\ ++ :: Beginning Scene Reconstruction :: ++ /

[:: Inloading Data-Packet; Lord Commissar Bulgraff :: ]

\ ++ :: Begin Record Playback :: ++ //

Commissar Bulgraff was not having a very swell day. The aging fellow adjusts his black great coat and crimson sash, leaning against the edge of the hatch he was occupying. His towering peaked cap turns with his head focus as he scans the horizon with a pair of magnoculars that click and whirr as they focused on the horizon scanning for even but the barest hint of anything that might pique his attention.

He stood turned out of the hatch of the squat and wide form of the Achilles Ridgerunner, the fat tyres of the hastily modified civilian vehicle is entirely caked with thick mud, the vehicles angular body having failed to escape a treatment much the same. The armaments that normally rest on heavy mounts that mar his view had been hastily removed before they had made landfall, a sticking point that made the grizzled man work his jaw idly cursing everything under the moonlight that he was stuck in what amounted to a unarmed recon vehicle, out in a possible warzone.

Down within the hull of the Ridgerunner, a pair of young guardsmen clad in the fatigues of Ichorous V’s own Planetary Defense Force, have slunk down in their seats, their inexperience readily apparent as they talk back and forth to one another. The driver of the Ridgerunner, a younger thinner fellow seemed to have discovered his chair could rotate, and thus had unlocked the swivel function of his seat. The young man lazily spun idle circles reclined as far back as the seat permits him too. He’d stare blankly at the drivers hatch above him, idly bouncing a rubber ball off the hatch and catching it.

The trooper, Droog speaks up addressing pretty much anyone within earshot, “Alright Pikes, but look, what about this, right? So it's a felinid right? But it's just the ears and tails man, you're telling me that you totally wouldn’t give her a chance? Even if she was the sweetest thing in the world AND all the girls on your habitation block had been exposed to bio-chems from the foundry. You’d still say no?”

Across from him, laying on his back was a somewhat huskier trooper, a soldier that had never known a want of food in his entire life, merely has his data slate open before him, tapping away on it as he flicked through various text files and informational reports. He pauses and glances over towards and shoots him a musing look, he tilts his head a few times, his helmet acting like a makeshift headrest as he speaks up,

“Ehh, I don’t know mate, it doesn’t really do anything for me. I mean it's an abhuman right? So if you like to marry and stuff, you're still stuck getting slapped with a reproduction fines, I mean if she is nice and has a pretty voice, then yeah I mean I could risk it. But have you not looked at the fines the Governor put on the Hive? It was like, mind boggling, we would have had to pull off-world duty tours for years just to meet the fine. On Top of that your trying to find the boltgun in the lasrifle mound, the type of felinid you describe is like an anomaly even within the abhuman community. Remember all those fancy rich nobles from Zega Hive paid at least a star-ships cost to have them brought in from the Halcurii Sector. So I don’t really think that’s in the cards man. Keep dreaming.”

Droog merely continues to spin and sigh idly as he catches the rubber ball, patting it a few times as he explosively sighs, turning his helmet up as he calls out to Bulgraff, as the old fellow scanned the horizon.

“Hey Commissar, what do you think? It's permitted and blessed so long as it's within the range of closer to humans, yeah? So what are your thoughts on that, huh?”

Bulgraff lowers the magnoculars and frowns curtly, leaning back as he addresses the youth, with a flat and his unfading grimace, his tone surprisingly placid.

“Ehh, you damn kids and your boundary pushin’ ain’t no good in my book, besides what's the point of taking an abhuman wife, if’n ya gotta go off world for two thirds of your life hoping you get back alive and that she will be. Seems pointless when you can settle down with a full-blood human and just call it a day. None of this muckin’ about with the governor and his damn taxes.”

Droog sucks air between his teeth and sighs, resuming bouncing the rubber ball off the inside hatch, he pauses and snatches the ball out of the air and bolts upright, indicating to Pikes and speaking with a blooming vein of excitement.

