+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
The Emperor will not judge you by your medals and diplomas, but by your scars.
"Sergeant Rogal, m'lady, at your service." A bear of a man in the flak armor of the Guard salutes.
He stands like a fat tower, with a face of weathered stone. His chest, like a bulwark, displays no medals; it is bare and austere, with only the aquila and the heraldry of the 56th Golgothan Mechanized. A crater gouged where his left eye once was is covered by an augmetic implant, with the glow of hell-fire.
"Orders, m'lady?" he asks, voice like the crashing of an iron gate.
You relay your mission to the sergeant, and his flaming eye burns brighter when the renegades are mentioned. He salutes once more, leaving for the cult barracks to rouse his men.
As for yourself, you prepare in the sacred armorium, where the red giant tech-priest splashes sacred unguents on the revered machines. You take with you your explosives: vials of blessed promethium, grenades of all shapes and sizes, and melta-bombs. You arm yourself with a laspistol and an armored bodyglove.
Acceptably prepared, you go to the loading bay. Sergeant Rogal and his squad salute before you, oaths of faith sealed on their flak. You nod back. Behind them is an Arvus Lighter, a transport vessel lent to the death cult by the Imperial Navy.
With a silent prayer, you board the shuttle and prepare descent.
----
Like reversed rain, autocannon fire bears down on the Arvus Lighter. The pilot and his servitors fight with every ounce of skill and instinct, and with the Emperor's blessing and a dying Machine Spirit, you land in almost one piece. The servitors had short-circuited, and the pilot dead from exhaustion.
Sergeant Rogal blesses the poor pilot, promising to bury him later. You and your men give the sign of the aquila and begin your march.
The renegade fortress stands black and menacing in the distance. Anti-air autocannons scour the skies, searching for prey to shoot down. The bellicose bellow of heavy bolters blots out almost every sound, and loyalist Guardsmen die by droves, brought down by their black-hearted brethren.
According to the sergeant's augmetic eye, he sees three entrances: the main gate, where the brunt of the loyalist assault takes place; the walls, where one could scale them or blow them down; and the sewers, though only you could easily manoeuvre, and more importantly fight, in the claustrophobic tunnels.
What do you do?