A swell of pride choked my choler down, leaving me phlegmatic in stature. I knew quite well that they would most likely be strung up as fetishes on their armor. However, this was war. As an ancient general of an age long past on Terra had once said, "War is cruelty. There is no use in trying to reform it." That meant all my sentiments were worth exactly as much as the hole in the table that stared back at me like a pensive eye.

With a sigh, I straightened my hat with one weathered hand, grey hairs lining the back of my palm. Drawing myself up, I muttered a number of curses and a prayer to the Emperor, sliding my saber into it's sheath at my side and tucking the laspistol into my holster. Applying the bandoiler, I abandoned my quarters in favour of the combat that would surely come up to our doorstep knocking and drooling and gibbering and shouting in all manners akin to hungry dinner guests.

The vox-link rippled in static, bringing in a panicked tone on the airwaves.
"Sir, requesting armor support!"
"And you expect me to assemble the Leman Russ, Chimera, Basilisk and plentitudes of other tanks myself, I suppose." He knew full well none to little of the armored support was ready to go.
"We're pinned down! The Sister with us, Sister Helena, she's..."

His silence spoke of two fates. One, he was panicked that she was dead and he didn't feel like admitting his incompetence. Or, the other, just as likely option was that he had been horribly mangled and torn into wet, dripping pieces and holes by the ragtag weapons of the feral orks. If anything, he was most likely their thumping pole for fun before he expired.

The crackle of vox static confirmed the first.
(expecting flood detection. bear with.)

Sir, permission to speak freely?"
"Granted."
"Commissar Cygnus, this whole operation is buggered, sir."
"I thought it was going wonderfully."
"Is this really the time for jokes? Sir."
"Is it time for you to be borderline insubordinate?"
"...No, sir."
"You shall have your armor support within the hour."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"In His glorious name."

When the vox-line snapped off again, I explored the newly constructed facility quickly, if not with caution. One or two of the greenskins could have gotten in from anywhere. I was met with disappointment, if a little relief when a Servitor bumped into me, servos whining with stress when I blocked it's path. I managed to catch it before it corrected it's path.

In all luck and fate, it was one that belonged to the Armory. When it turned again, it was headed towards the armory with orders to begin the assembly of several Leman Russ tanks, along with Basilisk support. It felt like a hollow victory, because with every moment used to construct the machines of war, it was another five, ten, fifteen guardsmen lost.

With a moment's trepidation, I made for the main exit, out towards the front line. If Ismachus VI had to fall, it would not fall without it's leader seeing it to the end.

Oh, Thone save us.

---
A stray bullet from an Ork Nob's 'shoota' clipped a Guardsman's shoulder, sending his aim wildly off as he pulled the trigger on his lasrifle, scorching a hole in his comrade's face. The man screamed in agony, clawing at his ruined eye through the standard issue helm, slightly decorated with the callsigns of the Ismachus 314th as it was. The other clutched his shoulder, unable to hold his weapon properly, but making a valiant attempt to.

That was, until one of the greenskins plucked him from the crudely formed trench with a finger in the large caliber bullet wound, heaving him out with a feral shriek of glee and delight. The Guardsman whimpered in pain, attempting to dislodge the Ork's smallest finger from his shoulder when the Ork raised a salvaged chainaxe, thumbing for the activation switch. When it didn't find it, it furrowed it's brow in confusion and grunted, slamming it against the ground in an attempt to make it work. Because, slamming any piece of technology eventually fixes it.

Unfortunately for the infantry on his pinkie finger, this proved to be true as it roared to life, chewing through frozen desert as the greenskin brought it up and hacked it downwards in a thundering arc, slicing and ripping through weak flak armor and the frost-camo print of the Ismachus 314th. He severed both of the man's legs before a ray from a lasweapon caught his hand, disintegrating his middle finger and making him look up, the pain negligable to him. He wanted to know what was interrupting him from beating the silly humie with his own legs.

What he looked up to wasn't negligable in the least.

With his face contorted in a mask of disgust, annoyance and anger, Cygnus Taxt brought his Terra-crafted saber through the Nob's neck. He breathed in a moment before kicking the oddly still corpse, which had landed next to the Guardsman's severed legs. Ironic.

An anon had posted this at your old thread after you left.

>> Much better, though the line about the warmaster completely threw me off to the point where I thought I was either reading a different story or you had switched to the perspective of a chaos marine who wore corpses on his armor as fetishes. Why the hell would a commissar even know anything Horus ever said?

