Extracting Victory: The One Where We Nearly Choked

 

Prologue: The Thunder Hammer Debacle

Before the gas incident, there was the small matter of a demon, a warehouse fight, and a very one-sided negotiation over a rather large hammer.
It all started when we encountered a group of cultists mid-ritual, presumably summoning something unpleasant. Naturally, we opted for the traditional approach: interrupting with extreme prejudice. Things escalated quickly, as things do when warp-spawned horrors are involved, and Craig, in a masterstroke of tactical deception, decided to pretend he was completely incompetent. Why? Because he wanted the Thunder Hammer.
"I simply can’t wield it!" Dave wailed, in what Craig would later describe as a pitiful display of groveling. "You must take it!"
Craig, being the noble and selfless teammate that he is (his words, not ours), finally relented and claimed the hammer, much to Dave’s "relief." With the demon dispatched, our new buddy Jae recruited, and the warehouse fight behind us, we moved on to important business: shopping, upgrading the ship, and preparing for Argenta’s pilgrimage. Because nothing says piety like heavy artillery.

The Descent Into Chaos

In our ongoing quest to prove that tactical brilliance and abject panic can, in fact, coexist, we ventured into the lower levels of Footfall’s shadow quarters. Because where else would one willingly go if not into the grimy underbelly of a rogue trader’s least reputable neighborhood? If this place had a tourism brochure, it would just be a single page that read: "Welcome! Good luck not getting stabbed."

We found ourselves staring at a large facility populated by some extremely unsavory individuals who, in true video game fashion, were loitering around in an ominous yet aimless manner. There were two gantry staircases leading downward, so we did the only sensible thing—split the party.

The Gas Cloud of Death

We stepped forward, and a fight broke out. That, in itself, wasn’t an issue. The real problem arose when the boss turned off the extractor fans. Within moments, the entire room filled with a thick, green toxic gas that rapidly eroded our collective hit points and, more importantly, our morale.

"Right, strategic retreat!" Myles commanded, proving that even in crisis, he could find an excuse to issue orders we would immediately ignore.

Our brilliant plan? Run back up the stairs, escape the poison, and let the enemy come to us. Genius, right? Except for one minor detail: The hostiles were immune to the gas.

So there we were, heroically gasping for air in a corridor - which was not indeed free of gas as we thought, watching as our foes stood perfectly content in the swirling mists of doom, waiting for us to make the next move. According to our best calculations, we had about six rounds before we all keeled over dead.

Craig’s Suicide Sprint

Faced with the certainty of death via asphyxiation, we developed a new plan: Craig would sprint straight to the control panel and turn the extractor fans back on.

"Just run past the boss, don’t engage!" Myles instructed.

"What if I—" Craig began.

"No engaging!" we all yelled in unison.

Our job was simple: distract the enemy while Craig made his grand sprint. This mostly involved a combination of haphazard gunfire, dramatic flailing, and Dave loudly reciting a litany of grievances against our tactical choices.

Miraculously, Craig made it to the control panel and, in a shocking display of competence, actually pressed the right buttons. The extractor fans roared back to life, sucking away the poisonous cloud, and we all let out a collective sigh of relief (and oxygen).

The Inevitable Beatdown

With our lungs functioning again, we set about the usual business of bashing, stabbing, and shooting our way through the remaining enemies. Craig, buoyed by his successful sprint, immediately reverted to form by charging into melee and getting promptly bodyslammed by the boss.

"At least let me enjoy my victory lap first!" he protested as we pried him off the floor. (This didn't actually happen - it is a fiction made up by the AI. We believe at this point Craig was still eyeing off Dave's thunder hammer, and so had to make do with mere mortal weapons).

A few well-placed shots, some reckless heroics, and a surprisingly effective tactical flank later, we emerged victorious. No one died (which is always a bonus), and we proved once again that we excel at making plans that mostly hinge on Craig doing something dangerous while the rest of us look busy.

So, in conclusion:

• Splitting the party is always a great idea until it isn't.
• Breathing is, in fact, important.
• Never trust a room with a big-arse fan.

Next time, we’ll probably make another brilliant tactical decision that ends in chaos, but for now, we bask in the glory of our not-quite-disastrous victory.

