"Should we kill them?" Dovell gestured with his hand and waited for the veteran's orders.
"No need. Keep moving."
The two left behind the impoverished Orks engrossed in chipping armor plates out of concrete blocks and continued following the directions on the communicator.
"This is... horrific." Dovell looked at the enormous architectural graveyard before him, formed from the collapsed towers of various hives. There was no sign that anyone living could possibly be inside.
The black openings, propped up by interlocking building rubble, were so small that only skinny children could slip in and out swiftly. Adult-sized soldiers needed a bit of skill and strength just to squeeze through.
"Thankfully, this opening isn't too small." He straightened his filthy uniform and touched the respirator he had not taken off in a long time, finding no cracks.
He did not want to strip a corpse again. Once had been more than enough.
It was dim inside, with only slivers of sunlight filtering through layer upon layer of rubble to illuminate the surroundings.
After a full half hour of travel and crawling through several pipes, Dovell and the veteran finally saw the last fortress still in contact, as indicated on the communicator.
As if detecting their presence, the Tarantula turrets atop the fortress immediately trained their infrared targeting beams on the two of them. After a brief identification check, the turrets turned in other directions.
Whew!
He let out a relieved breath. It seemed the turrets' machine spirits were still awake and had not developed the terrible habit of being unable to tell friend from foe.
"Which unit are you from?"
"Hades Hive Temporary Combat Regiment 114, stationed at Fortress 514 on Cross Street. Only the two of us are left." The veteran spoke. To be honest, Dovell had nearly forgotten what