>>Anyway, the playful exchange on the vox breaks immersion "lol we are being attacked, just wanted to let you know that this sucks" "sarcastic response" Maybe you should keep things terse and to the point, and then let everybody joke around at the front lines or something. The vox is serious business.


Also, someone felt that putting the dialouge separate from the action made them stumble, or something like that.

---
With a flick of the wrist, the snow was coated a sickening shade of green, but the Ork's biological soup wasn't what I was interested in. Kneeling carefully by the Guardsman, I recognized him. He was the one radioing in on the vox not long ago. Maybe fifteen minutes. Regardless, I hadn't made it in time.

"Good to see you, sir." He wheezed, keeping everything in a nice, tight tone to try and refuse any weakness. Admirable. The pain in his legs must have been absolutely crushing.
"As you, soldier. Need some help to your feet?" I joked even as I regretted the words. His feet lay to our left, one of them trapped underneath the Nob's huge forearm. I pulled him up, resting him on his stumps and then slung his arm over my shoulders, hauling him upwards.
"Sure could, sir." He chuckled through the thick ropes of saliva in his mouth, mingling already with a capillary hint of red. I'd have to carry him back to the trench. Knowing full well that an Ork had an easy target in both of us, haste dictated my feet and carried me back to the trench. I looked at my men. My fine men, dying by the minute, the second, to defend the Imperium. Holding my legless champion steady, I addressed them.

"Look at our comrade here! He has fought an Ork Nob in one on one combat and lived to tell the tale. He still serves, for Imperium and those within it. Will you not fight his fight for him, now that he is unable to do so? For all of those unable to do so! The Emperor knows his name, and he knows your's, as well. He guides our lasweapons, our autocannons, our bolters, our bayonets. He will guide us through this fight, men. Rally! Hold the line, and you shall see the end of this day and many more. Such is a far better fate than serving on the firing line."

A raucous cheer took them as I set the brave, legless soldier down in the snow. A mutual knowledge of his fate crossed our eyes and he nodded. I had no words of comfort for him.

"Are you good to fight?"
"Does an Ork shit in the woods? Sir."
"Good man." I said simply, putting him on the trench and handing him one grenade and a lasrifle from a fallen soldier next to us.

"In His glorious name."
"In His name, sir."

I nodded my head curtly.

"It's an honor to serve you, sir."
"The only honor you need have is towards the Imperium."

With our exchange, I left him to his fate.
Our fate.
---
As the battle wore on, it became all too obvious that it would be over before the single, weak sun set on Ismachus VI. None of the armor was ready to go, and more bodies lined the pits of the trenches than live soldiers. There was no real strategy anymore, it was simply shoot at anything big, green, and roaring. It would be a matter of minutes before the enemy broke the line and made their way into the complex to pillage and loot and kill.

Thumbing with the laspistol attached to my side, I made a steady pace for the Armory from the front lines. I had always scored the best in last-ditch tactics at the Schola Progenium school on Ignaeus Prime. I suppose, if I had spent more time learning how to stall the enemy and defeat them instead of going out in a blaze of glory, I might have avoided such a fate as this.

With solemn purpose, I requisitioned all of the Krak grenades and Melta-bombs and one central linked activation switch. I called in on the vox, announcing my plan.

"Report."
"Sir, we ain't gonna be able to hold this much longer."
"I realize. When I next cast my vox channel, I want you to lead all the Orks inside, and then make for the ships out to the west."
"Sir?"
"Just do it."

I clicked off the comm-line before he had a chance to reply. A part of me felt a pang of regret for not being with the men in their dying time, on the killing fields. I was better than such emotions. Such sentiments. This was the tactical decision I had made, and I would see it through to the end.

When the deed was done, and all were wired into the central activation switch that I held in my hand, I called in on the vox.

"Lead them in here."
"Yes, sir."

I had holded myself up in the room furthest from the entrance. I still wore my bandoiler of Krak grenades, one or two spots replaced with a Frag grenade. A metal table had been flipped and placed against the door, then melted to the floor with my laspistol to provide a moment's more of time.

Taking a seat in the one chair left upright, I crossed my right leg over my left, bracing for the impact.

I could hear them.

They were shouting and screaming and gibbering with fiendish delight. It was sickening.

In my mind's eye, I could see the servitors flipped over and trying to walk on their sides as Orks broke off their extra limbs and tore them apart for not having any reaction. I could see the corrupt xenos looting lasweapons and bolters and all manner of things designed to make living things stop living.

The wait was agonizing. It was worse than any torture I could think to be subjected. No matter what physical pain was, the mental anguish of anxiety was much worse.

