A slightly smaller Mess

"Outside the safe limit."

Lyanna: And if this place falls before that?

"I have... Contingencies."

Lyanna: Contingencies like what?

He raises a hand to scratch the scruffy growth of stubble on his cheek. "Ways to wipe out a city. Fallback locations. That sort of thing."

Lyanna: best be ready then. Cause you're gonna need it damn soon. *turns to walk away*

He mutters as he turns away. "Good chat."

*in the background, he suddenly hears air raid sirens blaring*

He turns back to the room. "Stay down here." Then seals the door behind him.

upon going outside, he sees a frankly gigantic fleet of aircraft incoming towards the city. It takes mere moments to assess their threat capability based on their formation. Bombers and gunships coming in for an attack run, with fighter escorts. Presumably at least. he'll need a closer look to be sure, they're too far out to pinpoint the types of craft.

Tracer begins to stitch the sky with fire, anti aircraft guns dug into open spaces, set up upon rooftops. Each the centre, or a part of a larger defensive position. laurence opens a vox channel to the PDF command. +Load the guns, prepare for a saturation barrage, high explosive, and incendiary.+

the planes close in. Definitely an attack run, no sign of any troop carriers.

The guns continue to roar, ammunition economy clearly not on the list of priorities

laurence finally notices something odd about the craft. there have to be a dozen different types of aircraft in the attack wing, and he has not seen a single one before.

+Notify me when an aircraft lands in one piece. I want prisoners+

the craft dive headlong into the storm of fire, gunships unleashing lasers shells bullets and missiles into the streets below, bombers dropping deadly payloads in steep dives, although dozens fall from the sky

Laurence sets off towards the city, sidonai, his ever present shadow.

*the sound of battle rages on above the city. bombs fall, missiles fly, guns roar. Fighters swirl overhead, presumably waiting to pounce on any interceptors that attempt to engage them. *

No interceptors come. The meager airforce seemingly being conserved.

the attack rages on, regardless of aerial casualties. an astute observer will note, the attackers do not seem to have a target, merely attacking anything and everything they can, save a few who seem to target the AA guns. there also appears to be no second wave.

the city is defended ferociously by its inhabitants, but no support is sent to it.

all in all, the attack lasts about two hours. after that, the remaining craft withdraw.

Laurence questions the officers again, if any craft landed in tact

negative. Some wreckages found, no intact pilots.

+Widen your searches, report anything... Anything that seems even slightly odd. And Tally off the enemy craft, incoming against lost and retreated. They may have landed a small force in the tumult.+

*the tally comes in. Nothing seems odd, save the fact the attack could have never been any kind of success*

Laurence stares out into the sea, a long empty glass in his hand. "What could they be up to.."

*crickets*

"Hmn. Well. Worth a shot."

*there is silence for a while*

Sidonai, stood as ever at laurences shoulder, draws a single claw along the curve of her cheek in thought. A bead of glittering golden ichor forms behind the talon, rolling down her face like a tear.

"I had thought this legion a direct enemy?"

Laurence shrugs in response. "As had i."

"All clear on the line sir. None of the flyers came down in our sector." The flakboard walls of the dugout muffle the sounds of rain outside, and the lume globe on the low table illuminates the small room, its puddle of light enough to read the maps laid out.
"Thankyou, Lieutenant." The Lieutenant is a young man, from a good family, but too young for his rank. "Tell me, what do you make of this?" The old man is a Major, retired from the guard with honours, after he lost an arm, his sleeve buttoned below the stump, he'd refused an augmetic. He gestures at the map. "Our defenses, sir."
"But what do you make of it?" The Major presses his young charge, leaning forward.
"A good mix of hard bunkers, with overlapping fields of fire, and trenches to connect, three lines deep. we've burned the hedgerows back... We have Lascannon along the roads. Yes, i think it sufficient."
The major nods along. "Of course, good lad. Get some sleep, Lieutenant."
"Sir." The man pushes through the plastek curtains at the dugouts entrance, out into the slicing rain, pulling his coat's coallar up. Privately, the major turns back to the map, hands splayed. "And yet i wonder... Last we fought astartes... we had our own..." He chuckles to himself "Titans too."

*there is a distant rumbling*

The Major pulls a stormcoat on, and pushes through the plastek curtain. "Sullivan! What do you see?"
A young man, of about 20, stood on the parapet squints through the rain. "Can't see much sir! This damned rain! You hear that too sir?"
"I did..."

there's no sign of anything, but the rumbling continues. getting closer

"Get a shout up lad. I want lads up and with rifles."
"Sir!" Sullivan cups his hands around his mouth and shouts "UP AND READY BOYS!"

the rumbling's getting ever closer. motion detector's going wild.

