Monkey bars

Five strong-limbed Scouts swung from hand-hold to hand-hold under the elegant arch of a transmotive sweep, huffs of exertion the only noise as they slowly made their way over the shattered warscape below. Six and a half miles they had come from the dropsite, all without touching the ground. To make their way across open terrain would mean being spotted by a patrol drone, or worse, a pilot caste squadron on the prowl. Death would follow soon after, merciless and sudden.
Three nights they had searched. Whenever the low purr of engines or the flicker of a multi-spectral scanner alerted them to an airborne tau patrol, they had hung still, muscles burning to the point of numbness, and waited for the danger to pass. Chameleoline fatigues blurred their outlines, baffling the visual spectrum, and the machine-spirits of their wargear were rendered dormant so as not to betray their presence to enemy auspexes. The Scouts in turn had scanned the rubble for the blue armour of their fallen brothers. They had found no few corpses, and they had marked every one for later recovery by the Chapter's Apothecaries.

Blades of Damocles