Akkad drew his Combat Knife and scooped up two unbattered shells. He chopped them squarely, smoothly and scooped some teeth, claws, some soot from weapon marks and some small fragments of a lasgun. He stooped and took the Imperial Eagle from the Commissar's headdress. He stepped closer, head and shoulders above the female naval rating.
"Do not move." He advised, although not unkindly. With a short flick, the monomolecular edge snipped a short lock of hair from the blonde fringe that peaked out from beneath her helmet. He caught it as it fluttered in the light, something pretty in the charnel house they had made together. He looked at her for a long time, his emerald lenses a reflection of her own. Piercing, strong, defiant. He placed the hair into the makeshift receptacle and put the brass totem away in a pouch.
His armour was unblemished, apart from a few scrapes and slaps of wet, dead meat. He turned away and lifted the head of a Gaunt that bore the marks of furious las-fire and flayed it quickly chopping and threw it to her. With quaking fingers and not so fast hands now shock was setting in, she caught it clumsily, but gripped it to her chest like it was important - which it was. On any other day maybe they would have laughed together, on any other day.
The Emperor had smiled on her, that was enough. Vaidan's ear is going to be bent in half...he thought before turning back to the splayed Tyranid warrior genotype. He doffed his helm, securing it to his belt, with the faint clink of the mag-locking plates as the metal met. He looked at Varvost with a half-smile.
"Good Kill." He shared glances with all of them, settling on Vaidan last.
"Today, you become Lugal. Her life is ours - she must now come with us." His face was not open, not warm or encouraging, but a ferocity of pride burned in his eyes that, were it a laser, would have sliced through plate. It was terrible with the expectation that they would not let him down, rewarding in good measure from the keen admiration of a veteran, whose armour had been steeped in fields of blood and broken foes - stained with the dust and wind of a thousand battles - followed by a wake of howling ghosts, pleading for mercy that was not shown.
Then, taking his knife in his right hand, he plunged it deeply into the skull of the xenos beast at his feet, hewing the bony rigid plate open. He scooped out a handful of strange, sickly-grey organic matter, which was a large gobbet even for an Astartes and, turning from them lest they see him, strode away into the darkness of the corridor. He pushed the flesh into his mouth, concentrating.
He continued walking, the soft thudding footfall of his sabatons across the deck plate masking his chewing. Memories that were not his came as he knew they would. He would know more of these aliens and the Emperor had given him the means. Follow your gut...he heard Ichoma say. So long ago - on any other day they would have laughed...