Rat-tat! Rat-tat! Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!!
The sharp reports of bolter fire erupted through the dark corridor, rapid and relentless.
Charlie held a bolter in one hand, its muzzle spitting brief tongues of flame with every shot, tearing apart the figures surging down the corridor one after another.
His other hand gripped a chainsword, its serrated blade biting into a Mechanical Guard's chest. With the engine roaring, it churned that body of metal and flesh into a twisted mass of scrap.
He kicked the motionless Mechanical Guard away, wrenching his chainsword free of the wreckage and shaking the debris from its blade.
Corpses already lay piled at his feet.
Shattered components of Mechanical Guards, the mechanical bodies of Iron Hands Legion warriors, severed limbs and broken armour belonging to him and his brothers.
Dark red blood mingled with black machine oil, pooling into a thin, sticky sludge on the metal floor. Every step made a sickening squelch.
Bullet scars and black scorch marks covered the corridor walls. Lights flickered along damaged circuits, casting faint, twisted shadows from the fallen bodies.
"How much..."
Charlie did not turn. His voice had grown hoarse from the long battle, but its cadence remained steady.
His gaze swept across the far end of the corridor, where dozens more figures were emerging from the smoke, armed and advancing with heavy, determined steps.
He gritted his teeth and asked quietly over the communications channel, "How much longer..."
Charlie turned to look at the tense-faced Nur.
Nur crouched before the Flesh Control Console, sweat trickling from his forehead down his cheeks as his fingers raced across the Tactical Terminal's screen.
His eyes remained fixed on the streams of scrolling data.
At the question, he briefly raised his head, his eyes equally filled with exhaustion and agitation.
"Almost... give me a little