How Not to Warhammer: A Guide by Us

Sir Vegetable and the Case of the Flaming Incompetence

Another week, another perfectly good Warhammer 40K session derailed by our collective inability to function as a coherent unit. This time, the highlight reel included Craig—henceforth known as "Sir Vegetable"—accidentally saving the day, Dave continuing his long-standing tradition of vanishing at key moments, Zaph prioritizing his imaginary pub crawl over our survival, and me, well... standing in fire. Again.

Act 1: The Pub, the Pyromaniac, and the Lost Nun

The mission was simple—get in, locate the high-value target, and not get horribly killed. This plan lasted approximately 37 seconds before Dave disappeared into the ether. One moment, our pious Sister of Battle was preaching about righteous fury, and the next, he was nowhere to be found. We considered the usual possibilities:

1. He wandered off to collect lore.
2. He got distracted by loot.
3. He was, once again, trapped in a staircase.
4. He simply ceased to exist.

Meanwhile, Zaph decided that stealth and strategy were overrated, electing instead to head straight for a bar, despite us reminding him that the "pub" was a smoldering ruin. His only response: "Yeah, but it’s still got chairs."

As for me, I spent a significant portion of the session pausing the game at critical junctures, mostly while standing in a jet of burning promethium. In my defense, I was "thinking." The problem is, my thought process did not extend to "moving out of the flames." A small oversight.

Act 2: Enter Sir Vegetable

With half our team either missing or mentally checked out, it fell to Craig to, somehow, be the functional one. This is normally a sentence that heralds disaster, but fate—or more likely, sheer accident—decided otherwise.

Craig, whose primary skill set usually involves charging into battle without reading mission objectives, found himself in possession of a control panel that could shut down the death-traps scattered around the area. He didn’t intend to interact with it, mind you. He was actually trying to loot a nearby corpse. But in the process, he pressed something important, and suddenly, the security turrets stopped vaporizing us.

"Uh. That was intentional," he said, nodding sagely, while the rest of us stared in disbelief.

Act 3: Dave Returns, Craig Ascends, Myles Burns

Dave eventually rematerialized, possibly from an alternate dimension, having accomplished something only he could explain.

"I found a scroll that details the ship’s entire history!" he declared, proud of his efforts.

"We were supposed to disable the bomb," I pointed out, still slightly on fire.

"Ah, but knowledge is power."

At that moment, Craig, still riding the high of his accidental competence, activated a final console that—surprise—completed the mission. Technically, he didn't know what he was doing, but that’s hardly relevant. The end result was victory, and Craig was hailed as the hero of the hour. Sir Vegetable, the savior of fools.

Final Thoughts

Was it pretty? No. Was it dignified? Absolutely not. But through a combination of blind luck, poor decision-making, and Craig’s unwavering commitment to unintended success, we managed to scrape through another session.

Next week, we’ll see if we can function like actual professionals. Spoiler: we can’t.

Another take on what really happened that night...

Flavius? I Hardly Knew Us: A Market, A Funeral, and A Fire Hazard

As is tradition, our session began not with heroics, but with a shopping spree. Unfortunately, our fine collection of intergalactic tat was not met with enthusiasm by the local vendors. Apparently, nobody was interested in purchasing a box labeled "Miscellaneous Crap & Assorted Nonsense." Outrageous. Fortunately, we had Dave to lead us to better financial decisions—by purchasing a collection of Xenos from a circus. Our prosperity factor promptly plummeted by one point.

"What?!" Myles protested. "I didn't even get to haggle!"

"You are a shit trader," we all declared in unison.

A Funeral for Some Guy (Possibly Flavius)

While looking for a merchant dumb enough to take our wares, we stumbled upon a funeral. The ceremony was waiting for someone named Flavius to arrive.

"I am Flavius," declared Myles.

"Yes, he is Flavius," we all immediately backed him up.

A round of suspicious glances from the mourners confirmed that we were, once again, off to a great start. The chaplain gave a eulogy about what a great fellow 'such and such' had been, and the ceremony ended on a resounding note of "meh."

"Who the f#@k is Flavius?" Myles finally asked.

"No idea," said Dave. "But they have food and drinks."

