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Mire notices the sour expression on his long-time adjutant, and casts him a knowing, side-long glance as he begins his labors. "We've been together too long for you to keep your opinions to yourself, Enzo, so spill it, what's on your mind?"
As Mire leaps off the back of the truck, he immediately regrets it, feeling the dull ache radiate outward from his ribs, and the answering twinge in his knee as it barks at him. Despite the pain, he makes every effort to hide his discomfort from his men, exhaling while gritting his teeth and flaring his nostrils, only to take in more of the stinking, charred smell of burning orks from the nearby pit. He demands that his body ignore the pain. Like some of his more recalcitrant men, it only partially complies. "Commissar Vex, Doc, Lark, Book, Dol, head over to decon. Doc see if anyone can look to the wounded---and find some antivenom for Hathin, that grey color doesn't suit him much." "The rest of you, come with me, time to get to work." Sgt. Mire glances at the stoic stormtrooper, wondering if he will pose any objection to leaving the commissar's side. As the rest of his men fall in around him, he turns to Sarp to receive their first work detail.
It is the most that Mire has spoken in days, and with the last words leaving his lips, he feels the burden of memory settle upon him again. Another day, another fight---without loss of life---must count as having done something right. Sgt. Mire slips back into a reticent silence again, watching as the Death World drifts by with truck's juddering passage.
Nodding at Sarp, Mire muses, "I can't say myself or my men are unused to digging in the dirt to earn our wage, but it sure seems a waste or our respective talents given the tactical disposition on this world; you Brontians are renowned sector-wide for your effectiveness in a bloody engagement, and the 4th would be better served with finding more orks for you and yours to carve up." He sighs as the vehicle rumbles forward. "All the same, not being shot at for a while has a certain appeal we can probably all agree on." To no one in particular one of the Brontians asks, "We've heard ye called the 'Swamp Rats.' What's it like on Oremor? Is it like this boggy, humid, viper's nest?" Mire smirks at the notorious appellation. "Unduz III is an island-swamp, hell, a subcontinent more or less on our homeworld. I'm working on the assumption that you Brontians have seen a swamp either on your own world, or in the course of your service. Otherwise, this is going to make little to no sense." Mire looks wistfully out at Skrynne's unpleasant landscape, as if trying to remember more clearly something he has gone to great pains to try to forget. "Imagine this fungal swamp is filled with an endless variety of fens, marshland, and bogs beyond counting, all unique and unwelcoming in their own special way. Now, try to imagine that this entire, unending morass smells as bad as an open ork latrine, has insects so venomous they could turn a man's arm black minutes after a single bite, and a constant haze of choking, sticking fungal spores hanging over everything like an itchy pall." He chuckles to himself. "Now, that is what we'd call the coast---where we were allowed to take our leave time---that was the nice part. The claustrum where the prisoners were held, that was in the middle of the subcontinent. It was about a thousand times worse there. Conveniently, though, it was a prison that needed no walls. Escape was a death sentence, more or less, and one of the main reasons wasn't the top-tier predators lurking in that quagmire. It was the rats. You see, Unduz III swamp rats are pack creatures, like a lot of the fauna on our world, each about the size of a small canid, but far more vicious. Like most of the critters from Oremor, they're tripedal, pack-minded, and voracious. Anyone foolish enough to leave the claustrum wouldn't last long. There are plenty of things bigger than the Swamp Rat, but there's strength in numbers, and if a pack of them had the scent, the bigger beasts would know better and leave off, lest they be devoured themselves. I heard there was this Magos-Biologis who once studied them, and he found they were individually smarter than primitive hominids, had a better gestalt pack-mind than Terran wolves, and were stealthier in their element than anything he had previously encountered. So stealthy it was rare to even see one. I once had a lieutenant who claimed he encountered one in the bush, and he said it looked like a huge, three-legged rat covered in quill-like spines with an elongated head whose jaws looked they were filled with stacked saw-blades. You'd think with three legs they'd be ungainly, but the odd leg was more of a springy, prehensile tail that could push it through the nearly impassable terrain faster than the eye could follow or let it cling silently to fungoid branches waiting for prey to pass beneath. When they find their prey, they don't move in all at once, but instead dart in by twos and threes, each taking a quick bite before scampering away until their quarry is weak enough for the kill. Then they come en masse and don't leave anything to waste. You better pray you have your tags on, because they don't leave uniform, skin, hair, or even bone behind." Mire shakes his head. "The word 'rat' in no way does them justice." All:
