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Njal looked at Tambo, "Well, not much lives outside on the ice. All the water and life is below it. No one can survive on the surface for more than a few hours before you freeze your junk off."

"No, we live inside huge drill rig platforms that dig through the ice and bring up the water of life. Everything revolves around that. Hydroponics and trading the water keeps us fed for the most part."

Njal then settles in low at a table, cupping his beer in his hand, "Now gather around kiddies and I will tell you all a little war story...." With that, he launches into the tale of the super-heavy. Occasionally, he kicks it off to one of his comrades to fill in the details, before turning the spotlight back to his own story.

Simond stops and looks up at the two Brontians with their knives. They were both a bit more than a head taller than him.
He took a breath in.
He was already limping, one arm couldn't really be relied on. He had that dance with the lovely Sergeant Wyona and they didn't look like the kind to take any of what they called 'grox gak'. And of course they had those knives.
He decided he'd have to do something he'd regret.

He gives them both a smile and lifts his chin. 'You boys ever see what happens when a melta lance hits a bandolier of grenades?'
He gestures to the bandages and dressings.
'Damn near killed myself to be honest. Wasn't too much left of the ork but its head.

There wasn't any recovering anything from the tank I lanced either.' He adds with a sly grin. Of course he'd not say anything about the size of the tank, they would learn, and he didn't want to give them more reason to disbelieve him.

'Now lads, if your curiosity is sated, could you step asside and allow me to put some music on before my dancing partner gets impatient.'

Speaking to Tambo: "Yeah being a Death World definitely makes life interesting around here. Those hell cats were something else weren't they? But all that promethium is going to change things a lot once we beat the orks back. Hell, maybe they'll even build a proper hive someday."

Teodore joins Njal at the table nodding oddly at the Death Korp man without a mask. "They can breathe our atmosphere and not die?" He mutters to himself in wonder. He notices the confrontation at the juke box but decides to keep quiet for now. He does comment quietly though. "I sure hope Sarge watered down the official report on that last mission. If the brass thinks we're some kind of miracle squad, we're going to get sent on a real suicide mission. Not to mention....the usual nonsense that fame brings.”

He sighs reluctantly. "You guys really need to tamp down on the boasting. I mean seriously...we are entitled to an easy assignment after that last mission."

He glances back to the jukebox to see if a fight breaks out.

Njal slaps the Skyrnne on the back, "Hold your ice Teodore! If you take boasting away from a guardsman, all he has left is a handful of snow.

Son of Krieg, join us!" The ice worlder gestures expressively for the man to sit at the table too.

Tambo seems fascinated from Njals description of his homeworld that is so much different from his own. "I would love to see that one day... even if I would most likely freeze my toes off in the process."
As the St. Paulian gathers his audience, quite some guardsmen join him, especially the younger, inexperienced and still idealistic as well as some oldtimers who value a nice bit of boasting. Some other grizzled veterans that are right in between turn away a bit - be it out of lack of interest, envy or disbelief. But anyway, several people listen eagerly as Njal tells his tale.

Over at the jukebox, the two Brontians don't look to convinced or pleased about Simonds explanation, and make little impression of believing him. One of them looks over to the entry of the bar though, were one of the younger blackhats is posted to keep things civil and touches the arm of his comrad "Leave him, he's not worth it... not here..." and both grudgingly make way for Simond. He doesn't have the impression that both will ambush and stab him outside or such, but he most definitly hasn't made friends tonight. The music selection in the jukebox has lots of room for improvement, but in between some classical imperial marches, that seem to never get selected, there are some gems of more modern, local dancing music, that might serve his purpose.

Towards Teodore, who mentioned that he would prefer to transfer back to the PDF and stay on Skrynne, Wyona rubs her chin and answers "Me too... but I'm afraid that we can't count on that. Some soldiers will stay here and it would make the most sense if it where the locals, but we are in the administratum folders now and nothing more than little numbers there. So if the clerc in charge doesn't bother to think about it further, we could get shuffled to anywhere..."
Regarding his comment about the Kriegers ability to breath on Skrynne, M'Gele replies "Wouldn't count on it the other way around. From what I heard, Krieg is a radioactive wasteland. A wonder that anything survived there. But then again: if their world dying barely slowed them them down, the Imperiums enemies are in for a bad time!"

