[Narrative Battle Report] Five Minutes Under Glass | Kill Team 2024 | Nemesis Claw vs. Kommandos

 "Five minutes in the killzone feels like five hours. Five hours feels like a day. And surviving a day in that ashen hell feels like a lifetime."
- from the memoirs of Commissar August Hekla, vol. II - Gobannium and Beyond

 "Zog me, it's warm."
- Nogbad Sneekums, Kommando Nob

Deployment! Secure critical op, along the short edges. No tac ops, we were already straining.

I.

Zho Lumin kicked the ground again. In his frustration, the alleged veteran of the Long War cast up a divot the size of a man's head, which held together for all of a metre's flight before it started to disintegrate, coming apart in a cascade of charcoal. That was to be expected. This wretched colony had burned like all the others, but unlike all the others, someone had shot back.

Dol Mezan had been concerned, because Dol Mezan was always concerned, and so he'd hand-picked five brothers who weren't needed for the main strike and led them down here to investigate. Which was fine, but - why did it have to be Zho Lumin? 

Moredresh and Hezneuth hissed their amusement over the vox, not bothering to switch channels. Damn Nostramans. Zho Lumin was Terran born, and Terran bred: not drawn from the dereliction of their father's sunless cradle-world. It was him, and Gax Kaneon - lurking on the other side of the ash-strewn boulevard with Helereah - who stood apart, and at least Dol Mezan was one of them.

 

Nemesis Claw, basic edition. I didn't really want to wrangle six different statlines.

A vox-click, a flicker of threat-runes in the corner of Zho Lumin's vision, and Hezneuth's growl in his ears, rendered tinny and crackling with interference.

"I have movement ahead. Helereah, confirm?"

"Confirm. Something snuffling about. Low level. Domestic pet?"

"No pet would survive the barrage," Dol Mezan cut across them. "Helereah, Hezneuth: on the crossroads. We'll cover you. Gax, watch the left."

Zho Lumin was about to say something pointed about Dol Mezan's paranoia and how much of their time and ammunition it was about to waste, but he was a little distracted by the threat runes. One, two, four - a cluster moving on the other side of the crossroads. His helm whirred as it compensated for the infernal light, and he had visual. Not a pet. Not a domestic animal, and those other signs were not survivors. 

Kommandos, full fat, because their boss-man knows what he's doing.

The thing he'd clocked was round, and red, and all teeth and claws and scales. It had something in its maw, at which it worried and champed and drooled. It had a ring embedded in its hide, with a chain attached, against which it strained and heaved. And the other end was held by -

"Ork," Helereah confirmed. "And by the Powers, it's a sly one." 

Zho Lumin was about to say something even more pointed about Dol Mezan's paranoia, and how it was always right - but then he saw the pilot light nose around the street corner opposite Helereah, and right as the flames rushed, he signalled something useful instead.

"Helereah! Down! Threat, right!"

II. 

In Midnight Clad doesn't do much against a burna to the chops.

That warning probably saved Helereah's life. The flame roared, but Helereah's back was to the wall, the vulnerable power plant of his armour out of the fire's heart. He still snarled, sudden pain clear even over grainy vox-replication. 

Moredresh's bolter barked - roark, swoosh, crump, roark, swoosh, crump - and Zho Lumin's bolter joined it as he raced across the street in double time, snapping the ork's head back as it cracked the crude welding mask.

"Nice shot," Helereah voxed.

"Nice dodge," Zho Lumin voxed back. 

"We'z goin' all sneaky, like."

"How many more?" 

"Can't tell. Preysight's useless in this heat. It's all just red."

"Close and verify. Gax, hold with me until we're sure."

"Damn your Terran solidarity." 

Staying in cover. Two stealthy teams waiting to see who blinks first.

There was at least one more. Its presence was very much apparent. Bounding forward with a gleeful yell, seemingly unconcerned about its flamer-waving predecessor or the bolter fire that had felled it, the ork brandished a triple-barrelled combi-weapon of some sort, drum fed and spooling up. 

The bullets lacked the sophistication of Astartes weapons, their shells hand-crafted by slave artificers, their charge a sacred ratio of promethium and denatured umanite that flew at precise and measured burn. What they had instead was quantity. They came in their hundreds, in such density and at such proximity that more than half of them studded Helereah's armour.