Mire tries to match the grip on the handshake offered by the Brontian, so as not to offend during the greeting, while forcing the tight-lipped approximation of a smile to his face. Used to such low opinions of Oremite troops, given their origins, he does not take offense at the back-handed compliment, feeling that the knife-covered Lt. Sarp is genuine in his praise. "It was our pleasure, Lieutenant. As you can see, we had a bit of a rough landing (Mire inclines his head toward the downed shuttle) otherwise, we would have come to your aid a bit sooner." Sparing a glance for Lark, he attempts to smooth over the awkwardness of the sporchi's abrasiveness with a quietly spoken jibe of his own, "Please forgive him, you can take the penitent out of the penitentiary, but you can't always take the---well, lets put it this way, some sterotypes exist for a reason." Mire shrugs. "I'd tell you he's harmless, but that isn't entirely true, either."
"Our own orders confirm that we are to accompany your unit, lieutenant, you mind telling me where we're headed?"
"Never mind, Sarge, you anticipated me about De'Lark. I'm worried about him, if he keeps pushing himself like he has, especially now that he has been poisoned." "Nice to see at least some of us are on the same page, Doc." "I understand your concern, though, sometimes Lark's his own worst enemy." Sgt. Mire clambers up to the roof where Dot and Scope hold their attentive vigil, and sweeps his magnoculars across the northern horizon again.
With the surprisingly lively indigenous denizen dispatched, Sgt. Mire finally notices Murjoff's insistent tugging and gets on the vox with Kluge. He listens more than speaks as the directive is clear and to the point---what's more, the order is easier to swallow with the unexpected praise and the good news that the orks have been routed---at least for now. Handing the horn back to Murjoff, he addresses the squad. "The rest of the regiment and the Brontian's have sent the fecking greenskins into retreat, and we've been ordered to continue to hold this flank and protect the lander until relieved. It sounds like Major Scarpa is pleased, so everyone should pat themselves on the back a bit, because said praise is as hard to come by as an honest gambler in Geltdown." I sometimes wonder if the good captain fibs about such things to make us feel better about morale... Looking over the sorry state that De'Lark is in, he points toward Book, Drususson, Gerr, and Dol. "Doc's orders Lark, and they're mine now, too: sit still and watch the perimeter. The rest of you fill some sandbags and get that stubber on the stablest-looking of those roofs to the north, with a kill-zone covering north-northeast. There might still be some stragglers dropping by." Glancing up at the closest structure, he yells up to Scope and Dot. "While we fortify this dump a bit, keep your eyes open, alright?" He turns at the sound of Viktor Zane's voice, "What can I do for you, Doc?"
Watching as De'Lark staggers backward after the spider-thing lunges for him again, Sgt. Mire raises his chain-sickle, thumbs the activation stud and charges toward the oversized arachnid before it can scuttle backward into it's tunnel.
Mire spins around at Book's cry of surprise, eyes going wide at what he sees.
Eradico: Oops, double-posted on Initiative there---noticed in time to delete, sadly second roll was better![/ooc]
After conferring with Murjoff regarding the course of the battle to the north Sgt. Mire allows himself a tight-lipped grin. Good news for a change if our armor is getting the job done. These brutes are tough feckers to kill. He leans toward Murjoff again as the sharp crack of Scope's weapon reports from above. "Just keep trying, we need as much information on the tactical situation as we can. We're kind of on an island right now and I don't want us getting cut off by their retreat." Mire considers their next step as the rest of the squad gathers around. "While we're waiting on the sit-rep, does anyone have anything to add?" Mire honestly values the opinions and advice of his men, but he eyes the commissar warily when he utters this request, knowing that his egalitarian ways are often more than frowned upon by the traditional military establishment of the Guard.
