“Gorlin, Hagrdict, did Watch Command have any more insight from the data we sent them?”

Gorlin’s pauldrons whined as they attempted to imitate a shrug, “nnrgh. Not much of value, but I did not know where to go looking for answers. Preacher on the other hand…”

Hagrdict nods, “Ship names and classes, mostly. Of little importance to our current objective, but useful nonetheless. I will add them to the map while we plan.”

You examine the new data-codes as they appear on the map. “The Rok Breka? Typical orkish name. A Terror-class ‘cruiser’ normally carries anything up to half a million orks, but such a force would have overrun the Capitalis Congestus within days, weeks at most. Given the paucity of orks we have seen, I would estimate that there are no more than five thousand surviving orks.”

Losis frowns, “We do not have enough bolts to kill that many orks.”

Gorlin grins, displaying several iron teeth, “That is what swords and knives are for.”

You make a throwing away motion with one hand, “five thousand is probably high as it does not take into account attrition form living on a space hulk for almost a millennium. Nor ork ‘reproduction’ from infesting an area for the same length of time. I believe we will encounter more grots than orks, but that any orks we do encounter will be well-adapted to living on the Capitalis Congestus.”

Hagrdict grins, a feral predator’s eager smile, “just more foes to crush beneath our boots.”

Losis taps the plate in his head, and flicks a finger at Hagrdict’s cybernetic leg and Gorlin’s augmetic arm. “Foes that can hit back.”

You nod, “we move as one, weapons up and ready. We are Space Marines, we feel no fear, but that does not mean we act as fools. Ready up, we have a ship to cleanse with bolt and blade.”

Mission 4: Twisted Moon

Type: Cleanse

Primary Objective: Kill every foe aboard the Rok Breka.

Secondary Objective: Survive!

Tertiary Objective: Eliminate all targets of opportunity encountered.

Personal (Bonus) Objective: Trial - Survive the mission without burning a fate point.

Mission Cohesion: 9 (5 from fellowship, 1 from ranks in the Command skill, 2 from Oath of the Astartes, 1 from Favored Son skill)

Squad Mode Activated: Tactical Spacing Engaged.

8 Cohesion remains.

Gorlin leads the way into the prow of the Rok Breka, skirting cautiously around the hole in the deck and the festering pool of liquid below.

Hagrdict pauses long enough to look down at it and frowns. “Looks more like a tyranid spawning pool then anything orkoid.”

You instantly call a halt and take a look at the pool for yourself, “You are right Hagrdict, it does. This complicates things.”

“Hrnh? How so Hunter?”

“More than one race of foe, more than one prefered method of attack. Be wary of ambushes from places too small to fit an ork.”

Losis checks the action on his heavy bolter, “It may also explain where all the orks are: In the bellies of the tyranids.”

You click an affirmation across the vox. “Gorlin, lead on.”

Gorlin gingerly steps around the last of the hole in the deck and sets his shoulders into the hatch to the next compartment. He heaves it open with a screeching squeal, leaving it dangling off of one twisted hinge. “Heh-heh-heh. Feels a bit like home.”

Your kill-team files through the hatch into a long feasting hall. Ramshackle metal tables and benches are scattered and tossed across the floor. Crude pits hold charred scraps of flammable solids.

Your gaze wanders over the area, drifting to the edges of the shadows cast by the sputtering illuminators. One flickers out for good, and you see dozens of pairs of beady red eyes staring back at you from the darkness.

“CONTACT!”