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The Black Widow sits at one end of the corner of the bar. "Fantastic! Mathius! I never thought Trixie's would manage a tiramisu."

The air in Trixie's was thick with the scent of amasec, promethium, and the lingering dust of Arpat Secundus. The Arpat 4th had only been back from deployment for six hours, the grime of their fight against Tau and Kyn backed insurgents still etched into the creases of their khaki fatigues.



Dutch sat at the center of the room like a mountain made of scarred muscle and bad attitude. He took a long, slow draw from his Stoagie, the cherry glowing bright orange in the dim light, before exhaling a cloud of blue smoke that drifted overhead. In his other hand, a glass of top-shelf Scotch likely "liberated" from a rogue trader's cellar.

"Look at him," spat Private Kroll, a guardsman whose blue chestplate looked two sizes too large. Kroll nudged a stack of silver thrones across the scarred wood of a nearby crate. "Thinks he’s the Emperor’s gift to the Segmentum because he took out a few ridgerunners and a sentinel."

Dutch didn't even turn around. He just swirled his Scotch. "A lot of talk for a man whose planet is mostly hab-blocks. "
Kroll’s face turned a shade of red that almost matched Dutch's bandana. He pointed a shaky finger at a target pinned to a support pillar across the room. "Twenty thrones says you can't hit the red from here. Let's see you do that without a targeting array." Dutch smiled, Flip a coin, I'll do you one better

The bar went silent. The crowd of Arpat Guardsmen in their blue helmets leaned in, mugs of grog forgotten. Dutch didn't hesitate. He didn't even set down his drink. In one fluid, blurred motion, his hand went to the sheath at his lower back. A heavy Catachan fang-blade flickered through the air, a silver streak cutting through the tobacco smoke. Slicing the coin mid air into two metallic fragments before...

THWACK.

The knife buried itself so deep into the bullseye that the wooden pillar groaned. The hilt was still vibrating when the room erupted into astonished murmurs. Dutch took another sip of his Scotch, his expression as rugged and unmoving as a cliffside. He looked at the wide-eyed Kroll and gestured toward the coins with his cigar. He leaned in closer, the smoke from his Stoagie curling around Kroll’s nervous face.



"You think that was a challenge?" Dutch growled, a faint, dangerous glint in his eyes. " On Alsanta when the Orks assaulted our positions you lot ran, I was perched on a heavy bolter position enjoying a cigar, because after dinner everyone ought to have a cigar, The Commissar said it'd give away our position, naturally, I told him to shut the frag up... the ork nobs came en-masse, that I could deal with, a few greenskins looking for a tussle... but then one of them made the mistake of shooting my ashtray, and I respect my Stoagies, I can't put it out unless I have an ashtray so I had to find a new one.... I put my stoagie out in the Warboss's eyes, I burned its eyes out with my Stoagie. And guess what Kroll, since that day, I can smoke anywhere I want, I don't have to find a hiding place... like you. "

Kroll didn't say another word. He just pushed the twenty thrones toward the big man and retreated into the crowd.