Nodding at Hathin, Sarge turns to Dol. "Dol, Gerr, hustle back to the shuttle and get those drums. I have a feeling we're going to need the extra ammo before all is said and done."
Mire looks across the ruined expanse of buildings into the distance. "Bit o' fun there Sarge... when does the real fighting start?" Mire watches Lark approach, bombastic as usual. His reply is flat and emotionless. "Glad you enjoyed yourself, Lark. Next time maybe we'll even have some fire support besides Dol. When Anselm's back get that plas checked." He continues to search the horizon, having long ago gotten used to the sporchi's antisocial tendencies. Not an easily provoked man, Sgt. Mire maintains his grim placidity. With a severe stare that could just as easily be affixed upon the weapon's specialist, his terse reply conveys that he isn't in the mood for any nonsense. Seeing the commissar approach, he sighs, sending another subtle cue to Hathin to move along, his worry returning that the sporchi and the new commissar will renew their tense interaction from the landing.
Sgt. Mire watches the stormtrooper dispatch the final ork with a brutal, Schola-trained efficiency that leaves little question as to the effectiveness of his training. Thumbing off the chainsword activation stud, he shakes gore and mud from the blade, wincing as he feels his ribs tensing with the motion. After making certain that both Dol and Drusussson are uninjured, he turns to look back, out of the crumbling structure. Seeing Scope and Dot clambering like three-pawed Unduz tarsiers up the side of neighboring building to get in position, he responds to the sniper. "No idea, Scope, but once I find out, all bets are off, and some Munitorum inspector is going to get six inches of Guard standard issue steel-toed boot up his arse." Scratching at one of the sizable slug-round impact holes on the lintel of the door, he yells something else up to the sniper and his spotter. "Get your magnocs out and get a lay of the land, see if you can find us a less obtrusive approach to where the Brontians are holed up---and keep your eyes out for more greenskins, it doesn't look like everyone went to the big party up north." Muttering to Murjoff, he limps back out of the building. "Let's get everyone assembled around the northernmost structure and get a temporary perimeter in place before we catch up with the rest of the company. Radio command and let them know, short of counter-orders, we plan to move up the eastern flank through the ruins to see if we can seize some kind of advantage that way." He hears Lark, but chooses to ignore his braying. Good way to get a gretchin sniper to single you out, Hathin... Surveying the carnage, he realizes they were lucky. If the orks hadn't decided to hunker down, and simply charged the squad, we'd all be dead. Good thing they misjudged our numbers---I'm sure the entire company moving north behind us probably helped some in that regard. Reloading his carbine, Sgt. Mire moves north to where the sniper has holed up, glancing back now and again to the shuttle, wondering if Anselm managed to make it back for the walker and when they might be able to rely on its fire support.
His adrenaline pumping, and refusing to cede the momentum it has given him and his aching ribs, Sgt. Mire rushes across the broken ground between the two dilapidated structures, chainsword in hand, hearing Dol and Edwin's shouts as they corner the last ork in a vicious melee.
Mire watches without emotion as the commissar ruthlessly dispatches the ork, saying nothing at the political officer's well-intentioned commendation, a comment that contrasts so bizarrely with his savage appearance, spattered with greenskin gore, that it borders on the darkly comic. I still have no idea of what to make of this fecker---he carries himself with a such a good-natured bonhomie that it makes you forget that beneath it all he is a borderline psychopath. Perhaps that means he'll fit in better than I first though... "CLEAR!" After announcing to his squad that the collapsed building is secure, and unable to muster anything except for an awkward nod for Vex, Mire draws his chainsword and storms out of the south side of the structure through a half-collapsed cellar bulkhead, rushing toward the sounds of battle where the storm trooper squares off against another ork.