His other thought seem to bring the two Askaris to think though, as they hadn't seen it that way. "Hmm... damn, Teddy could be right. Would be nice to not be meat for the grinder for once and maybe even get some nice toys to play with. But one forlorn hope mission is enough for a lifetime. Any ideas what we might do about it?" the question is targeted at the whole group, but maybe mainly at Teodore, who seems to have put some more thought into that, then the others have before.

Teodore shrugged at Tambo's suggestion. "It's not like they ask for my opinion on anything. But if some Commissar started talking about using us for propaganda vids again, I'd let that Commissar know it was the best idea he's ever had. Of course, then again, it's not like I'd be disagreeing with a Commissar, even if his orders were all gakked up."

Teodore sighed at Sarge's mention of paperwork and not having control over anything. "Geez, it sounds like it would be easier to convince a Munitorium clerk that one of us was Killed in Action then to get transferred anywhere."

That thought got Teodore thinking a little more about whether that was a real possibility, the size of the bribe that would be involved, and the likelihood of getting caught and executed. He kept quiet about these thoughts though for the time being. He wasn't a coward and he wasn't desperate afterall...but having an "escape" plan sure sounded like a good idea if something really crazy happened.

Njal finished up his tale and leaned back smiling. Even if this place was too fething hot, at least he was alive!

He pointed to one of the grizzled veterans, "Your turn friend. I bet you have a tale to tell!"

As the story got going, he got up and joined his squad. He glanced around for Adamo and his fellow Brontian, but did not see them around. Perhaps they were off with the company of their own regiment?

"I for one wouldn't mind getting off this greenhouse. Go someplace with proper weather.

Tambo, is it as hot on Thoth?"

Njals question is answered with a smile from Tambo "It's even warmer. Hot and humid in the jungles, hotter and dry in the savannas and deserts further from the poles. But the animals and plants have a lot less fight in it than around here, so I would say it's a quite nice place to live. Maybe you get lucky and they carry us to one of the poles here, I heard they have icecaps that would feel like home for your lot."

The Veteran that Njal invited to tell one of his tales is not shy of boasting a bit himself, about some pretty grim figthing at one of the garrisons outposts a couple of miles away, which came down to lasguns and bajonets, when the expected supply of heavy ammunition blew up right in the supply docks. While everyone around seems to enjoy the story and gives the scarred Brontian the praise that is due for his exploits, you can hear a couple of mumblings about there being quite a lot of these "accidents" lately, that got the imperials into trouble. Nothing that would decide the war on Skrynne, but enough that the imperial war machine is funneling a lot more ressources into Skrynne than originally planned for.

On Teodores thought about how to get out of the hot water for a while, M'Gele scratches his chin and chips in "Or maybe we could somehow manage to attach ourself to some brass as kind of bodyguard or something. I don't know... some colonel who managed to not get shot for some decades in warzones seems to have a good habit of staying out of harms way. And would not send his bodyguards away, would he? A blackhat might be more dangerous, but on the other hand Commissar Cole already knows us, which is a good start... maybe?"
He doesn't sound too convinced of his plan, more thinking out loud.

Meanwhile the music comes on and Simond shuffles back towards his future dancing partner, while one or two of the other patrons also at least tap their feet or sway a little to the rhythm

Njal's ears perked up at the soldier's chatter. Accidents?

"Accidents? What kind of accidents? Do the rest of you have some stories?"

On his previous deployment he had been stomping in the faces of some farmer's who thought they didn't need to give their crops for the Emperor. They liked to play nice when you were standing and watching, but once you turned your back they were up to all kinds of antics.

As Njal inquires, the mood around him gets a bit mixed. While some of the soldiers around seem to agree with the veterans comments and have their own little suspicions, others just roll their eyes and murmur something about paranoia, people wearing tin foil hats or trying to cover up incompetence and bad luck with some kind of conspiracy story.

