It was raining, heavily, the target barely visible just a hundred meters away as Macharius readied his shot at the traitorous scum passing the vents leading into the side of the bunker. It had been less than a day since he’d made his escape from one just like it, scavenging whatever he could from the traitors he took out on his way through, swimming through canals filled with scrap and gore deposited by the fighting. He was thankful for the cleansing rain – tears of The Emperor his father had called it- and the simple rifle he had stolen from an Armory during his escape – his own personal slice of The Emperors judgement. He took the shot, a short blast of sound and muzzle flash lost in the downpour and mist, and began his journey into the bunker. He had planned to return to his squad, scarred and bloody after his internment but details stolen from the desk of an ill-fated officer-slain over the course of his escape – spoke of a fellow loyal guardsman, his comrade if the report was accurate, so he made a detour determined to leave no guardsman behind. Hours later, after long stretches of crawling through cramped vent shafts and careful forays into the traitor ridden compound he approached the room containing his target, a crude torture chamber crafted from a defiled medical station. As he made his approach the smells of blood and death were pulled passed him, the disgust and horror fuelling his rage at the treacherous soldiers infesting the surrounding halls. He emerged from the grating at the edge of the room taking a second to stretch and breath clear of the confined and near toxic “hallways” he had been travelling, looking over on the slabs among the multitude of discarded bodies he saw his goal, laying on the slab, scarred and bruised. Macharius rushed to their side rousing them and removing their bonds, quick words of thanks, prayer to the Emperor, and detailing plans as the two readied themselves for escape. The next hour went quick dashing through the compound, quick diversions into hidden corners and striking any traitors in the way, no care taken to hide their trail. As they arrived at the pier connected to the canal running under the bunker, Macharius taking the driver’s seat on the small boat that would ferry the pair out of enemy territory. The pair rode out of the tunnels and away from the bunker, the rain having mostly cleared while the rescue continued. Words of advice came from the comrade, sensing Macharius’s lingering tension “count to four, inhale. count to four, exha-” Bang! And suddenly the peace was broken, a lucky shot from behind and they were dead. Five more shots were fired at Macharius as he stopped the boat and turned to aim at the traitors before he took his shot and avenged the fallen. He returned to his squad, left with only a body and last words of advice to remember Florentine Symonne by.