Checking his charge pack, back pressed firmly against the wall at the corner of the crumbling building, Sgt. Mire glances quickly over his shoulder through the wide gap in the flaking flakboard covering one of the windows on his side. Spying his target through the haze of cordite emitted from the ork's chattering weapon, he holds his breath and swings around, pushing the barrel of his weapon through the opening, while unleashing a burst of fire at the preoccupied xenos.
Sergeant Mire lowers his head as the ork opens up on the sporchi again, cursing at how well dug in their adversary is. Noting that Dol's fire is focused in the front of the building now, he squints his eyes, measuring the distance to the ramshackle structure. A twinge in his leg makes him rethink the idea he was formulating for a moment, but in the end he recognizes that Larks won't last much longer stuck in the open like that. Gimpy leg or no, we have to drop that fecker... Motioning to Murjoff, he stands to a crouch. "Cover me Enzo, keep his head down for a bit!" With that Mire breaks into a loping run, carbine in hand, for the northern edge of the ruined building.
His side aching with the sting of his injured ribs, Sgt. Mire waves Murjoff on and the pair continue to run along the shuttle-carved furrow before heaving themselves out of the trench and dashing through open ground toward a tangle of brush to the north of Hathin's position. Dropping prone, Mire watches with tacit approval as De'Lark lobs a grenade toward the building where the orks are dug in. That's the right idea, wish I had some of my own. Crawling with his elbows and knees, the sergeant creeps forward, trying to lift his head above the level of the thick brush enough to see if there is any way to flank around the ork position without being noticed or cut down by their fire or Dol's suppressive onslaught.
Mire squints his eyes and his brow wrinkles in the familiar expression of an NCO trying to make out a poor vox transmission while both ends of the call receive heavy fire. Frequently an exercise in futility, he believes he hears enough of the message over the din to safely say he understands it's gist. "Mire here, I receive you 5x5 Cap; we're mopping up here, will be advancing soon, just tell us where you need us."
"Copy that, Spina, he's on his way." Mire stares out across the field to where Tartare and Lark crouch, alternately coaxing and cursing the malfunctioning plasma gun. He shakes his head, black thoughts directed at the Munitorum for the unreliability of the kit they've been forced to put up with since Oremor. He shouts to be heard. "Anselm, forget that fecking thing, you and Dolf get your tails back to the Spina. I just got word, Drustos is finally ready to debark!" He considers the operator's heroics back at the shuttle-lander a short time ago. "And tell them since you saved their asses to queue you to the front of the damn line! He hands the vox-phone back to Murjoff, biting his lip in anticipation, watching for the orks to raise their heads and gauging his chances of reaching the thick brush where Hathin hunkers down under fire.
Sergeant Mire bites his tongue as Viktor Zane attends to his wounds, wincing in pain as he examines his broken rib through the cracked flak vest, knowing it would make no difference if he told the doggedly altruistic medicae to see to himself first. Sometimes its hard to know if I'm grateful or resentful that Doc has managed to keep me alive all this time after Oremor---I guess he at least isn't ready for me to die yet. The medicae binds his ribs tightly with a thick roll of surplus combat dressing, and the pressure instantly makes breathing easier. "Owe you again, Doc. Don't forget to look after yourself, too!" He bites off a remark about telling Doc to make sure that he stays out of the line of fire in the future, because he knows from long experience it will make absolutely no difference. Again, a blessing and a curse. Mire readies his carbine again, sighting it along the lip of the trench, trying to ascertain the positions of the rest of the squad and the disposition of the remaining orks through the winking tracer hail of Dol's sustained fire. Drawing a bead on the rightmost ork holed up in the building, cowered down under the stubber fire, he takes aim and fires a quick burst.