A St. Paulian corporal answers "Last week two of our flatbed trucks had an accident right in the tunnel leading towards southern artillery positions. They say the driver was drunk and drove right into the opposite lane, but I knew old Pjotr. The guy was a saint, never touched a glass, never even smoked. Tunnel was closed for hours." another soldier adds to her story "Heard from a friend they had some bad case of food poisoning last month down south. Lost half a platoon to some nasty bacteria. Sure it's a death world around here, but the PDF cooks have managed to not kill their troops pretty well for years...", "Anyone remembers the hangar fire on Imperial day? Nearly costed us two Valkyries..." "... or the Ork Commandos that killed the Brontian 5ths Colonel? They never found out how they managed to hack the digital locks to get into the command post..."
"By the emperor calm down, its a big planet and a war. gak happens! People frack up, machines break down, enemies get lucky. Happens all the time!" a disgruntled Askari comments on that.
"Quite a lot of bad luck recently though, don't you think?" the Ice world corporal who started it confronts him. Specifically looking at Njal and his new squad she adds "And regarding the big pile of crap we faced during our glorious landing here: Our Major threw in his weight and asked around a bit. He lost some good friends and thought he owed them to at least find out whats wrong. Turns out some trafo station blew up right that morning. That's why the automatic weapon emplacements that should have kept the landing ground clear did not work properly. And also... quite a lucky coincidence that the Greenskins knew exactly when, where and from what direction the shuttles would come, don't you think?"

... So it was something quite personal also for your lot.

Overall from this stories and others Njal hears the impression remains that the Askari had kind of a point: most of the stories could well be just bad luck, incompetence or the orks being more capable than they are usually given credit for. On the other hand these "accidents" seem to have become much more frequent since about two months ago, so before your arrival. And most of it where things that could be arranged by a couple of people that knew where to cut a cable, switch of some safeguard, shorten some circuits or "misplace" some invaluable item. Meanwhile it all seemed balanced just right to not outright scream sabotage.

Teodore takes a minute to think this all over. "If it is sabotage, I'm sure the Commissariat will route it out. But I don't think it's anything any of us can deal with. Not my job, not my problem."

He looks around. "What do you guys think? This worth bringing up with Commissar Cole? Personally, I'd be inclined to not say anything. He'd probably just accuse us of treachery and execute us on the spot."

"Ole Tambo taught me a rule. Avoid the Black Hats whenever possible. Ignoring that rule got me stuck with you lot!"

Njal gives a huge grin and slaps the ASkari on the back heartily.

"I bet the old bast... honorable Commissar is already sniffing this out for quite some time if there is any substance to that..." M'Gele argues, while Tambo scratches his chin "still pretty ugly business. Cause if it is sabotage it is likely one of our own guardsmen or someone really good at pretending to be one. Don't really think a civilian could pull it off to get to all these places. Just the situation to poison the atmosphere between the defenders. And for people to settle old grudges and snitch on scapegoats..."

Simond finishes his dance, gets a drink each for himself and the sergeant and rejoins his comrades, as he approaches he can hear them speaking in lower tones, concerning tones. He does consider continuing the celebration, but he decides, no he should see what the men he fought beside are concerned about.
He'd learnt to not disregard hidden dangers in the camp, you'd not go to dine by the emperor's table if you got unwittingly cut down in a mutiny or attempted coup.
'Bad business in the camp?' He asked as joined the group.

Teodore nods.

"Yeah that's what it sounds like. But I'm not sure what if anything we can do about it. We're soldiers, not enforcers or commissars or anything like that mate."

Njal scratched his beard, "Well, we just have to keep our goggles clear and watch our own kit. Then, we do what the Guard does best; follow orders?"

Njal shrugged and turned back to his drink. All this talk had taken some of the celebration out of the night.

While the talk about these "accidents" somewhat sour the mood for a while, you manage to still have a nice evening and celebrate your victory - or to be more precise your survival - to the best of your abilities. Simonds capabilities as a dancer even earns him the company of two other guardswomen and a surprisingly lightfooded Brontian heavy gunner along the night, while the others enjoy some more lighthearted stories and even join in some singing that could likely only be enjoined after you got slightly tipsy. Finally you too retire to your quarters, knowing that tomorrow you have a day of downtime only dedicated to get your kit in order, heal any injuries and get you mind back on track for normal guard duty. As you go to bed, Malakai and Adamo are still out there somewhere, likely partying with their regiment you suppose.