“No way, off-world deployment right? Now you tell me that this isn’t the Emperor’s will unfolding and in action! Oi! Commissar, does this deployment count as off-world assignment? And if we shoot at a few bushes a few times, are we eligible for hazard pay?”

Bulgraff exhales and squats down inside the Ridgerunner, face carrying faux excitement, before it falls back into his usual stoic look.

“Why yes! It does count as off- Ahhh, damnation, would you look at that, Hive Tilus was in every sense of the word, on fire, when we evacuated there. But naw lad, lemme just get your payment requisition forms all filled out and file them off to Central Command, post haste.”

Bulgraff sat there, pretending he had an auto-quill and a piece of parchment, eagerly scribbling in the air as he glances up at Droog whom merely gave him an unbemused look. He mimes tearing the form out of a book, before tossing it to a fictional breeze.

“There ya go! Pay request stub is in the pipe, should get back to you a few centuries knowing that only the finest, still more than likely burning, Administratum wage-menials have gotten your request for hazard and off-world pay, just so you can marry a damn abhuman.”

As Bulgraff stands back up out of the hatch, Droog swings about in the chair, speaking up to the Commissar idly, as he tries to find new ways to stave off the all consuming monotony of his current objective; waiting.

“You know if you set Administratum wage-menials on fire, I don’t really think they would work any faster, I mean, I am sure they have to fill out forms to even get permission to even be on fire in the first place. So all in all it would just slow them down, Throne they are like the Astarte of bureaucracy. But, yeah, so how long are you gonna stay up there staring at the same terrain Commissar? I am getting an itch in my boot, I just wanna floor it and open this bad girl up and see what she can do.”

Pikes speaks up, as he turns off his data-slate, indicating towards Droog with a grin on his face as his fellow trooper was gripping the wheel, miming stamping down on the gas as he makes muffled engine and shift changing noises with his mouth.

“Oi, Droog, Bully-graff is a bit sad,why don’t you play the Commissars favorite game, just to cheer him up?”

Bulgraff grimaces as he slaps his gloved hand to his face, leaning heavily on the edge of the hatch as he speaks up almost imploring them not too.

“Don’t do this now, we just did this not even a half hour ago.”

Droog, pauses his faux driving and claps his hands together, turning around with a wide grin on his face.

“You know Pikes, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. Commissar, might I ask you for a game, it's called, ‘Behold what I beheld with mine own blessed eyes’. I know you’ll love it, it's bound to cheer you right up!”

Bulgraff grimaces ever more deeply.

“No, No ten thousand times no, do you want me to bash your head in with these magnoculars? Because you're on the blessed path to getting your head bashed.”

Droog idly spins in his chair once more, spinning as fast he can not unlike a top, ignoring the threats from the tired commissar.

“Blessed with sight from Him so divine, I peered forth from this vehicles confines, pray tell what did I find that was tall and shone with a viridian shine, commissar?”

Bulgraff stares at him, idly tossing the magnocular at his chest, which draws a mock scream and a mote of surprise as the younger trooper recoils from it ensuring not to drop the valuable piece of gear. The older man works his jaw as he thinks, frown splayed unendingly across his face as he stands up, playing along sarcastically with the joke, rising up from the hatch as he slaps his gloved hands down on the edge of the Ridgerunner’s cupola.

“Well damn Trooper Droog, I couldn’t possibly fathom what could be tall green and everywhere…. Lemme see boy, could it be that damn bamboo lookin’ plant there, or maybe it's one of it's ten thousand cousins? Hmmm, gotta think really hard on this one, ain’t sure I am gonna be smart enough to figure it out.”

True enough, they were in the middle of the unrelentingly thick and cloistered Bamboo forest, a dense path having been carved out in their trail as they had driven for what feels like hours among the narrow paths and stretching winding routes through the entirety of the forest. To say that Bulgraff’s blood pressure was up was to speak the obvious, he angeredly chews his lho-stub while placing his head on the roof of the Ridgerunner, smacking his fist against the roof several times to vent his anger.

Droog swings about and shrugs, quite relaxed about the whole situation or failing possibly to truly comprehend what was unfolding.

