Shaking slightly, Croat stands up, clasping the still-warm barrel of his near-useless plasma pistol in it's holster for moral support. "I-I'm ready." He says determinedly. Unholstering the laspistol he picked up, from where exactly he can't remember, the last few hours being a dark blur in his memory, he starts up the slope. The sound of grots squabbling can be heard over the brow of the hill.

After a slow grueling crawl up the hill, Vitus pauses to grab his breath. The night was fairly dark, with the only the odd streetlight casting feeble light in the park and slope of the grassy and cratered hillside. Huh. There must be an operating power plant somewhere, Vitus mused about how he didn't realize that before. A quiet whistle from the left snapped him to attention.

Vitus picks out the squad scattered along the hill a few meters from the rubble at the top. Counting out five seconds, Vitus responded with a whistle of his own, the agreed command to push forward.
Vitus reaches the ruins of a building and keeps climbing, slowly moving toward the dancing lights and noisy ruckus of the orks. Looking over the edge of the building he takes stock of the situation.

The top of the hill appears to have been an outdoor amphitheatre originally. Covered in old and broken stone blocks the hill slopes down in a series of stone benches to a large flat area currently occupied by the space ship. Under it's battered hull, a large motley-crew of ork-kind are gathered, offloading gear of all descriptions.

Vitus frowns, "Why are they unloading that crap up here?" He wonders partially to himself.

Croat stumbles up the hill behind Vitus and flops to the ground with a disregard for stealth that makes even the most hardened soldiers nearby flinch and grip their weapons, ready for the orks to turn and attack. Thankfully the sound of the Grots squabbling covers up the rookie's incompetance. "How much further is i- what the HELL is that?". Croat points to a bright red orb of teeth which is currently bouncing around the ork frigate. "Squig." grunts one of the veterans. "Big teeth. Not much brain. Tougher or dumber ones can take a point-blank lasgun shot. Rip your guts out in three seconds." Croat gulps.

Vitus checks the time on his chrono and glances around in the darkness. Satisfied, he takes a deep breath, "Ok," he whispers to the handful of men around him, "Remember the plan; we're the squad that's gona to capture the ship. Quiet now, let's moves forward to the edge of those benches. Once the shit-show starts, we can get into the ship pretty quickly before they close 'er up tight."

With that he pats Croat on the shoulder, "You're with me, buddy. Keep yer head up." He smiles and drops quietly over the edge and into the amphitheatre.

Trusting that the team will follow, Vitus leopard-crawls down one of the stone aisles towards the greenskins below. He's only gone a few metres when a large Nob strolls out of the ship followed by several gretchin and a small grizzled ork leaning on a metal staff. Vitus freezes as the small ork suddenly grunts and slams it's staff into the stone. All eyes turn to the creature as it begins to shake and growl; it's staff sparking with tiny blue electrical arcs..

Croat watches in catatonic horror as tendrils of lightning leap from the Psyker's rod, shearing stone from the walls, blowing fuses in the streetlamps nearby and frying the occaisional grot. The arcs of power lick with a hissing sound over the stone benches, passing within inches of Vitus's position.  The reek of ozone fills the air and the hairs on the squad's necks stand on end.  
"We gotta take this guy out," mutters one of the vets.  Seemingly satisfied the area is clear, the veteran ork nods to his bodyguards, and they begin to move down to the centre of the arena. 
Forming a ring, with the psyker at the centre, they begin to chant. Rhythmic yelling might be more accurate, but the effect is chilling. Once again, the hair on Croat's neck stands on end. As the chanting increases in tempo, arcs of energy begin to leap out of the psyker and into the orks, playing around their bodies and forming complex tribal patterns.  Muscles begin to bulge and the orks roar as their bodies shift with the raw force of energy churning through them.  The chanting has, by this point, risen to feverish tempo blurring into a near-continuous scream. One by one the streetlamps short-circuit in a shower of sparks.

Suddenly there is a flash of light so bright it blinds the company, and the chanting is cut off, leaving an eiree silence.  

"NOW" Vitus' roar breaks the stunned silence. He leaps to his feet and sprints down the aisle towards the ship, las-pistol blasting. He has covered several metres before the rest of the squad recovers their wits enough to rain death down on the assembled orks, most of whom recover fast enough to find cover.
Vitus' screaming sprint is cut short by a blast of swirling chaotic energy that hurls him backward and shatters several rows of the stone stairs. He lands in a crumpled heap.

Thoroughly dazed and confused, Vitus staggers to his feet.
Dark blurry shapes rush past him, distant shouts, muffled explosions and flashes of blooming light surround him. He falls to his knees as the world comes crashing back.
Rage floods him as he takes in the carnage the Psyker is delivering on his men. Grasping his battered sword, he raises himself up and staggers forward gaining momentum until he's sprinting toward the hated greenskin, sword raised and battle cry on his lips.
The beast sees him coming and turns it's powers towards the ravaged man, but it's too late; Vitus hammers his sword down on the beast's skull, once, twice, three times. Shouting and hacking insanely, he lunges forward again, driving orks before him, until he suddenly finds himself alone inside the ship...

Now outflanked the greenskins begin a disorderly withdrawl followed by Vitus' whooping squad. They'd done it!
"Come on, you bastards!" he shouts over the din, "Mount up!"

A sudden shout of warning and a blinding flash blow Vitus backwards into the ship. Using the hatchway, he pulls himself up as through the smoke a few of his men stagger in. "Sarge!" One of them shouts, but the rest of his sentence is cut short by a spray of heavy cannon fire. Through the smoke he can make out a large number of orks counter-attacking over the lip of the hill, laying waste to everything around the ship.

Vitus makes his decision, "Close the hatch. You two," he motions to two of his men, "come with me. We're going to get us airborne!"

Oily fire blasts the amphitheatre as the hijacked ship launches into the sky, incinerating the screaming greenskin horde and fallen friends alike. The ship shutters as the main engines kick in and the battered craft rockets to the stars leaving the dead and battered planet behind.
The remnants of the Last Chancer squad sit quietly, each lost in his own thoughts. They're free. Free of the legion's shackles. Free to be men again. Free.

End