But as you wake up next morning and their cots are still empty, you start to suspect that something is awry. As Tambo an M'Gele put up a hot brew of recaff they procured from who knows where, Wyona leaves your compartment to make some calls and find out, where your Brontians might be. You settle around the crate that serves as impromptu table, break up some ration packs and try to enjoy them as best as you can. Todays flavor is one of your favorite "bland and crumbly"... There are worse ones. The aroma of recaff compensates that somewhat, as all of you get a healthy swig from the can. The two Askaris add some spices to theirs and offer to share whith whoever wants some, while they settle in too.

A while later, Wyona returns with a grave look on her face and sits down heavily on on of the chairs. Her look means bad news, that's for sure. "No wonder Malakai and Adame didn't return, they are in the clink." "What? Why?" M'Gele asks surprised. "Theft, destruction of Munitorum property... and murder." Wyona replies gravely and then continues.
"Yesterday evening someone picked the lock on the back door of the sickbay to get access to the medical cabinet. A whole bunch of narcotics and other medicines went missing. They also destroyed a cleaning servitor that got in the way and was about to sound an alarm. Looks like an unfortunate medicae assistant was working late on some paperwork and went looking were the noise came from, so they cut his throat and left him bleeding to death. The cuts were from Brontian knives." already up until here, that really did not sound good.
"An hour later, the Arbites and their cybermastifs found Malakai and Adamo in a shack some streets away, high to the brim on Obscura and with some of the drugs still on them. They also had blood on their knives. Damn idiots... They are up for execution one of the next days."

The silence that follows is pretty heavy and depressing. After a short while, you register though that Tambo seems very uncomfortable. A bit like he has something to say, but doesn't really want to. Finally he brings himself to comment "With all due respect sarge... but something smells really fishy here. I mean..." he hesitates a moment and continues sheepishly "... okay, lets say I knew that Malakai... sometimes needed a little something for the nerves. You know, just to keep his aim steady, keep the bad memories away. Come on, we all do, it's just that some of us are able to cope a different way." he looks around for signs of disapproval.
"And lets just say I know that he didn't use Obscura. And that he already had gotten a way to get his hands on what he needed to continue to do the good work of the emperor. Why by Terra would he do something that will likely earn him a bolt to the face, for stuff he neither needed nor wanted? Doesn't make sense, does it?" he asks around.

Simond:
Njal:
Teodore:

Njal frowned. Quite a blizzard just rolled in.

"Those two guys weren't too good with the Machine-spirits. How would they get through a Muni lockbox? They couldn't."

You couldn't tell a Arbite or a Black Hat they were wrong though. You needed proof or you could find yourself on the wrong end of the Regs.

''Can we even talk to them?''

Poncho asked, unfamiliar with all that process, after all, the Death Korps had few issues like those, and his time with the Catachans had been spent entirely on the field, not to mention they themselves had their own means to ensure their soldiers could avoid Commissariat justice.

"Good idea Poncho. This stinks like a thawing wooly Mamute.

What do you think Sarge, could we talk to them?"

Wyona thinks for some moments and replies "Hmm... I think I should be able to get to them... and maybe take one of you with me, but I guess everything we say will be monitored, so we should keep that in mind. Teodore might be able to have a word with the Medicae staff though, or even have a look around...
And regarding the locks: sounds like something one of the cogboys could make sense of, but they are usually not fond of leaving their toys just because some meatback asks them nicely. But maybe, just maybe, one of you can find Kraitus crawling around somewhere. He seemed a decent fellow and was really thankfull that we saved the refinery."

Teodore nods. "I'll do what I can."

[Will make investigation roll to coincide with what the other chars are doing]

Simond scratches his moustache, as he considers what his comrades had said. 'I can't believe it was them.' He bites his lip as his comrades turn their attention on him. 'You all saw those Brontians flashing their blades out at the slightest opportunity, how much care they fawned over their knives. Any of you ever see either of those Brontians ever have so much as a spec of grime on their knife blades?
Something rotten is festering here.'

