. Rather not risk taking long jumps with a loaded shotgun as tired as I am.
"Rico, they are your former comrades. If we stop with no weapons drawn, will they fire anyway? Will they listen to inquisition authority?
Albrek plants his booted feet on the dashboard, leveraging himself up to get a better grip on the massive autocannon. He doesn't turn around when Uriah asks his question, instead speaking over his shoulder, his voice gravely and low from his frequent coughing fits.
"I'd say we have about seven seconds to decide this in committee if that's your preference Uriah. My guess is that we're not going to get a a very good chance to tell our side of the story if they're following Leprade's orders. Hell, if this is a show of hands, count mine as one for, 'let's go through them and worry about telling our side of the story later.' Let's just hope that this little exercise in democracy doesn't come to a stalemate, I don't think Ish is going to be able to cast deciding vote right now."
The ex-guardsman then sticks his head out the window, ash flying free from his close-cropped hair as he sights down the weapon.
Iacton leaps from the edge of the elevated roadway, but catches his heel upon a loose bit of alley curbing upon landing. He sprawls to the ground, scraping the skin away the palms of his hands, but avoids further damage by tucking his shoulder and rolling. By the time he gets to his feet again, Savalos is shoving him from behind, urging him onward.
This alley is even narrower than the last, a ten story manufactory plant's back wall on one side, and what appears to be one of its equally tall ancillary warehouses on the other. Rusting grillwork catwalks connect doors from one building to the other about three meters overhead, every ten meters or so. The alley itself is barely two meters wide, wet with the leaking red-brown coolant from air handlers and other window mounted machinery from high overhead. Debris and garbage is piled high in some places on either side, mostly discarded packing materials, sturdy rectangular tubs filled with waste metals, and the remnants of outmoded flakboard pre-fab walls. There might be potential cover, but the ramrod straight alley is a veritable shooting gallery if the arbitrators decide to fire; it will be hard for them not to hit you.
Some distance ahead, a steep rockcrete stair ascends to the third level or so on the back of the manufactory where a door is propped open. Steam is billowing out from some piece of chugging equipment within. The echoing sounds of booted feet draw nearer behind you, and this time, neither of your pursuers bothers to call out a warning when they start shooting.
"Rico, they are your former comrades. If we stop with no weapons drawn, will they fire anyway? Will they listen to inquisition authority?
"Normally, my answer would be: NO. But with Leprade managing events I suspect that I could be wrong."
" Since that is your answer, then let us go."
"Albrek, it is not that, it is gaining enough information to make a decision."
To focused on making speed, and scouting the path ahead for Iacton, it escapes my mind to knock over trash cans, and other debris to slow our pursuers down.
"Albrek, it is not that, it is gaining enough information to make a decision."
"Understood, boss. Be that as it may, you may want to strap yourself and Ishmael in, I have a feeling the ride is about to get a little bumpy."
To focused on making speed, and scouting the path ahead for Iacton, it escapes my mind to knock over trash cans, and other debris to slow our pursuers down.
Nothing quite spikes the adrenaline like being chased by the authorities, and Savalos wastes no time dashing through the stacked pallets and mouldering flakboard. He pushes aside anything that might interfere with Iacton's following in his wake, trusting in his ability to sprint, all his efforts focused on putting as much distance as he can between the pair and the following Arbites before they get a clean shot again.
Savalos running point is a help, but Iacton is still limping considerably from the hard landing a few moments ago at the entrance to the alley. Both the acolyte and Krade's bodyguard fail to notice the precariously stacked tower of old plas pallets that they could have been overturned behind them to impede their pursuers until they are both well past it. There is little time to rue this oversight, as the two troopers open up again with their handcannons.
Two loud reports remind you that the arbitrators mean business, one round blowing a fist-sized hole in one of the scrap-filled drums by Iacton's head, and the second whistling by Savalos' ear to disappear into a leaning wall of grime-covered flakboard far down the alley with a puff of white dust.
The rookie arbitrator is now so close that Iacton can hear the squawks of the vox transmissions coming over his radio and the man's labored breathing. His heavier-set partner is not as quick, and actually stumbles, nearly falling down, the tower of plas pallets falling over behind him with a crash after he grabs at it for purchase.
I catch my foot on the bottom stair, crashing hard as I clamber up the steps to regain lost distance between me and the arbiters.
My mind still to tired to focus on anything except for what is right in front of me.
Revitalized by the arbitrator at his heels, Iacton picks up his speed.
Johnnie elects to ram the front end of the furthest car, thinking that would give the Vesper sufficient space for acceleration.
"Get low, now."
Rico takes a deep breath and slams his foot down on the accelerator.
Do or die time.
The Vesper lurches, the engine racing with a protesting roar, the numerals on the speedometer/tachometer steadily rising. After securing his crash harness, Rico puts both hands on the wheel, tightening his grip. Ivaanov shrinks down where he sits between Johnnie and Albrek in the front seat after fastening his own, lowering his head so that he can scarcely see over the dashboard. The ex-guardsman elects to only slide on the shoulder strap, and leans precariously with his head outside of the passenger window, gauging the rapidly closing distance to the Arbites roadblock as he sights down the autocannon.
Seconds after Uriah voices his warning, the shotguns and handcannons of the four arbitrators behind the barricade begin to fire, the percussive reports of their weapons a deafening, staggered echo ripping down the alleyway to either side of the car. Dull crumps and thumps of denting metal follow, sparks flying along the hood and frame of the groundcar as the bullets repeatedly find their mark. The windshield then blows out with a resounding boom of exploding duraplas, and the rush of air and shattered fragments that follows momentarily blinds everyone within.
Meanwhile, one industrial block away on the edge of Geltdown, Savalos leaps through the air to bound up the steep stairwell with the open door to the manufactory. The tip of his boot catches on one of the iron reinforced rockcrete steps, and he goes down hard, his elbow and chin catching the top of the sixth riser. His world goes a sickly gray from the pain, everything suddenly taking on a blurry, washed out hue. This time, it is Iacton that helps him up, reaching under the acolyte's arm and dragging him to his feet. By the time his head clears, the pair are nearly to the top of the flight, a cloud of oily smelling steam washing over them as they turn into the open doorway.
While leaping over a plastic drum dislodged by Iacton's hasty passage, the closer arbitrator catches his foot on a rolling segment of iron pipe and stumbles, reaching out and grasping the alley wall to keep himself upright. His partner still lags behind, but when the two of you mount the steps, climbing above the level of the stacked trash on either side of the alleyway, both raise their guns and fire again.
The first round clangs loudly off of the railing near Savalos as he is dragged to his feet. The second bullet puts a sizable circular hole in the rusting metal door standing ajar at the top of the stairwell just as Iacton pushes his companion through the doorway, diving into the manufactory himself to follow.