“Aww cheer up Bulgraff, ain’t no need to get upset. Oh! Wait I got an idea, why don’t we get your big ogryn bodyguard to just punch his way through the forest. Oh, wait he’s not here.”

Pikes pauses, as he rests on his side watching the two go back and forth. The thought struck him, so he raises a hand and indicates between Droog and Bulgraff, his brow furrowed in confusion,

“You know I did notice it didn’t smell like a grox had keeled over and died here, what gives? Where did you say Barz was?”

The Ogryn in question, Barz, was a three meter tall hulking dimwitted specimen of an abhuman, with the raw muscle mass and proven track record of breaking reinforced dropship doors for the by sheer accident, he made a terrifying sight as he escorted the Commissar about on his daily duties and routines. The fearsome bodyguard was normally inseparable from the Commissar as his intellectual capacity truly did limit his ability to do really, anything that he wasn’t given step by step guides how to do written in a style comprehensible by young juvie. But as of late the giant hulking slab of unyielding muscle was not visible, not hide nor hair for well…

“He fell down a hole.”

Bulgraff rubs his face and slides back down, into the commanders seat, next to Pikes and behind the spinning form of Droog, he gives a tired sigh, and moves to pull out a lho-stub. He’d chew upon the end of the stub as he glances between his two aids, who stare at him confused, before giving a confused shrug.

“He fell down, a frackin hole that we stumbled upon after we escaped the Skytalon crash. I told you we were heading for this damn Ridgerunner, once we had it turned right side up, I told him to get a tool kit from the crashed Skytalon. He walked off and fell down a damn sinkhole…” He catches the looks the two of them gave him, somewhat unconvinced as he indicates between the two youths, “He was fine damn it, but the fall was far beyond the meager line or rope I had, and quite frankly I didn’t have an Atlas recovery vehicle to crane his big head out. So I told him to rally with us east of the pits, and now here we are, lost ourselves in a midnight bamboo hell!”

Pikes sits upright, and reaches over to pat Bulgraff’s shoulder, in faux sympathy, clearly lining up for a dig at him.

“Ehh, it's alright Commissar, just like Barz with his absolutely expert skill of subterranean navigation, we too will find our way to our beloved Emperor’s warm embrace far from this bamboo nightmare we find ourselves in.”

Bulgraff, stares daggers at Pikes, reaching over with a gloved hand to indicate to the man he walked a fine line,

“I knew I shoulda shot you both before we got stuck in this forest, Damnation …” He leans back against the bare permasteel skeleton of the commanders seat and sighs “... Make me a damn pot of recaf Pikes, and do something useful.”

Pikes give a firm squeeze of Bulgraff’s shoulder before turning round to the vessel warmer, built into the vehicle, placing a kettle on the stove. Bulgraff grants only a wordless gesture towards Droog, whose face instantly comes alive, knowing full well his time has come once more. With the clank of the chairs swivel release, he finds himself turned back fully around and gripping the wheel with a manic gaze in his eye, his hand turning the key as the engine rumbles back to life.

A cackle erupts from him as he jams his flak-boot into the gas and the ridgerunners wheels squeal to life, a shower of shattered bamboo stalks and dirt erupting behind it as the squat and sleek vehicle rockets off into the dense forest.

As the Ridgerunner races through the dense forest, it's lowered prow hacking apart and tossing aside mangled bamboo shoots, the poorly tuned suspension causes a jarring violent bucking that forces Bulgraff to keep a white knuckled grip on a grip-bar that ran alongside his station at the commanders hatch.

Droog keenly watches the world blaze past him through the armored window, as chunks of bamboo pinwheel past the vehicle as it tears forward, it's engines howling, as due to the relatively flat terrain, he merely pushes the gas fully to the floor. A quick glance back at his compatriots, gives him sight of Pikes, somehow, managing to brew a cup of recafe as if his hands and focus were gyro-stabilized despite the violence of the bounding buggy. Taking notice of the scowl on Bulgraffs face, Droog’ reaches out and smacks one of the controls jury rigged to the spartan control panel before him, shouting over the din of shattering stalk-plants.