The shots crack harmlessly off of the crumbling structure the orks lurk behind, well wide of the target. Seeing the positions of the commissar and the stormtrooper, he motions for Murjoff to follow him. "C'mon, we'll flank wide left and come around the other side, Drususon and Dol have them from the right."
As the pair run down the trench, he yells over the stubber fire to be heard, noticing the first of the vehicles emerging from the scuttled transport. "Vox to the main advance and the major, and anyone still answering in the Spina, too, and let them know the right flank is holding up." He shouts across the field to where Lark has positioned himself with the plasma gun again. "Light up that building, Larks, they're entrenched better than shell-ticks in a duct wolf's arse!"
Sergeant Mire feels the hiss of air as another hard round flies by his head, and while involuntarily turning away from it, he witnesses Doc being struck as he moves to clear the trench line. Alright, you're already in trouble, this isn't the time to be getting someone else killed... Hearing the chattering thud thud thud of Dol's heavy stubber ripping into the ruined buildings, effectively keeping the orks pinned down, he considers bolting for one of them, but reconsiders when he tenses to run, a shooting pain spearing him in the side, nearly dropping him, blurry eyed, to his knees. With Doc already wounded, it would be just his luck that the doggedly stubborn medicae would try to follow him out into the crossfire. First...finish this greenskin... At that precise moment, he looks up to see the sporchi leveling his plasma at almost point blank range across from him, targeting the overly resilient xenos with a look of smug bloodlust. Oh Feck... He dives aside, just as Lark fires, rolling back toward the trench away from the lambent flare of light as it envelops the ork.
Not hearing Murjoff's warning in time, Sgt. Mire feels the hard round impact his flak vest with the force of a maulchups' kick, and nearly doubles-over from the pain. The adrenaline is flowing fast now, though, and instead he only staggers to one side. Unfortunately his listing movement brings him right into the path of the wounded ork's swing, and the butt of the creature's weapon impacts him just above where the slug round hit. After everything else, this might be it then... ..well, you're coming with me then, ugly! With the world going toward an unsettling greyish color around him, and his peripheral vision failing, Mire lashes out with the buzzing chit-sickle once again.
Why won't this sonafab!@*$ die! Ducking beneath the backswing of the greenskin's improvised club, Sgt. Mire swings the chain sickle in a vicious arc, trying to cut the greenskin's legs out from under it.
The hard round impacts Sgt. Mire's chest with enough force to nearly knock him off his feet, but he somehow manages to remain upright despite the pain spreading through his right side. Good thing I'm left-handed... He swings the chain-sickle in a sweeping overhand arc, ignoring his own safety, while trying to bury it in the ork's head.
Mire turns to Murjoff, a familiar gleam in his eyes. "Cover me!" His leg still somewhat numb from the ricocheting round that struck him, Sgt. Mire grunts with determination as he mounts the edge of furrow. Getting upright again outside of it, he lowers his head as best he can in the inimitable posture that men have unconsciously tried to perfect since the advent of flying munitions and the birth of ballistic weaponry on Terra so long ago. Raising his chain-sickle high overhead, he charges the ork occupied with Lark, bellowing a furious cry as he closes the last meter and swings the blade down on the greenskin.
Despite his best efforts to hug the dirt, the round hits Mire.
Seeing opportunity knock as the greenskin's gun jams, Sgt. Mire raises himself upright along the edge of the trench and levels his las-carbine to fire a burst at the ork, in an effort to oblige his new-found curiosity about the barrels of live weapons.
Knowing that even the stupidity of the ork won't last forever, he slings his carbine over his shoulder, then rips his chain-sickle from the loose earth while depressing the activation stud, fully expecting the beast to charge. He barks back at Scope over the din of battle, "Don't stop shooting when he comes, I know I don't need to worry about you hitting me!
As Mire surveys the firefight around him he notices for the first time De'Lark engaged in mortal combat with one of the greenskins clutching only his Munitorum-issued combat knife. It doesn't surprise the sergeant in the least that the sporchi is getting the better of the savage.