Men line the trench walls, lasguns are leveled. The Major draws a plasma pistol from a holster on his thigh. "HOLD FAST MEN!"

the rumbling soon comes directly beneath them, for a few, worrying minutes, before simply fading away. Nothing happens.

Major: "Lewis. get on the vox caster, call it in."

"Sir."

*it quickly becomes evident vox is being jammed*

Major: "Pass it down the line, dont hold the trenches. Everyone in hard cover... And i want a volunteer to run this to command."

Sullivan, the man who was on watch outside the majors dugout, salutes. "I'll go sir."

"Good man."

suddenly, there is a flash in the distance...and a moment later, the bunker is hit by something. Whatever it is, it instantly tears the bunker asunder, before detonating, engulfing it, all inside, and a lot of the area around it in flames and shrapnel
as it detonates, while all eyes and ears are on the explosion, suddenly all hell breaks loose. Dozens of soldiers, seemingly emerging from nothingness mere meters, sometimes feet from the trenches, rise to their feet and charge, some throwing grenades into the trenches, others simply diving in guns blazing, bayonets fixed, chainswords revving

A ragged fusillade of lasfire meets them. Sullivan turns to the major. "GO MAN!" He shouts, bushy mustache quivering on his lip, Sullivan sets off running down the trench, hand on his helmet, lasgun in his other hand.

The major steps up onto the step, levels his pistol and roars, in the manor only old soldiers can muster. "DUTY TO THE EMPEROR MEN!"

the las-volley does almost little against the armoured attackers, and already all along the line they're in the trench. the soldiers are methodical and brutal, each able to put down several PDF soldiers single handedly, scything them down with fully automatic las weapons, blowing them up with grenades, plasting them apart with point blank shotgun blasts, skewering them with bayonets or simply clubbing them with their rifle butts. The terrifying visage of the iron mask that is the face of every helmet of the attackers doesn't exactly help on the morale front.

Infront of Sullivan, a large figure leaps into the trench, slamming down infront of him with a thud. From head to toe they were thick, gunmetal armour, a power pack strapped to their back under the cameleoline. in their hands they hold some kind of large, underslung las weapon, six barrels spinning like an assault cannon, connected to the power pack by a thick cable. Their face, like the others, is covered by the iron mask of the IV legion. He can hear the las weapon powering up, and knows he has mere nanoseconds to react.

Sulivan lunges with his lasgun's bayonet, hoping in vain to slice the weapons power cable.

Outside the shattered remains of the bunker, the first of the attackers is felled, by a punch from the platoon commissar, a cadet in truth, but a formidable fighter despite it. Having escaped the falling bunker, unscathed but for cosmetic damage to his stormcoat. The crackling field of his power fist made short work of the first attacker he came across.

he acts too slowly, as a powerful las bolt hits him square in the chest, and burning right out the back

upon identifying the comissar, several of the attackers step back, as one, a red stripe on his helm and pauldrons, steps forwards. He holds a hot shot las rifle, albeit one clearly very customised. Wooden stock and main body, no scope, bayonet crackling with a power field around it. He's clearly singled out the comissar as 'his kill'

The boy falls to the duckboards, his blood slowly mixed into the mud by the driving rain.

The Commissar Cadet raises a bolt pistol, a curse upon his lips. "HERETIC!"

the figure now, inexorably, strides further along the trench, his gun scything down soldier after soldier

the red striped soldier, with surprising speed, raises the gun and fires. The las-bolt hits the comissar square in the pistol hand, burning right through his fingers

He comes to the major, rallying men around him, ordering them into disciplined volley fire from the support trench. Four of the attackers lie dead having tried to rush the breach.

He gasps in pain, dropping the pistol and clutching the hand to his chest. He glares at the soldier with fire in his eyes. Flicking his gaze to him, and the men behind him, wondering why they haven't simply gunned him down. The corpse of their compatriot at his feet behind him, chest caved in by the power fist.

He raises his gun to the major and pulls the trigger

The red striped figure, while the comissar is distracted glancing around, charges. His power bayonet stabs right into the comissar's power fist arm, stabbing straight through before pinning it to the trench wall behind him. He then pulls out his sidearm and points it at the comissar's forehead, the barrel touching his head.