“Let’s put on some tunes, yeah Commissar? Sorta lift the spirits of the men. What are you feelin’ today? Something a little more thrash-cored or perhaps something classic, like agri-bass with something about goliath trucks and toxic muddin? I am feeling the latter.”

A flick of a switch and the dull roar echoes from outside the vehicle, as several sets of poorly rigged vox speakers stir to life, thundering out out a rumbling static laced bass-line as the innocent bamboo forest was accosted by an agri-worlder booming about his infatuation with his goliath truck. Bulgraff merely pales as he rears back a boot, kicking the back of Droog’ seat, raising his voice about the thunder of the music and the howl of the engine.

“Damn it Trooper, You cut that off, we are in unknown territory. If your lookin’ to get yourself killed by an anti-armor team lying in waiting for us, your on the right path!”

Droog was far too busy singing along aloud to the booming songs catchy beat to really notice the chastisement from the Commissar, his hands slapping along the wheel as he brings the squat form of the Ridgerunner screaming over a slight knoll, as he does the squat scout vehicle leaps airward, before crashing down in a spray of mud and water as it came down and tore through a creek.

He frowns curtly, as the armored window becomes smattered with mud, idly toggling a pair of servo-limbs to scrape the mud and debris from the window, only to spy blurs of white and hues of color that contrast the unending sea of bamboo shoots as it appears their Ridgerunner blasted into a tiny clearing of sorts.

Droog narrowed his gaze, spying these inhumanly fast forms as they fled before the Ridgerunner, humanoid certainly, but what they were or up too was left unclear. The more pressing matter were the racing forms of energy bolts, danmaku that streaked in from all sides around the vehicle, peppering it's permasteel hull with carbon scoring and pockmarks marred by melted alloy. Droog throws the wheel, hard right as the groaning vehicle ponderously moves to course correct, only for an explosive release of air to echo in the newly made clearing. The front right wheel had imploded due to the focused fire of several dozen danmaku bolts, causing the squat vehicle to roll fully over, nosing down into the mud in a shower of debris and twisted components.

The battered form of the Ridgerunner comes to a groaning rest a few meters away from the embankment it leapt, it's front wheel gone and suspension battered, as the crew inside shifted about in a daze. Bulgraff took the worst of it, but the faint shimmering that encompassed his form betrayed the conversion field at work that had absorbed the worst of the damage. He’d sit upright, barking an order to the other two as he looks around and recovers his peaked-cap, double checking the presence of his power sabre and plasma pistol.

“I damn well told you there was gonna be an ambush, alright who’s not dead?”

Pikes was laying in a crumpled heap, working to untangle himself from the webbing that had the Troopers lasguns were bound within, his face had a few nicks from the shattered cup he’d been pouring the recaf into, but otherwise seemed to be in a daze.

Droog on the other-hand had been thrown against the steering column, his flak armor taking the worse of the blow, but it mauled the controls, leaving him wiping a few flicks of blood from his face, mumbling to himself audibly as he peers out of the mud-caked window through the various cracks and chips out of the armored viewport.

“Awww Commissar it's all no good, she’s no good! This poor girl ain’t gonna hunt no more. Commissar! I see things moving out there, they are coming towards the Runner.”

As if on cue, the dull sound of impact echo on the roof of the Ridgerunners cab, several other sounds of movement as the sputtering vox speakers are silenced one after another on the vehicles outer hull. Bulgraff moves to unholster his plasma pistol, watching the half-closed hatch over him warily, as he lowers his voice.

“Stow it Droog. Pikes, get the lasguns sorted out from their webbing, we are gonna shoot our way out of here and head east…” He pauses and pulls up his chronometer “... If we follow the trail we tore through the stalks we can at least back-track to the Sky-talon’s crash site, once there we rig up the vox-set and try and call for extraction.”

