Warhammer 40,000

The impact against the adamantine plating of the landing pad sends a violent vibration through every servomotor of your power armor. Pyrotechnic bolts eject the massive petals of the drop pod with a dull roar, and the suffocating stench of burning promethium, spilled blood, and ozone immediately rushes in. Hive Acheron greets your squad with fire and primal chaos.

You stride through the swirling ash and smoke, your helmet's auto-sensors instantly flooding your tactical infosphere: ambient temperature is elevated, radiation levels are within normal parameters, but the augurs are flagging multiple contacts everywhere. The vast expanse before the landing zone is littered with the mangled corpses of PDF defenders, while in the thick shadows between the ruined Gothic arches of the manufactorum, the twisted, unnaturally swift silhouettes of hybrids are already flickering.

Behind you, your brothers land with the heavy clatter of sabatons. Brother Lucius spins the barrels of his heavy bolter with practiced ease, while Titus activates his chainsword with a low growl, its teeth hungrily biting into the poisoned air.

Veteran Sergeant Gai Vespasian approaches you. On your helmet's retinal display, a comms-loss rune flashes an urgent warning.

— Commander, the Sergeant's voice crackles through the vox-casters, heavily distorted. — Orbital comms are completely jammed by the "Shadow." We are cut off from the fleet. Inquisitor Kross's telepathic beacon is emanating from the logistics sector—that's two kilometers north, deep in the lower levels. However, Brother Castor's auspex just picked up anomalous activity: a massive mutant horde is storming a fortified bastion half a kilometer from our position. Desperate distress calls are broadcasting on open PDF radio frequencies; the remnants of the regular forces are pinned down there.

Vespasian grips the handle of his bolter, awaiting your orders. Around you, the hissing and wet scraping of claws against ferrocrete intensifies—scout packs of cultists have caught the scent of new prey and are rapidly converging on your landing site. Hive Acheron holds its breath, waiting for the will of Ultramar.