He staggered back. He lurched forward. His chainsword swung wildly, gouging the ork's upraised forearms as it blocked reflexively - then lashed out with the butt of its rifle. Zho Lumin swore he heard the crunch of Helrereah's helmet grille cracking; he certainly heard the choking rasp as Helereah dropped to his knees, and the ork bobbed back behind its buttress, chuckling throatily to itself.

Surviving Burna and Dakka on one wound, and like a mug I thought "hey, I can charge with him."

III.

"We hunt!"

Dol Mezan gave the order, and Hezneuth launched himself across the side street, zigzagging around a burst of yellow light from an orkish sidearm and hurling himself across the low wall, bearing a sheltering greenskin to the ground and cracking its head against the foundation stone beyond. The other, at least, had time to react, hurling its axe as Hezneuth lurched to his feet, chainsword thrust forward. The teeth caught, turned, churned, powering on and through the ork's thick, leathery hide and meat and bone. Hezneuth barged it down, pinning it as the weapon did its work, the leering jaundiced visage of his helm the last thing it would see.

It was said that orks had no true understanding of death, nor fear of pain. It would now be said that Hezneuth had done his best to teach them.

"We have come for you!" 

 

A more tactically sound charge. Call The Black Hunt and We Have Come For You ploys in effect.

My first "three crits and a miss" roll of the day.

That was... enjoyable. Even if eating a breacher to the chops wasn't exactly fun.

Then, he died.

In his wild, overconfident charge, Hezneuth hadn't seen the third ork: the one bracing its long-barrelled weapon against the very stones he'd used to fell its comrade. Uncharacteristically silent, it had waited until it had the perfect shot, until his back was turned and the joints of his armour exposed.

So many bullets, at such close range, at an instinctively judged angle. Not even Astartes physiology could stand it. The torrent of pig-iron tore through Hezneuth's knees from behind, ripping his legs apart. That alone might not have been enough - his enhanced blood might already have begun to clot, his armour might have flooded his system with adrenaline and electro-stims to keep his heart beating long enough. But he was down, on his back, in both surprise and shock, and the ork could dart forward, seize the wings of his helm, and twist and twist and twist.

In four sets of comm displays, Hezneuth's rune went dark. 

My colleague was very sporting about how silly the Bomb Squig's detonation rule is as written.

Across the street, in the burned-out corner bar where the first orks had been hiding, something exploded. Sound, fury: light, heat. Furious alien voices yelled and bawled. Moredresh cackled over the vox.

"I got their pet. Mouth full of frag bombs. I - blood of the father! It isn't even - "

There was a crackle, and a series of thuds - some massive, crude power weapon seizing on a warrior who only had the butt of a boltgun and a sheathed combat knife to defend himself. Another rune flickered out. Moredresh had always been an arrogant bastard, and it sounded like he'd neglected to take out the pet's owner.

At least they'd found the leader. Dol Mezan and Gax Kaneon had him right in their line of fire, and Zho Lumin felt a rush of Terran pride as heavy bolter rounds and plasma bursts tore up the bulky greenskin where he stood. Perhaps even a hint of Legion pride, that Moredresh had been avenged. If he'd lived, he'd probably have claimed it was deliberate.

Something zipped across his field of vision, at eye level and moving upwards, almost ballistically fast. It was followed by a tiny, shrilling green figure, barrelling through the air the moment the Night Lords' weapons went dark and quiet. It was somewhere off behind them - at the spot Zho Lumin should have been holding to cover. 

"What does that Grot even do?" (zips across the entire killzone and steals an objective)

 

IV.

The orks were counterattacking in earnest now, a ragged Waaaaagh! echoing through the ash and dust. Dol Mezan was being punished for his killshot on their leader - a brute with two knives and a slobbering grin had him backed into a corner, without space to properly wield his chainblade. Zho Lumin, on the other side of the wall, could hear it grunting as it stabbed, and stabbed, and swore. Dol Mezan wasn't letting it have everything its own way, though; that crunch must have been a pistol-whipping. Such disrespect for the Legion's weapons; such desperation in the face of an inferior foe.

"Dat all you got?" the Ork sniggered, and there was a crunch, and a clang. It sounded like a headbutt.  

Good thing he gets Forebodings and Portents to block damage, that's all I can say.

