Forum adverts like this one are shown to any user who is not logged in. Join us by filling out a tiny 3 field form and you will get your own, free, dakka user account which gives a good range of benefits to you: No adverts like this in the forums anymore. Times and dates in your local timezone. Full tracking of what you have read so you can skip to your first unread post, easily see what has changed since you last logged in, and easily see what is new at a glance. Email notifications for threads you want to watch closely. Being a part of the oldest wargaming community on the net. If you are already a member then feel free to login now.

Let's call it an offshoot. A tribute. To be honest, it's really a fanfic of a fanfic, but who's quibbling. Blame, thank, or curse Seanron for giving me the idea, whichever seems best to you.

Seanron was the one who decided to include the 642nd as an awesomely epic part of the 'Death of the Emperor' thread, stickied at the top of this forum. (If you haven't read it yet, you're a moron -- go read his stuff, THEN come back here after you change your shorts and pick your jaw up off the floor.) I decided 'Why not continue the 642nd's story?' There won't be any spoilers to the DotE thread itself, so even if you haven't read DotE yet (AND WHY NOT?!) you won't have it ruined.

This isn't considered 'Official Seanron Canon' -- it's just me finally writing down the idea that's been tossing around in my brainpan for a few weeks, ever since That One Post With the Stuff. If he decides to do something else with the 642nd, WHICH I WOULD TOTALLY BE OKAY WITH BY THE WAY, I'm certainly not going to stop him or scream about stealin' mah ideaz.

Nuff talk, moar story. Here's hoping it don't suck.

* * * * * * * * * *

The weight of her weapons was the first thing she noticed. Her knife hugging the side of her leg; Hellgun slung over a shoulder, only a twitch away from falling into her hand with an ease borne of long practice; the pouch of spare ammo-cells, and the grenades attached outside; the grenades' launcher caressing her spine. As a veteran Cadian, Candroth's posture was near at attention even weighed down by equipment and standing in the muster line, awaiting her orders.

Orders...?

She stamped one foot twice, shifted her weight, and stamped the other. Standing stock still was all well and good, helped impress the fresh meat of the Regiment or the other less-disciplined offworld Regiments, but stand still for too long and your legs can fall asleep and when you try to move, you'll kiss dirt faster than you'd kissed your first love. Discipline and common sense sometimes had to agree to disagree. When was The Boss going to arrive? How long had she been standing in formation, anyway? She rolled her shoulders, getting impatient, and resisted the very improper urge to lift her arm and check her chrono. She'd earned a slap upside the head in training for doing that, and never tried it again no matter how badly her curiosity got to her.

Her mind replayed marching chants, hymns to the Emperor, anything to let her mind not have to think on the unnerving surroundings of this confusing place. When she ran out of those, she began praying.

God-Emperor, Father of Mankind, grant that we be victorious in doing Your work to banish this Hellspawn Daemon from Your most sacred realm and live to see the day we no longer have to ---

Her violet eyes narrowed and her mental recitation ceased.

She remembered that prayer from somewhere. A disturbing chill scrawled down her spine, the keen sense that something was terribly wrong screaming inside her mind. She risked the retribution of her squad, company, and regiment by turning her head.

There they were -- all of them. Tih, Waitout, Kay, Chiasson, Buseer, Uhuine ... all of them, standing with what to anyone else's eyes would seem infinite patience. She still couldn't shake the sense of wrong, and turned her head the other way.

There they were -- all of them. Rynne, Lowe, Harkin, Marx ... all of them, standing with what to anyone else's eyes would seem infinite patience. The sense of wrong peaked, and she realized what was making her choke on her very breath.

Harkin, Marx, Rynne, and Lowe had died years ago.

Very very good im impressed I must have MOAR!!

I love it, and I love you for making it awesome!

Amazing
It feels odd reading about the 642 and not congratulating DLS but a huge well done Candroth, nice start

good start, would like to read more

Wow..... This is the making of another amazing 642nd story. I love it already and it has, just like Sean's Work, made a chill crawl up my spine.

I look forward to the next part good Ms. Candroth.

She noticed out of the corner of her eyes the throng of civilians gathered nearby. She wasn't sure if they'd always been there and she just hadn't paid them any attention (the usual), or whether they'd just ... appeared. With her dead squadmates beside her, she wasn't sure she wanted to know who was in that crowd. She decided curiosity would not suit her well here, and opted for her straight-ahead stare and mental exercises to distract her from wanting to look around and see just where she was. With years of the 'hurry up and wait' principle she had mastered the art of noticing what was going on without really seeing it. It came in handy in situations like this.

Just wait, she thought. Too much downtime between actions is making you confuse your daydreams again. Her parents had always told her she had an overactive imagination, and it sometimes risked spilling over into her conscious reality. Without anything to do, it was cropping up again. Just wait for the debriefing, find out the mission, and it'll all make sense. She probably wouldn't like it, but hers was not to question.

Her keen ears and an itch between her shoulderblades told her someone was coming up from behind the gathered soldiers, walking between the lines. An inspection, she supposed, some puffed-up official who'd probably never set foot on Cadia in his life and still thought he knew how a Cadian should look, act, and fight. If she was really unlucky, they'd be getting a new Commissar, and those were a real pain in the ass to deal with right when they were preparing for another campaign. No time to get used to him, and no time to break him in...

