The Cycle of Fate: The Crash

Wait.

That was something he could do. Stillness was far easier to achieve, especially compared to the wretchedness of escaping the sizzling hulk of metal that had minutes prior been a transport.

Observe.

That was another thing he could do, something he had honed in his profession. He tried to take everything in: the cackle of flames and its associated stench were hard to ignore, but his training allowed him to do just that and focus on other aspects of his surrounding.

Analyze.

Obviously some kind of a sparse forest with large, thick trees on a slightly rolling valley. He thought that he could even make out some kind of reptile in some of the trees, although the wind and rain made him slightly less than certain. Although the smoldering promethium masked practically everything else, with his face close to the dirt he could take in the earthy perfume, and noted the slight differences that set it apart from other, similar worlds he had visited. The scans had indicated that the atmosphere and environment were not dangerous, and he had taken the usual cocktail of preventative medicines, but it was always reassuring to breath the air and not feel his lungs constrict, as had happened on Pneunym IV back--

Concentrate.

Slipping like that was unlike him. Perhaps the crash had disoriented him more than he had realized. He began to take a mental stockpile of himself. His weapons and equipment were miraculously intact; that had been the first thing he checked. Likewise he didn't sense any broken bones or ruptured organs, and his bio-signatures seemed to confirm this. Bruises and cuts everywhere, naturally, but he was long since past noticing or caring about such trivial wounds. After all, compared to the pain that cursed xenotech blade Inquisitor Bianchi had shoved up his--

Concentrate!

Now he was truly worried. This was entirely unlike him, to get so distracted in an emergency. He was supposed to be calm, supposed to be rational, supposed to be an observer, and one cannot truly observe when one's inner eye is someplace else entirely.

Focus.

That's what he needed to do. He drew his pistol and quickly checked it over before arming it, and likewise flexed his glove and was pleased to see it bend smoothly. He rechecked his surroundings, and was pleased to note that his survival instincts seemed to have functioned correctly despite the crash, as he was situated in the ideal viewpoint to observe his surroundings. He tested his mic again, but either his vox was completely broken or his allies were not currently in a condition to respond. Both thoughts were troubling.

Wait.

He pulled off his cloak to ensure the fires had not damaged it, and was satisfied to see that the cameleoline was undamaged. He flung the smooth, water-like material over himself as he laid back down, and felt it naturally flow to cover and conceal him. Unfortunately, the rest of his equipment would require a tech-priest to determine whether it still functioned; perhaps the one known as Ceros would deign to inspect the pieces. Something was missing, though, although he couldn't quite--

React.

The sudden movement would have made a less-experienced man jump, but he was trained in concealment by some of the best his ordo had to offer. Instead, he flicked only his eyes over to observe whatever had suddenly appeared, and only as he was pleasantly surprised to see his loyal familiar flapping towards him did he realize what had been missing. The crash had been fortunate indeed, and Kwoth quietly settled besides him and then held perfectly still. Some of the others questioned his choice of the psyber-raven, fearing it might prove too much of a conspicuous characteristic, but if they had seen how invaluable the little creature had been in coordinating the action that had resulted in such a decisive diplomatic victory over the Uwanäri they undoubtably would--

Concentrate!


His familiar flared its wings in response to the sudden surge of emotion, but he managed to eventually quell the feelings, although it was swiftly replaced with the unbearable weight of an emotion he rarely felt: uncertainty. The planning had not even considered such a catastrophe so early into the mission, and he never would have imagined being so completely cut off from the team. What the Marines would do in such a situation was unclear to him; his dealings with the Astartes prior to this endeavor had been marginal.

Observe.

With nothing else to do, he reverted to his base state. The fierce storm that had brought down the impressive bulk of the Stormraven seemed to be dying down and he noticed tendrils of smoke seemed to be rising from the wreckage. He felt a faint glimmer of his usual confidence begin to reassert itself; with such an obvious trail, he was certain the Astartes would be able to locate the crash site, and then things would be much clearer.

Analyze.

Of course, that meant anything else with even a remote amount of intelligence would also likely be honing in on his location. Although the survey stated no intelligent lifeforms had been detected, the storm that had created this predicament seemed thoroughly unnatural, and he was utterly certain that this remainder of this mission would be anything like he had expected. He would just have to wait, and hope his team appeared before anything else.

Wait.

That was something he could do.