Glancing down the trench, he signals for Anselm. "Tartare! Get down to Larks and clear that jam, posthaste!" Turning his attention again to the Commissar, he bellows more orders, things coming more instinctively now that both sides are blooded. "Drususon, Doc! Advance on the commissar and hold that cover! We're gonna make a push!" Sergeant Mire then waits as Scope draws a bead with his long-las to fire, carbine aimed and sighted at the ork closest to their position, ready to charge out of the trench with chain sickle in hand if the brute makes to rush them. All:
Sergeant Mire is surprised that the brutes broke off from their charge for the trench, but not so surprised that he doesn't have the sense to duck his head as the orkish guns rip up the edge of the furrow in front of him. Swiping a clod of dirt from his face, he deactivates the chit-sickle and slams it blade first into the edge of the earthen trench in front of him, keeping it in easy reach. Crouching to keep as low a profile as possible, he unslings his las, taking careful aim at the ork that was just winged by Scope, unleashing a burst from his carbine.
Warmaster:
Sgt. Mire shakes his head in frustration with how quickly the situation is going to hell around he and his men. Watching the hulking brutes advance on the make-shift trench, he sees the need to spread the line, and coordinate their fire before they are overwhelmed. "Anselm, Murjoff, Doc, follow me down the line! Dol, covering fire, and hit one of those feckers this time!" Sgt. Mire spares a glance for the commissar, who has an ork making a bee-line for him but ultimately decides this is what the crazy political officer wanted all along. Gauging the distance to the orks bearing down on Scope and Dot, he makes a similarly rash decision. One las round isn't going to stop that greenskin anyway... Slinging the carbine over his shoulder, he draws the chain-sickle in a fluid movement, thumb resting over the activation stud, and then charges down the trench toward the ork, wincing with each stride from his balky knee, hoping to intercept the brute before he reaches the sniper and spotter.
Mire slaps Anselm on the shoulder sharply, an insufficient gesture to properly demonstrate the extent of his appreciation for saving a sizable portion of the Oremor 4th, but under the present circumstances it will have to do. "Great work, both of you, now lay down some fire!" He crabwalks a little further down the trench now that most of his squad has redeployed, continuing his original effort to draw the ork advance along a more westerly salient, firing off a single shot when one of the greenskins glances around the corner of one of the dillapidated structures.
Mire regards the headstrong commissar skulking forward into the teeth of the orkish advance with an incredulous scowl. Damn fool is either going to get himself killed or create one hell of surprise for the first greenskin to stumble across him...
Mire replaces the handset on Murjoff's vox-caster, squatting in the stinking mud of the shuttle-carved trench, unconsciously chewing his lip while he considers how best to execute the Major's orders. Surveying the battlefield with narrowed eyes, he slaps Murjoff on the back, grinning in a manner that is most unnnerving to his adjutant. "C'mon then, lets go to work Enzo." Sgt. Mire looks back over his shoulder to Scope and Dol, shouting in his familiar, harsh, roar over the withering stubber fire. "Scope, peel off those herders and their imps, they're the Major's problem now. Time to secure the east flank! You and Dot scamper up topside on one of those ruined structures and thin out the newcomers!" "Dol, Dol...DOL!!! Move that stubber over to the eastern side of the trench and set up a corridor of fire along the edge of the ruins!" Enzo gives the Sarge a quizzical look, his obvious skepticism showing that he doesn't quite perceive the rhyme or reason to Mire's orders. What he says next makes everything fall into place. "Everyone else, form up on me and double time it down this trench and give those greenskins something to charge at, take positions just west of that northernmost mound of rocks and lay down some fire, get 'em moving our way!"
