He snapped back to consciousness, hearts thudding in furious unison. The auto-senses of his armor flared back to life. Six point two seconds. He glared at the number displayed in the tactical update. He felt a pang of loss, almost an abandonment of duty. For six point two seconds he had been unconscious, halted in his persecution of the mission.
Growling his defiance Diocledes smashed free of the ferrocrete slabs that had sought to be his tomb. Striding from the rubble he took stock of his surroundings. In an instant he assessed the remains of the hab-block. What remained was little more that crazily tilting spires of ferrocrete and plasteel. Fires danced insane patterns across the wreckage, and he caught sight of lithe shadows slinking amongst the firelight.
Fine. These cowardly xenos wished to subdue his team by blowing their venerated Thunderhawk out of the sky? Clearly these aliens and their cultists had failed to account for the reinforced bulk of his Terminator armor and resiliency of the marine inside. A fatal miscalculation. He would educate them on this folly. Three powered strides carried him out across the boulevard, heading towards the nearest cluster of hostiles his helms senses were marking. Four erratic heartbeats, the disjointed clinking of an autogun turret being laid out, their desperation to establish some form of ambush point in the fallen debris readily apparent. Leading with his shoulder he simply plowed through the slab-wall that separated them. His massive frame crushed the half completed turret and the two cultists unfortunate enough to be assembling the gun. Open palmed, he backhanded a third in the chest, pulverizing bone and organs alike with a meaty slap. The last attempted to flee, only to find that the massive form of the marine could move deceptively fast over a short distance. Half a metre of metal sprouted from the cultist's chest as Diocledes closed the gap and impaled him through the back with his combat knife.
Wiping the blade on the cultists robes, he sneered as he sheathed the knife. Such weak examples they sent to wage their war. Small wonder then that they would resort to long ranged artillery to deal with the Kill Team. No matter. Pausing only long enough to unclamp his storm bolter from its mag-lock on his hip and check that its venerable construction was undamaged, he continued his path through the demolished hab block.
Guided by blinking mission runes displayed inside his visor he soon made his way to a vast open plaza. Smouldering husks of Chimera and Gorgon transports littered the square, as well as the torn bodies of hundreds of local PDF soldiers. The poor souls of the Planetary Defense Force had been mobilizing as preparation to quell civilian uprisings. Only to be annihilated by the artillery barrage that followed the Stormbird being shot down, an action intended to slow or stop his team. He swallowed his frustration. Focused on their mission. Vowed to remember.
Near the far side of the plaza, almost a kilometer away, he spotted a power armored figure crouched next to a burning shell of a Chimera. As though sensing the other's gaze, the figure stood and turned to face Diocledes.
Ruskvar. Youngest of the Kill Team, a Blood Claw of the ever wild Space Wolves. His helm carried loosely in the crook of his arm, he grinned savagely as he approached, displaying the lupine jaw and elongated canines that marked him as a son of Russ. "Diocledes! You have the look of the murder-make about you, Brother!".
Diocledes snorted through his vox grill. "Yes. After the bombardment I engaged four hostiles, though I suspect many more are lurking in the rubble. Undoubtedly they now seek our position." Ruskvar laughed, a deep , barking chuckle. "Then it would seem I WILL have a chance to match your tally. And of course, surpass it!", he finished with a hearty guffaw. Despite himself, Diocledes could not keep a wry smile from crossing his face. The youngsters enthusiasm could be infectious. He was glad his helm prevented Ruskvar from seeing him grin.
"Come", he said, "And put your damn helmet back on, I would rather us not get another sermon from The Brute." The young Wolf winced slightly, then lightly chuckled and did as suggested. The Chaplain of the team, Brutus, was not one to take lightly. Friend and foe alike, all shrank in the righteous fury of the man's displeasure. Flouting the strictures of the Codex Astartes was guranteed to raise his ire, and even the boisterous Blood Claw was not keen to relive another sermon on the virtues of proper combat doctrine.
As the two marines began their trek towards their original mission marker, another rune began blinking, moving incredibly fast across the city's map in their display. The White Scars marine, Tarkhan Kane. His assault bike must have survived the wreck of their Thunderhawk transport, and he now appeared to be sweeping the streets of the hive, likely attempting to rendezvous with the rest of the Kill Team. Diocledes and Ruskvar exchanged a glance, then picked up their own speed as they cautiously began threading through the ruined hive towards Tarkhan.
The Kill Team was not out of this fight yet. They would cull the xenos and their foul cult from the planet as surely as carving rotten flesh from a gangrenous wound. Beginning here, with Hive Kalon.
For The Emperor.