A slightly smaller Mess

"I know."

"Well, either way you slice it this ain't the place for that kind of attitude."

"I do not follow"

"There'll be no do or die bayonet charges. No selling your life for emperor and imperium."

"Can't anyway. No bayonet lug on the hotshot"

"My point remains."

"Worry not. I lack the numbers to make such tactics viable."

"Good. We don't waste people here."

"You are an officer?"

"I was one. Technically i hold no rank whatsoever."

"Technically I am still a private"

"Technically is an interesting word. What rank would you say you are?"

"Grenadier. We hold the same rank as when chosen, but have seniority over the rank and file."

"Well we've got noone for you to lead, so i suppose it's not particularly relevant"

"I suppose so"

Mac limps into the room proper, leaning heavily on the crutch under his right arm. He walks to the line of lockers, and slots a key into one. To open the door, he has to put weight on his right leg, grimacing as he does so. "Still. Important to know who's in charge around."

He nods quietly

He takes out a shotgun from the locker. An old battered thing. Pump action, with camo tape wrapped around the wooden stock, quick loading loops affixed on every available surface, and the barrel cut short. He holds it by the foregrip, feeling the weight of it.

"Never been a fan of pump actions"

"I like the reliability."

"Fire rate too slow."

"Don't miss."

"Shotguns rarely do"

Mac limps to the bench, and sits down, leaning the crutch against it, and freeing up his right hand. He slowly cocks the mechanism, so the shell falls out into his palm. It has a red casing, and a band of black duct tape around it. "And when you're shooting these, they rarely fail to kill something"

the kreiger pauses, before grabbing a Lucius Pattern Mark 22c shotgun, ejecting a Carcass shell from the revolver like cylinder

"I think i'd rather take my chances with a plasmagun than one of those."

"You just have to know what you're doing"

"How do you stop it amputating your arms?"

"Look after your ammunition, watch for overheats. Similar to a plasma gun."

He slaps the side of his shotgun "Every time i pull this babies trigger she fires. No matter how much crap is in the barrel. That's the way i like it."

he shrugs
"I don't use this anyway"

He slips the shell back into the tube with a quick motion of his thumb. "Reckon that's safer for everyone involved."

"...what is your name?"

"Mac." He fully racks the gun, chambering a new shell.

He nods silently

He leans the shotgun against the bench, and reaches for his crutch, but stops short, hand hovering an inch away. Instead, he presses the heel of his right hand to the bench, pushing himself to his feet. Putting his weight gingerly on his right leg, and grimacing as he does so, he walks to the locker, and retrieves a box of shells.

"How long have you served?"

"A long time." He limps back to the bench, and sits down, the box of shells held between his legs. He opens the box, and begins picking shells out, and pushing them into the quick load loops.

"Likewise..."

"It's... got to be twenty two years i reckon." He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"you've done well to survive"

"Lot of luck, and good comrades."

"Luck is... always a part of it I suppose"

"Had a grenade fall into a slit trench i was in once..." He looks thoughtfully into space "I jumped on it... *he looks at Wilhelm.* Was a dud."

"....Assault on Königgrätz hive, 4 years ago. Heavy stubber round passes through my helmet. Creases my skull. Knocks me unconscious."

"Hmn... Emperor protects."

"So it seems"

"I reckon he's got plans for us lot."

"So he does for all we sons of Kreig and Jurten"

"I mean for us lot 'specially. All the waifs and strays the 'quisitor's picked up."

"You do seem an...unusual group"