Droog had managed to unlatch himself from the crash harness, standing up as the shatter-proof glass before him cracks and breaks apart into heavy chunks that flew into the cabin. Under the faint light of the bright moon overhead, fleet and nimble forms have clambered atop the hood of the Ridgerunner. One after the other two arms reach within the cabin, either of them clasping hold of Droog’s flak collar. He stares down in muted horror as the seemingly slight human hands start to bodily haul him out through the broken window.

Droog screams in terror as he tries to take hold of the broken and bent steering wheel, yet despite being a full grown man, he is bodily hauled from the wreck like a ragdoll, his kicking flakboots the last thing Bulgraff sees before he is taken from the damaged Ridgerunner. Dozens of shapes moving just beyond the window in a living sea, as the form of Droog vanishes among the crowd. This prompts Bulgraff to launch himself towards Pikes, who was still fighting to get the lasguns loose from the webbing it had become wound up in. With a flick of his wrist, he draws his knife and starts to saw on the dense webbing.

The commander’s hatch is thrown open as the moonlight fills the tank, several lithe and slight forms drop down into the Ridgerunners interior, humanoid in form they scan the inside and zero in on Bulgraff and Pikes. Two of them leap forward, tackling the old Commissar from behind, as they work to bind his arms up with their own inhumanly strong grasp and muscles. Their slight stature belied a terrifying strength as the hauled him away from Pikes, several more of their kindred leaping forward to clamber atop the Trooper, wooden batons wailing upon the Trooper who eventually gave up his fight, collapsing on the ground in a ball as they kicked and beat him.

Bulgraf fought like a man possessed, thrashing and backing himself into the wall several times harshly as he tries to shake off his captors, his hands being bound by their own as they tried and eventually succeeded in knocking the plasma pistol from his hand. He snarls and manages with a slam of his body into the two smaller forms wrapped around his arms and back, to weaken the grip of one of his attackers. His right arm comes across his chest and reaches behind him, aiming to ensnare anything of his attacker. His hands find purchase upon soft fur covered flesh, he’d harshly yank, only to get pained squeal as their grip weakens. With all the effort he could muster, he hauls the figure free from his back by their ears, tossing them away from him.

As the attacker passes by, he gains the first glimpse of his foes, human, almost entirely human despite being somewhat smaller in height and scale. The figure was a male on the smaller side, the only thing striking Bulgraff as estrange were the pair of long floppy rabbit ears that hung from either side of the lads head. The rabbit strikes the wall and crumples in a dazed state.

Wasting no time, the Commissar stares upward at the open hatch, as more shadows loom over it. He leaps upward, his free hand taking hold of the hatch’s edge, before he hauls himself and another of the rabbits that had locked itself to his back pinning his left arm, fully out of the Ridgerunners cupola. As he emerges into the moonlight he feels a terrifyingly harsh series of impacts driving into his hand and back as his unwelcome passenger finally releases him. The rabbits that stood around the hatch each bore sizeable mallets of estranged design, each of them swinging in an alternating pattern, aiming to drive him back down into the hatch. He snarls and reaches down with his freed hand as his body is wreathed in a bright and shimmering golden light from the conversion field, the worst of the impacts are absorbed, as he fights to draw his power sword.

However, a violent tug on his belt, revealed the trio of rabbits, having beaten the tar out of Pikes had come over and now locked his blade in its scabbard with their hands, whilst some pulled him down further into the cabin of the Ridgerunner. The Commissar raged, and kicked out at his attackers, but their strength was terrifying, inhuman despite their size. Truly he knew if he could just reach his plasma pistol, he could drive them off, yet not chance was given as the Commissar is battered and hauled down into the Ridgerunner, whilst the swarm of rabbits clamber atop him, striking him with hammers and wooden batons till his conversion field is simple overwhelmed by the unending tide of cotton tailed foes that soon bind him in the heavy webbing from the Ridgerunner, hauling him out like a prize as the sizeable force of rabbits present cheer and celebrate their victory over the invaders, whilst hauling their ensnared forms deeper into the Forest of the Lost.

Bulgraff merely stares off blankly into the stars, resigned to be devoured or tortured for information it would more than likely seem. In the back of his mind he could only think.

Today was a very bad day.