"OK, then let's do it. We have little time to waste. Njal, I guess you are our best bet to have a look at the locks and try find a clue there. Maybe you can even get your hands on Kraitus with some kind of excuse - or the truth for that matter. Never really understood how the cogboys tick." Wyona mentions with a shrug. "Last time I saw him he was screwing around with the heat dispenser at the back of the mess hall.

Teodore, take one of the others with you to the sickbay and sniff around a bit. Maybe one of the other medicae heard something." looking around she nods towards Simond, who had taken a bit of a beating during your last fights "Simond, go with him. Poncho, you are with me. I guess you look the least suspicious to get join me on a little prisoner chat..." to herself Wyona also thinks that he might be the most likely to keep his mouth shut, as they will most likely be heavily monitored there.
"Any comments?"

"Yes ma'am," Njal nods, not bothering with a more formal salute. Hopefully they were all past that now.

He took his leave and started heading for the back of the mess hall, where Kraitus was last seen. Sure, he knew a few things about tech but no one cared what a guardsman had to say about it. It was better to get an expert opinion.

Teodore grins at Simond. "Right Simond, so all you need to do is start walking with a limp, and we can give yah some crutches to go with it."

"We'll go in there to try and requisition some pain medication for your injuries and ask around. Maybe something will turn up."

'Yes Sergeant.' He replied with a tip of his head.

Simond grins back to Teodore, "I can do just that." He says rather eagerly.
He gives a Teodore sly wink filled with the implication that he'd not begrudge a moment's company with the clinic's female orderlies, medicaes or assistants.
'You poke around, ask the questions you need. I'll limp.'

Behind the mess hall

Nothing looks particularly suspicious on Njals way through the garrison. Just the usual buzzing activity of an imperial guard supply-, housing- and training hub. And even though your little groups exploits have gained you some prominence around the guardsmen, not many of them really recognize any of you, unless directly facing you and remembering the pictscreen recordings from some weeks ago. For everyone else, Njal looks like just another St. Paulian struggling with the heat on the planet.

Reaching the mess hall there is at first no sign of Kraitus to be found, but moments before he admits defeat and considers asking around some more to find the Techpriest, Njal hears a familiar fizzling noise from the low roof of the building, barely making out some electric blue sparks hanging in the air. That might just be "Sparky", the not really well isolated Servitor of your former companion. Using a dumpster and a stack of crates, Njal manages to pull himself up to the roof and indeed finds the Techpriest there, going to town on an air conditioning unit, while Sparky fixes some new wiring to the roof with a staplegun and his usual singleminded determination to a given task. As he gets closer, the St. Paulian gets a slight breeze of refreshing cold air from the machine that still sputters a bit, as Kraitus fastens a bunch of nuts to keep the tubings in place. His tentacle like optical mechandrite snakes towards Njal, noticing his presence, but the Cogboy makes no effort in pausing his endavour. Good manored as he is, Njall waits some minutes, until finally Kraitus turns around, mustering him out of his more or less natural pair of eyes. With a mechanical sussuration in his voice he asks "Greetings meatba... guardsmen. State the purpose of your visit."



Sickbay

Teodore and his limping patient find their way towards the specific sick bay that was mentioned in the report. It is one far from the Brontian garrison building but close to where your lot crashed. In other words a bit weird place to brake in and steal stuff for your two comrades, as they might be recognized there, on the other hand the logical choice if someone from the Brontian regiment wanted to get something and not steal where they are treated themselves. So someone looking for a scapegoat might have naturally been looking for some Brontians to frame. But you are fully aware that when it comes to evidence to free Malakai and Adamo, that was pretty thin.
As Simond is obviously wounded and needing treatment and there is no specific reason to reject Teodore, you don't have any problems getting in. The front door is open and just guarded by an Arbites, but you can see the digitial lock on it as well notice that the doors look quite solid. Inside you find a large waiting room, filled with lots and lots of soldiers with minor injuries waiting for treatment with the silent, inexhaustible patience of people who know that every hour spend here is an hour not on the frontline. This is in quite a contrast to the emergency operational theater Teodore worked in that was (and still is) buzzing with activity due to the treatment of constant new arrivals from the battlefield. So all in all a rather quiet, low level target that therefore likely had a rather low priority when it came to security.