Watching as Scope's precise, murderous fire drops another of the greenskins, Sgt. Mire comes to a halt, and drops to one knee in the trench, finally hearing Murjoff's plaintive yelling from behind. Turning, he sees his loyal adjutant crouching behind him, somewhat exasperated, and takes the vox handset from him. "Major, this is Sgt. Mire of the Fourth, glad to see you're still with us. Company is presently positioned at grid two-niner by five, easternmost furrow, about a half a click from the crash site. We are engaged with flanking greenskin assault elements, one prong moving south by south east from the Brontian position, the lead elements of the second emerging from the ruins to the northeast. Respectfully requesting support fire so that this lead element can do its damned job and reconnoiter, sir!"
As the Commissar shouts his admonition, Sgt. Mire curses under his breath, eyes still wincing from the afterglow of the plasma burst. Wonderful, The damned Commissar is going to get himself killed within five minutes of planetfall! As much as Mire believes this might make everything that much easier on the rest of the 4th, the paperwork alone required to document the polticial officer's demise would be a nightmare. Fair enough, better off with the devil you know, my pater used to say... Moving toward the edge of the furrow, clutching the haft of his chain chit-sickle, the Sarge looks around for any further threats before following Commissar Vex out into the open ground.
Sarge hoofs it over the uneven ground of the shuttle-carved trench, grateful for its cover as the ork fire pelts the ground around them. Hearing the blazing report of Hathin's plasma gun, he looks into the distance toward what his resident malcontent was firing at, and sees his fears realized---two more fecking orks breaking cover from the ruins to the northeast, now rushing at them with bloodlust filling their mad, porcine eyes. "Good spot, Larks, keep up the fire!!!" He comes to a stop, raises his carbine to his shoulder and fires another shot, aiming at the ork that is just now emerging from the superheated glow of Lark's last shot.
Hearing Hathin's yell from the point position, Sgt. Mire grunts in reluctant acceptance that for once his hot-headed weapon specialist is tactically correct. Sizing up the situation quickly, he begins barking out orders of his own, shouting loudly to be heard over the din of the weapon's fire. "Dol, keep up the suppressing fire! Scope, one of those greenskins so much as takes a peek at us, you put him down. Everyone else, advance to Lark's position and set up a de fillade on those 'herders, we should have fire coming from the rest of the company debarking off the shuttle coming soon enough" Signalling Murjoff to move ahead, the Sarge sights down his weapon again, aiming for the wounded runtherd crouched prone under Dol's withering stubber fire.
Hearing Scope's words, Sgt. Mire moves to the opposite side of the makeshift trench, sizing up the wounded runtherd down his carbine's iron sights. Settling the folding stock into his shoulder, he answers Murjoff. "See if you can get the Major, Enzo, if anyone can make sense of this tactical mess, he can. Some air support would be nice, but I have an inkling we're the only reinforcements those Brontians are going to get for a while!"
Murjoff removes the receiver from his ear and glances up at his NCO. "Hey boss, I got one of the Brontians on the horn. Not getting much out of him and he sounds kinda panicky. You wanna talk to 'em?" Still trying to trudge forward with Murjoff trailing behind him, Sgt. Mire squats in the muck of the shuttle-carved trench, and grabs the receiver from his adjutant, resting his carbine against the earthen wall and placing one hand firmly over his other ear. "This is Sergeant Mire of the Oremor 4th, we're taking heavy fire approximately half a click south/south-west of Supply Depot 31. Engaged with greenskins at this time, unknown greenskin contingent moving west to east through ruins. Heavy casualties sustained on debarkation from lander; what is your disposition, say again, what is your disposition!"
Sgt. Mire grins in satisfaction when the hurried shot hits, looking back on the still burning shuttle he muses, some days it is better to be lucky than good...
Sgt. Mire turns to bark another order at Hathin, but realizes too late that the weapons specialist has already begun running across the broken terrain of the furrow toward the ruined buildings. Wary that no one has noticed any further movement from the orks that now lurk among the buildings, he scans their ruined facades for any sign of movement. . Waving Murjoff to follow him, confident that the rest of the squad can handle the runtherd advance to the west, he yells over the crackle of las-fire to his adjutant. "Murjoff! Get on the horn and see if you can raise the Brontians, try to get a handle on our tactical position in this mess!" Spying another greenskin attempting to pick up the launcher, Sgt. Mire advances a few meters further down the trench and then takes aim, firing upon the ork.
