"Jago. Are you still alive?"
He stirs from his semi-slumber, cold and sharp.
"Yes little one, still alive. How about yourself."
"...I've seen some better days."
"I'm sorry to hear that, little one." he said, taking note of the new tension in her voice. Not the tension of a broken spine, but that of a soul stressed past exhaustion.
He knew that sound, he'd seen it in plenty of people before.
"Altani. I want you to do something for me. Can you tell me where my arms and armour have been kept?"
"I-I guess so, but it will take a moment."
"Take all the time you need, little one."
He sat in silence for several minutes, before her voice came back.
"I've found them."
"Good work Altani. Now, show me."
Half speaking to him, half showing the images in his mind of where he would need to pass, she demonstrated exactly how to get to his wargear. It had been stored in a secondary armoury, where it hung from hooks like meat from an abbatoir.
Fitting, he mused.
"Is that helpful?" Her voice asked.
"Very." He answered, a cruel grin splitting his face, like that of a shark. "Now, Altani, here's what I want you to do. Are you listening?"
"Yes Jago."
"Good. Now, I want you to pay attention to what happens around your chamber. What people go where, to do what, at what time? Take note of when there are the least number of people nearby yourself, and the least number that are psykers."
"Do you want me to, escape?"
"Not at the moment Altani. For now, just watch, just listen. Can you do that for me little one."
He can almost picture her gentle smile, though he cannot hear it, over their shared connection.
"I can do that Jago. You know I can."
"Good. Now tell me, you mentioned a hanger deck. Is it guarded?"
Sevatar allowed himself to slump slightly, as they continued their conversation, before one again, she was forced to depart, to rest and recover, before her next attempt to contact.
His mood clamped down into its familiar cold iron, as he practiced his exercises, pushing his body into the most complex motions he could think to manage in his cell.
As soon as Altani could pinpoint the time she was least guarded, he would set his plan into motion.
He would not be able to make it to the Choir chambers himself. They would suspect as much from him, and would put guards in his way, if not inside the chambers themselves, to catch him as he entered.
Altani Shedu would have to make her own way out, he knew. Perhaps to hide herself in a vent or an air duct, until he could find her.
But that left a glaring issue for him. He could not leave before her, otherwise she would likely be guarded, and she could not leave before him, without drawing too much attention from the Dark Angels. So they would have to leave together, he mused.
But if so, would it be worth the travel to pick up his gear first. He knows how to kill Astartes without it, but even he would find some difficulty in traversing the hallways of the flagship of a legion.
But it would take time, precious time, for him to don his wargear. She would be at risk.
But it would be a risk that she would have to take. He could not afford to wander around the ship without it. Even his primarch would not find such a thing easy.
With nothing left to do, he goes over the information he has, taken in perfect memory, and plans his passage. Approximate time to arrive, how to sneak into the armoury proper, what ingress and egress points he could use in his passage to avoid the main corridors, and which could be likely used against him.
People pass by his cell, and Sevatar listens, visualising the energy and purpose behind each one. He considers briefly, the idea of using his acidic saliva to melt a hole in the wall, but reconsiders. Where would be the point? Where would the tunnel even go?
No, Jago Sevatarion decides, with an unlovely grin. He is the first Captain of the Night Lords legion. It is only proper that he leaves by the main entrance, like any of his rank and position should. The fact that there would be people in his way, only served to amuse him further.
When his captors came to feed him again, he greated them as he always did. Mockingly, arrogantly, sarcastically. But instead of focusing on wit, his attention, his true attention, was focused on their stances, their actions, their awareness. When the lights finally went out, and the barrier crackled into place, he made no motion for the nutrient gruel, instead standing, going through the motions of attack in slow motion.
Stand, run. Bolters come up, he drops down, evading their firing line.
Go for the closest, crunch hand into gorget. Other hand to a weapon.
Others moving to intercept. Throw their kin into them, make them stumble.
Bolt pistol. Bring up to fire, first shot to the other bolter wielding one, the next to the unarmed one, and the last to the one with the broken throat.
Bolter. Bring up to fire, flip to fully automatic fire, saw across the heads of both. Pan down, fire last burst into the face of the one with the broken throat.
Chainsword. First swipe across the neck of the unarmed one, then pass to the right of the one with the bolter, and cut through the more vulnerable waist joint, before reversing it into the head. Finish off the one with the broken throat.
Combat knife. Jam into spine of the one with the broken throat, then up into the brain of the unarmoured one, then a lunge down to the side of the third one, a jab to the waist, and a carrion smile to the throat.
What if the middle one was a psyker?
Well then, he thought to himself, he'd just have to hope it wouldn't make a difference.
He set himself against the crackling barrier of the forcefield, and pulled the bucket close to himself with an arm.
It's all a matter of waiting now.