In one corner near the counter you notice a pict frame of a young medicae with a black ribon bound around it. If you would have to guess it might be in remembrance of the guy that was killed last night - with Adamo and Malakai as prime suspects. Two nurses are sitting at the counter processing the flood of soldiers in the waiting room and might be a good adress for further inquiries or to get the opportunity to look around a bit.

Arbites building and holding cells

Wyona and Poncho make their way towards the local quarters of the Arbites - no real Adeptus Arbites, but the local police force that is just called that way by every soldier around. A large cybermastif without a leash guards the entrance with a sharp and determined look on his face and an impressive augmetic jaw with adamantium teeth that should bite through flak armor or even carapace as if it was butter. As you enter the building two of the peacekeepers are just transfering a guy from the interrogation room to his cell. The unfortunate bloke seems to have tripped into the doorframe several times and somehow managed to loose a couple of teeth and break his nose and some of his fingers in the process. As Wyona gets to the counter asking for Adamo and Malakai she is mustered by the clerk in charge with a healthy portion of suspicion before her name and ID is logged in meticulously and she is searched for any hidden weapons or similar. Poncho is treated significantly "friendlier" in a sense that the clerk just orders him to leave all weapons he eventually has at his body in the name of the emperor, fully expecting the Krieger to follow this order to the letter. As the Kriegers tend to resolve any disciplinary issues amongst themselves quite efficiently, Poncho seems to enjoy the benefit of the doubt when it comes to that.

After waiting some minutes in awkward silence, you are escorted towards a room with a series of tables with seats on two sides, separated by an armorglass wall between them. The prisoners can sit on one side of the glass wall in a kind of half booth, while the visitors sit on the other side, both talking to each other through a kind of phone. Naturally nothing phyiscal can be exchanged between both and your conversation will be easily monitored and recorded. Routinely the Arbites guiding you instructs Wyona to try and get the names of potential accomplices out of the two suspects as well as find out where they stashed the remaining drugs. There will be no reduction in punishment of course, but they might at least win back a slimmer of dignity after their betrayal of the imperial cause...
Soon after the two Brontians enter the room and take a seat on the opposite site of the glass. They look severely hung over and still a tat confused about the whole situation. Malakai specifically also looks quite angry and grudging, almost shouting at Wyona as soon as he can "For F***s sake, some arsehole has framed us!" "Keep it down soldier!" is all Wyona replies, gesturing him to settle down. "What's the last you remember?"

Both Brontians look at each other, murmuring "Honestly... not much. We packed away our stuff, went to meet some of our guys, maybe had a drink or two and then... it's just blank." Adamo adds "The Arbites insist that temporary memory loss is a side effect of an obscura overdose, but that's bs... That's not how... I mean, I never heard that the stuff works like that." the last words are added after he looks at the telephone receiver in his hand and its cable vanishing into the desk with some realization.

Njal had dealt with plenty of cogboys in his time. They were common as icicles on his home planet. All those water extraction rigs didn't operate on their own afterall. Still, it was always a bit uncomfortable as the Tech-priests were not fully human anymore, and their social skills were typically..... lacking.

"Honorable Tech-Priest, I came to ask for your help. We served together at the refinery, along with a few Brontians. I am sure your cogitators recall them.

Those, Brontians were pulled in by the Black Hats for breaking into the Medicae and killing an orderly. They got pushed up by the plow, and are in jail.

I need your help to investigate what is going on, and if the threat here is deleted. Can you help a fellow advocate for the Omnissiah complete his... ah.... mission parameters?"

Njal hoped some sprinkled in jargon would help sell his case.

.

Two nurses are sitting at the counter processing the flood of soldiers in the waiting room and might be a good adress for further inquiries or to get the opportunity to look around a bit.

Teodore walks up to the nurses. "Hey did you all hear there was some kind of murder and break in last night? That seems pretty darn weird."