By the time the sarge prepares to fire again at the ork with the rocket launcher, his target is already slumped on the ground, its leg a blazing pyre, now very much separate from the rest of the burly xenos' body. Glancing behind him, he sees the stormtrooper already sighting down the barrel of his weapon again. With a grim nod that is equal parts respect and encouragement, he points first toward Edwin and then toward the runtherders and their scampering charges closing in quickly from the northwest.
Ears still ringing from the massive explosion that just wiped out most of the guardsmen debarking behind him, Sgt. Mire staggers forward, the magnoculars still clutched tightly in both hands, but forgotten, wondering numbly if poor Captain Castiglione ever knew what hit him---probably not, the man was a hard drinker, the vice of choice for many men who had survived Oremor. Some part of Mire was earnestly hoping that the poor captain was still in the half-fog of his latest hangover when the end came. As the Sarge looks down at the smoking holes in his uniform, one still pierced with a red-hot piece of shrapnel hanging by a smoldering thread, he comes to his senses again, hearing Dol shouting from somewhere far away. He turns and flinches, finding that the burly gunner is far closer than he surmised, leaning in toward him and practically yelling in his ear. He looks concerned. Concerned for him. This brings the sergeant back to himself like a slap to the face, all evidence of his disorientation dissipating like stormclouds blown away by a fierce, unfriendly, wind. The words that Dol is saying finally register, punctuated by the hiss-crack of the las-carbines firing, interspersed with the staccato dak-dak-dak of the ork weapons. A quick glance around him brings the tactical situation into focus quickly, and he points toward the westernmost furrow. "Dol! Get your stubber set up on the edge of that ditch and end those greenskins moving on our flank!" Looking behind him he sees Lark, smirking impishly at him even in the fury of the battle raging around them. "Hathin, Book, you're with me, double-time it, we need to get that bastard with the rokkit before he uncorks another!" Not waiting for an answer largely because he doesn't want to hear the sporchi question his order, he unslings his carbine and runs for the edge of the eastern furrow, near the van of 'F' Company. Dropping to one knee he settles the short stock into the crook of his arm and takes aim at the loping greenskin, squeezing off a single shot.
Sgt. Mire curses as the shot goes wide, the loose, muddy dirt from the furrow slipping out from under his braced knee. Warmaster:
.
Sgt. Mire emerges in the vanguard of the squad, just behind Scope and Dot, and ahead of the rest of his men. Stopping a few meters away from the end of the boarding ramp and standing tall, he raises his magnoculars to his eyes as the men of the 4th surge around him in a hurried tide of drab-green camo. As the ork rocket screeches overhead, he surveys the Brontian position, the thick pall of smoke obscuring his view.
As the guardsmen of F company begin to file out of the cramped rows of seating, Sgt. Mire proceeds to his squad's designated troop-hatch exuding an almost preternatural calm amid the chaos of the landing. Stonily resolute, he stands to one side of the door, slinging his carbine barrel upright on its strap to point to the means of egress. Barking loudly to be heard over the din, he yells to get the squad's undivided attention. "Form up everyone!" Looking over the squad once they assemble, he shouts some more orders, praying that everyone can hear him, knowing that their collective lives may depend on it. "Scope, Dot; take the lead. Break out fast and get a lay of the land and a high vantage if you can. The rest of us will follow. Lark, Dol, find the closest cover and lay suppressing fire where it's needed. The good news is that if the Greenies have overrun the LZ, they'll have a lot of targets to choose from when we debark, try not to be one of them!"
Turning to Murjoff, the sergeant yells for him to turn slightly in his crash-seat, checking to see if his vox-caster is picking up any further intelligence about what might be occurring at the LZ, either through intercepted shuttle transmissions or messages from the ground.
Yelling to be heard over the growing noise,
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