The heavy airtight door slid silently shut behind them, sealing off the solemn atmosphere of the Dreadnought slumber sanctuary.
Hercules followed Company Captain Menoetius through several dim reserve passageways lit only by emergency indicator lights, finally entering a small compartment with a clear purpose.
It was a standard squad-level tactical briefing room, its furnishings so sparse they bordered on austere: a square alloy table anchored to the deck, fixed metal stools around it, and a star chart Dataslate mounted on the wall, currently on standby.
Most of the light came from a cold white beam projected from the center of the table, stretching their shadows across the chilly metal walls.
Company Captain Menoetius stopped beside the table and turned. His battle-worn face, etched with resolute lines, bore no unnecessary expression, like polished granite.
He did not speak immediately. Instead, his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, calmly scrutinized Hercules from head to toe as he stood before him.
Hercules could clearly feel the weight of the company captain's gaze.
It seemed capable of piercing the ceramite shell of his Power Armour and reaching into the depths of his soul, assessing every inch of muscle, every measure of potential, and all the strength contained within that massive body.
The battle they had just fought, Brother Skranchi's dormancy, and the company captain's unusual silence filled the cramped compartment with an uncommon tension.
A few seconds passed in silence, as long as a century.
At last, Menoetius broke the silence. His voice was quiet, yet as clear and steady as a hammer striking an anvil, every word carrying unquestionable force:
"Hercules."
"Company Captain." Hercules straightened, instinctively assuming a more precise stance at attention.
Menoetius kept his gaze fixed on him and spoke slowly, asking a question that seemed simple yet carried immense weight:
"Are