Pasqal wandered over, only to detect that all the drinks were poisoned. Instead, he found a conveniently labeled "Goods" box. Naturally, it exploded, nearly launching him into the abyss.

"What the hell?" he shouted. "It's like someone is trying to kill me!"

The Crematorium Caper: A Hot Situation

While trying to blend in, we met a very nervous clerk who revealed that he had been swapping out body implants for fake ones, storing the real ones in the crematorium for later retrieval. Unfortunately, "later" had arrived, and he needed a few chumps to retrieve the latest batch before the body went into the furnace.

"Chumps?" said Craig. "We’re in. For 50% and some documents proving Myles is Flavius."

So off we went to the crematorium, where Craig rushed ahead to open the loot box.

"Hey, it's empty!" he said, just as the crematorium doors slammed shut and the incinerator ignited.

"Oi!" Fake Flavius yelled. "We're in here! Let us out!"

"Oh, right," Pasqal muttered. "I might have forgotten to mention that someone is trying to kill us."

"YES!!!!" Myles screamed. "You TOTALLY forgot to mention that!"

Panic ensued. Myles repeatedly paused the game, demanding a plan. Dave repeatedly unpaused it, declaring, "Move out of the flames!" Pasqal finally took action, smashing the floor open, and we all tumbled into the sewer—still on fire.

Sewer Survival and Clerk Conspiracies

The local sewer-dwellers were kind enough to extinguish us with their soup (the less we dwell on that, the better). After some bribery, we got directions out: crawl through the sewer, pull the lever, climb the ladder.

Pasqal refused to crawl through filth, citing "circuit damage." Sister Argenta did it instead, because someone had to be competent.

In a warehouse above, we overheard two clerks arguing about their plan to cover up embezzlement. They noticed us.

"Do you know who Flavius is?" Myles asked.

"No, why? Did you overhear us?" one clerk demanded.

"Didn’t hear a thing," Myles said, adopting his best Fake Flavius voice.

"Oh good. Carry on, your lordship."

"Just kidding," the clerk added. "We have to kill you now. No hard feelings."

Battle Against Middle Management

The fight began. Pasqal got to the front, planning to axe the clerks in half. Instead, he got stun-grenaded and spent the first round as a very expensive statue. Craig took on two servitors, while Argenta and Hecata discovered that servitors are annoyingly durable.

Myles, in his new role as "Master Tactician," unstunned Pasqal just in time for him to get stunned again. "Oi! You stunned him just as he woke up!" Myles protested, slipping into full Monty Python mode.

Craig eventually cleaved two servitors, Argenta stabbed a clerk in the back, and Zaph (in absentia) sniped the other. Victory.

Promotions and a Sudden Change of Heart

We hit level 16 and picked our new archetypes:

• Pasqal: Grand Strategist, now capable of drawing lines on the battlefield and calling them "frontlines."
• Craig: Vanguard, now tankier but still allergic to reading instructions.
• Myles: Master Tactician, which mostly means pausing the game more.
• Argenta & Hecate: Arch Militants, which means "more shooting."
• Lanto: Unleveled, pending Zaph’s return.

We returned to the funeral, where everyone was surprised to see us alive. Naturally, they decided to try killing us again.

"Stop!" Myles shouted. "I’m not actually Flavius!"

"Of course you would say that," one of them replied. "Flavius is the heir. If he’s dead, we inherit."

"This will be easy," Myles scoffed. "They can't even count. There are thirteen of them."

"Actually, there are fourteen," someone corrected.

"Craig, cleave the one who can’t count!"

"Sure," Craig’s voice called—from somewhere far behind us.

Pasqal, now in full "Grand Strategist" mode, designated official battlefield positions.

"This is the front line," he announced, pointing to the open killing field.

"This is the back line," he continued, pointing to us.

"And this is the rear," he concluded, pointing to where Lanto was setting up a sniper nest.

"None shall pass!" he declared—while standing in the open like a buffoon.

Myles, ever the tactician, picked a corner and ordered us to hold the line.

And that’s where we left it: cornered, outnumbered, and pretending to be an heir to a fortune we absolutely did not inherit.

Next time: Will Fake Flavius survive his would-be murderers? Will Pasqal ever learn the benefits of cover? Will Craig be there before the fight ends? Tune in next session to find out.