It sounded, in truth, like overconfidence. Dol Mezan's struggles had ceased, but his life-rune was still alight, and it was clear what he was attempting. The moment the ork's guard was down, he would - yes, there it was. The slam of ceramite into organic tissue, protected by not much more than leather. The crack of a knee joint shattering. The howl of pain, and Dol Mezan falling back, plasma pistol flaring half-charged and safety on, even as his left arm hung useless with an ork knife stuck through the elbow.

Good thing he can Return to Darkness and still shoot, too.

"Oblige me, brothers," he growled. Gax Kaneon did as he was bade, a neat pistol shot cracking the ork's wounded knee wide open. For his part, Zho Lumin was making good on his error; he had a bead on the little goblin-creature that had slung itself out behind them, and it only took one bolt before it was reduced to especially unpleasant graffiti.

Shown here, three Orks cunningly not eating the heavy bolter's Sweep attack.

"How many left?" voxed Dol Mezan through gritted teeth.

"I count three," Gax Kaneon answered, and Zho Lumin took no pleasure in correcting him.

"Four. Sniper on the left."

"Oh, you have to kill four for your next Kill Grade point?"

Dol Mezan's head snapped around to the left, but the sniper wasn't the threat he needed to worry about. Wounded, scorched and yammering Dakka! Dakka! Dakka! at the top of its voice, the ork with the combi-weapon had clearly finished reloading, and now it raced over the crossroads, spraying bullets into the shadows. Dol Mezan rocked, swayed and threw himself to the right, rolling through the dust and ash and wreckage in an undignified, cursing cloud. 

No, really, it's a good thing his Forebodings and Portents block damage.

 V.

Zho Lumin took his place, moving out and rapid firing, a short and clinical three-round burst straight into the oncoming ork. He kept turning, as if he knew where the sniper would be - taking up the spot where its decoys had been lurking before Hezneuth had butchered them.

Time felt slow. An eternity passed in a handful of seconds as he waited, waited, waited - threat, his helm blinked, and his bolter spoke its answer.

Another three-round burst. The sniper bolted, yelping. No fear of death, indeed? 

My second "three crits and a miss" roll of the day.

"Brother, what the hell are you doing?"

It seemed ungrateful to Zho Lumin, but then he realised Dol Mezan wasn't addressing him. Gax Kaneon had abandoned his post, moving out to physically block an ork that had a bead on his wounded brother. Perhaps his cannon had jammed, perhaps his pistol was dry, but he was attempting an elegant, low blow, as though cheating in an honour duel.

This wasn't a duel. The ork simply sidestepped, and slammed both hands down on his power pack, repeatedly, ignoring the gladius thrust and aiming to disable, not kill. Damn Gax Kaneon - damn him for wanting to fight the thing.

I don't know why I used Dirty Fighter on my Heavy Gunner. It was just there. I could.

Dol Mezan was limping forward, aiming his pistol across the street. The ork caught sight of him, and looked around, as if noticing for the first time that all its comrades were dead or fleeing. Too far back to hear a thing himself, Zho Lumin had to imagine it grunting in defeat as it let go of Gax Kaneon, and scampered off up the side street, finally giving up the crossroads.

Final score 7-6. Two Night Lords and one Kommando alive. What a mess.

"I have a shot," Zho Lumin voxed. Dol Mezan's answer was pained, and slow, and thick, but not unsatisfied.

 

"Let it go. It - Throne of lies that hurts! Either it... tells the warband it killed us all, or it tells them we're dangerous. Either way. We're clear. I foresee... no outcome. No outcome that does not serve our goal."

 

"None at all?" Gax Kaneon had managed to wrench off his helm, and his half-powered armour was up on one knee, although he'd dropped the heavy bolter.

 

"None at all. Leave me - " Dol Mezan shook his head as his brothers closed. "Check Hezneuth. His rune's unstable. Might still be alive."

 

Zho Lumin sighed. For a moment, he'd thought they were finally shot of the Nostramans. He stalked out into the crossroads, looked left, looked right, and rolled Hezneuth over. His brother was a mess of blood and bullet holes, with a splintered grille and drooling, liquid breath - but he was still breathing.

 

"Confirm," said Zho Lumin, not without regret.

 

"Bring him. Then contact Zho Zheirus. He'll need to lead the next stage."