You are Battle-Brother Marcellus of the Ultramarines, on secondment to the Deathwatch.

Squad Designation: Alpha. Callsigns: Alpha 1, Hunter.

The thunderhawk flight to the temporary void-hab is smooth, though you can’t help but stare out the armored viewport at the looming bulk of the space hulk Capitalis Congestus. It won’t be the first time that you have been deployed in advance of a squad, but this will be your first time deploying so far in advance that the rest of the squad hasn’t even been assembled yet. You give a mental shrug at this. With the scraps of information you have received about the fighting around the Cadian gate and the subsectors between there and Terra, you aren’t surprised that fireteams are being dispatched in such an ad-hoc fashion.

You muse over your three centuries of service as a Scout Sergeant, after the first Tyrannic War but before your secondment to the Deathwatch. The lessons you taught, and relearned anew as you passed them onto the scouts under your tutelage, should serve you well here. Operating so far from reinforcement or extraction, you will need to expend your resources with care. Mapping the terrain, the doctrines of ambush strikes, and the Astartes tradition of the precision lightning strike on a critical objective will all be valuable tools in your repertoire.

But thinking back to that time inevitably dredges up memories of darker days: your first century of service, before your promotion to Sergeant in the wake of the reorganization after Hive Fleet Behemoth was broken at such terrible cost. A battle-brother of the line, wielding bolter and combat knife against near-endless swarms of chitinous foes. You leaned anew the danger of the Xenos, and learned to hate the Tyranids above (almost) all other enemies of the Imperium of Man. Now in the beginning of your fifth century of service, that hatred still burns strong in your chest.

The memory of a bolter clicking on an empty chamber draws your attention to the small pile of supplies that were sent with you, in addition to your standard loadout of wargear.

* 980 rounds of 0.75 caliber bolt ammunition. suitable for your bolter and bolt pistol.

* 140 rounds of 0.75 caliber Hellfire bolt ammunition, suitable for the same.

Specialist rounds for special targets, Hellfire Ammunition bypasses all natural or organic armor, and liquefies them from the inside out.

* 15x frag AP grenades

* 15x krak AT grenades

* 100x units of armor repair cement, for patching armor breaches in the field.

* Enough combat rations to feed you for a year.

You could wish for more supplies, like an armorium servitor to help maintain your power armor, or extra combat knives in the event you break the one at your waist. But food and ammunition were the highest priorities, and the remainder can be requisitioned later, or sent along with future battle-brothers.

The thunderhawk hits the deckplate with the smooth crunch of a non-combat landing, and you rise to disembark. Automatically, you sweep through a wargear check. Your Mk.4 “Maximus” power armor, lovingly rebuilt and strengthened by Fennias Maxim himself, its plates still bear the scars of battles whence its wearer was the only survivor and the blood-soaked etchwork naming the worlds of the realm of Ultramar that the Tyranids befouled. Your combat knife and bolt pistol (loaded, naturally) ride your right hip. The grenade dispenser at your left holds three frag AP grenades and three krak AT grandes. Your Godwyn-pattern boltgun rides at the small of your back, its fire selector already loaded with two magazines of standard bolt ammunition and one magazine of Hellfire rounds, along with the attachment points for your climbing harness. You webbing pouches contain a unit of repair cement as well as three extra magazines of standard bolt ammunition each for your bolt pistol and bolter. It is a fearsome array of firepower, but you are well aware at just how fast you can expend it in combat.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

As the ramp hits the deck you pick up one of the ammunition crates and begin to unload, heedless of the vacuum inside your sealed warplate. In minutes you have your supplies stacked on the deck just outside the danger zone of the thruster wash, and the servitor lifts the thunderhawk off again. As you watch it head back out into the void, closing on the Aegis, you find yourself wondering just how much that particular clan of Rogue Traders knows of the Inquisition’s activities. The thought passes as the hangar bay doors slide shut, blocking your view. Whatever they know, it isn’t your problem to deal with. The hangar bay pressurizes and you turn to face the Interrogator who will be your local contact.

You are momentarily taken aback by the quartet of individuals in the common space of the void-hab, but easily deduce what they are from their disposition. The Techpriest and Ecclesiarch both wear relatively low ranking regalia, and are heavily injured. The Arbite is uninjured, but differential to the Gunslinger with the bolt pistols, so she must be Interrogator MacWater. The other three are the remnants of her team, and they very recently took a beating poking around in the Capitalis Congestus.

The Interrogator gives a start and reaches for her bolt pistols when she sees your Mk. 4 Power Armor in the doorway, then relaxes as she catches sight of the Aquila emblazoned on your breastplate. “Hunter. I didn’t expect you quite so soon.”

“My apologies Interrogator, and my condolences to your team. I’ve a stack of crates in the hangar, munitions and ration bars, and need a place to store them.”

“Second door on the left. Pardon the locker at the foot of the bed, Cian’s personal effects will be shipped out on the next shuttle.”

“Not a problem Interrogator.”

You move your supplies into your room, and take stock of the furniture. Human standard construction, but over-engineered to take the weight and bulk of an un-armored astartes or heavily augmented human. You stack your crates neatly in the corner, arranging several of the rations box tops to serve as an improvised armor stand and weapons bench. Re-entering the common room, you notice a look of consternation on the faces of several of the humans as they stare at the active holographic display. You take a moment to study it yourself, disengaging your helmet and attaching it to your Cingulum belt. A standard Deathwatch beacon / retrieval marker, but in an as-yet unexplored section of the hulk marked ‘G2 - Tisiphone?’.

You cock your head at the Interrogator, inviting comment, but she just shakes her head.

“You are seeing what I’m seeing Hunter. Inquisitor Ironside did indicate that he had one other asset on the Capitalis Congestus, but I’ve had no contact with it until now. If that’s another Astartes…”

You nod your head, “it is, or at least something with access to Deathwatch equipment. Mission objective: rescue / retrieval. Known opposition?”

The Interrogator tosses a hand skywards, “known contact with some Lost Souls and “flying, platter like things” armed with plasma weaponry.”

“Tau Gun or Explorator Drones. Not a problem. Moral threats?”

“None confirmed at this time.”

“Understood. Try not to blow up the void-hab while I’m gone.”

“May the God-Emperor go with you Hunter.”

You reseal your helmet and ease into the transit tube. It is narrow enough for only one astartes to pass at a time, but this is a reasonable security measure by your estimation. You hit the deck in the wreckage of the Visitor and ponder your first move. There is a path mapped out to the ‘north’, up to the Mhongu Khagahn and then ‘east’ down its length. Alternatively, you could strike out ‘east’, passing through the Mecca, and then ‘north-east’ directly to your objective.