I could feel them.

They were thundering against the door now, heavy slabs of meat that passed as fists denting and impacting the metal. Swallowing hard, I took out my laspistol as I held the dentonator in my left hand, behind the heavy Commissariat cloak and the protective furs to guard against frostbite. I aimed at where I expected the first one's head to be. The door fell down, bending over the table, and I squeezed the trigger for all I was worth.

The next moments were a flurry of sound and light. In the blood haze, I had drawn my sword and hacked at the limbs of the Orks pouring into the tiny room. They stopped their assault when a large Ork, some commander of theirs, stepped through the doorway. Well, rather, he was big enough that he stretched the doorway to fit his frame. A number of bizzare and patchwork bionic implants riddled his body, a shrill parody of Imperium technology.

He spoke. In a raspy, unsure, uneduated voice of Low Gothic, he spoke.

"Wot's dis, ya grot? Why ya not out dere fighin' wit' ya odda humies?"
"I wanted to see your darling face, of course."
"'Ey, 'umie, no funny gamez 'ere. Dis is my Waagh, and we's gonna stompa ya humies good."
"I'm sure you will."

He seemed perplexed, so as natrual Ork agression dictates, he took a step foward - easily comparable to ten of my strides - and raised his large, mechanical claw at me. He meant, I'm sure, to choke the life out of me to show his virility and power to the other Orks, because he was just that wonderful of a leader. As it snatched me up in it's death grasp, closing around my ribcage and beginning to split it painfully, I worked out my words around the copper tang in my mouth.

"Excuse me, sir."
"Wot?!" His annoyance was amusing.
"It's been a blast."

WIth a full-hearted chuckle, I smothered the detonation switch and closed my eyes as I readied myself for union with the Emperor.

For Terra. For the Imperium.
For the Ismachus 314th.

There we go. Comment on it, tell me if it sucks, tell me how it sucks, etc.

>>2632494

You know, somehow I want the detonator to have been wired faulty and for the dude to survive due to a combination of luck and failure. It just seems to fit the narrative.

>>2632502
I thought about it.
Then again, how does a human escape a huge ork's grasp? Literally, that is. Reaches down and bites a Krak grenade, chews the pin, and jerks his head so it goes down the Ork's gaping mouth?

>>2632494

I like it. You did a great job. :D

>>2632494
it sucks. it sucks like a hoover

>>2632511

The servitor from before rolls in and chops the ork's arm off with a welder. I dunno, or the Astartes drop to the rescue as always. Or whatever. There's lots of opportunity.

>>2632524
I was hoping for Dirt Devil.

>>2632528
Well, I had requested a last stand. :D It wouldn't be a last stand if someone came and save the day, eh?

>>2632528
I suppose so.

And Astartes dropping to the rescue annoys me sometimes. As much as I loev the Spess Mahreens.
"oh no all is lost"
"o wait. i'm a spess mahreen heer 2 save da day."
"how'd you get here?"
"author retcon and loev of spess mahreen."
"lol k."

>>2632541

I always preferred the Inquisition riding in to save the day... then execute everyone they saved for heresy. That or another IG regiment dropping in and dying.

>>2632552
Inquisition is always fun times.

>>2632552
Because no one ever expects the Emperor's Inquisition.

Any more opinions?

>>2632584

Actually, everyone suspects them.

>>2632656
Actually, they suspect everyone.

>>2632667

*walks away inconspicuously before suspicions arise for some reason or another*

>>2632584

Now that you've established yourself as a superior writefag, THE SKY IS THE LIMIT!

>>2632753
You either flatter or troll me.
Either way is lol-worthy.

>>2632767
Well, I also made sure that this thread is archived. It's lulzy flattery.

English major from last night: good job man.

Now for your next story maybe you could have deeper characters besides the main one.

>>2632807
Thanks.
Wanted to focus on one character and flesh him out because in short stories, I'm afraid of trying to make everyone deeper and leaving everyone somewhere between shallow and deep.

>>2632821
That might be better than "This is me, and I am fully fleshed out. Serve me nameless guardsmen, fight me you caricatures of orks"

I'm not normally one for writefaggotry but this was pretty damn good stuff. I *liked* how it had a grisly end where none came to their rescue. The only thing to criticise is how it seems to go from one form of narrative to another a couple of times. 3rd person to 1st person. Other than that, good stuff. Obligatory 4chan moronic response: MOAR!!1!

>>2632821
You're right, other guy is a twat.

FAPPO!