The footsteps grew near. He wasn't as close as she'd guessed. It was his footsteps, slow and purposeful; despite their heavy tread she could tell by their cadence it was due to sheer size, not any sort of intimidation or arrogance. He didn't speak, and she felt as much as heard the hushed rear lines at the man's passing, their little movements, nervousness, and barely-whispered words ceasing. They sounded more relaxed, at ease (of mind, not in the military sense); she hesitated to think they felt 'at peace'. Whoever this was, he was very charismatic. She groaned inwardly -- it probably was their new Commissar.

The footsteps grew closer. Only a rank or two behind, and not a word came from him or the others around her. A disturbing mix of curiosity and dread worked itself around inside her stomach, a sour taste filling the back of her throat.

A gentle stirring of the air behind her, the tread of heavy and careful steps. A great sense of calm, light, and peace filled her, and for a moment her mind was clear of doubt and worry. The tread moved away, and so did the peace; in its place the doubt and fear rushed back in stronger than ever, and her hands shook involuntarily. She swallowed painfully, the sour-bitter acid clawing at her throat and making her want to vomit. She found she hated this place already and wished herself away.

Why couldn't she be back on Cadia, helping her cousin strip her first lasgun or going to the firing range with her younger brother? She even missed the damned troop ships, the endless days of practice drills in the gymnasia with other regiments, gambling or reading or pranking their days away until they arrived at whatever hellhole they were bound for this time ...

Gravel scraped underfoot at the edge of the lines. The man turned, ready to inspect the first line of troops. She heard Chiasson stifle a cough next to her, and knew he too was fighting his own nausea.

'Easy Sson,' she hissed between her teeth, pitched as she would in a stealth mission so the sound wouldn't travel much farther than her squadmate's ears. A returned clicking noise said he heard and understood.

The footsteps grew closer. Her neck ached to turn, her throat seared with acidic fear. She just knew that when the man passed her, it would explain everything.

For once, she really didn't want to know.

THE EMPORER!!!!!!!

This has a very erie feel to it.

Cant wait for the next bit

Advent wrote:This has a very erie feel to it.

Good, that was my intention. (:

w00t! Loving it already Candroth! I've been tossing something around in my head too, but now I'd feel like a copy-cat, and I doubt I could compare to you or The Great Inspire...er. lol =D Keep it uuuup.

DLS has probably inspired us all to have a little fun with the spark of imagination. I mean Hell, im writting the fluff and background on me SM Chapter: The Ebon Drakes!!!!

He wasn't what she'd been expecting.

He was dressed as a Commissar, the pressed fabric of the uniform tailored rather well, noticeable even to a career soldier's eye. Not a thread was out of place, the lines and seams aligned perfectly with one another. Despite its obviously heavy use, it was in perfect repair. The hat sitting atop his head concealed what had to be very short hair, and was pulled down slightly in front so that the dull grey eyes in his skull seemed more intimidating than anything else. Thin, flat lips were curved slightly downward in a calculating, vaguely disapproving frown. His skin seemed too light, nearly translucent. Candroth managed through years of training and self-control not to smirk, thinking on the nasty burn he'd likely receive should their theater of war bring them to a sunny climate.

He looked her up and down silently, taking in every detail of her battle-dress uniform. 'Formal' outfits were for state occasions, the pageantry of visiting a noble or ... well, nothing, really. She had a 'formal dress' uniform, and it was where it belonged -- packed away in her kit, the carryall bag that was probably buried somewhere in the mountain nearby, waiting for the troop-ship to arrive so they could get going.

Even her battle-dress uniform was in good repair. A tear in the pants, a worn spot in the jacket could be a hindrance in combat; it offered an enemy something to concentrate on, a potential weakness to abuse or exploit, and could hinder movement or serve as a distraction. She replaced or repaired any damage to her uniform every chance she got, and she knew the rest of her squad did the same. The name stitched on a removeable panel was half-hidden by the strap of her Hellgun hanging off her left shoulder.

The gaze returned to her face, and she met his eyes with her own, a violet stare that didn't flinch. He could be the mythical Ibram Gaunt for all she cared, or Ursarkar Creed himself; status and story and myth were all well and good, but she judged Men by their actions, not the fancy medals on their chest. Creed would have earned at least some respect owing to his homeworld. This man was not Cadian and thus in her mind worthy of respect only slightly above the rats nibbling on the grain stores.

Clearly he'd seen the same expression on many other faces already. His chin inclined slightly, every nuance of his face saying he knew exactly what she was thinking and wasn't going to condemn her for it. The set of his jaw told her he wouldn't tolerate any gak either, not that he expected too much from anyone.

For one brief moment she grew distinctly unsettled by the depth of his stare, piercing far past her eyes and going somewhere far deeper -- and then he turned away to the next soldier, her good friend and squadmate Marx. Marx had died fighting a Chaos daemon eleven years past.

The fear and doubt she felt before were gone. The acid didn't claw at the back of her throat anymore, and her legs no longer felt like they'd drop if she didn't lock her knees. In its place was a comforting determination, a certainty of her duty. She knew who the stranger was now, in sight and presence; it didn't answer all her questions, but it answered enough for now.

She swallowed a highly inappropriate giggle that tried very hard to come out. She was now pretty certain she was dead, and she could have sworn as he first came into view that the man was going to be the Emperor.

(( And y'all thought it was gonna be the Emperor, didn't ya? ))

well i thought it was...

Idk if you caught the memo, but i carry a plasma gun these days, also ibram gaunt strikes a chord hurr hurr

The first sentence had me hooked!!!

Damn you and my expectations of the emporer giving her a "High Five". Joking, although this puts a very unique and for some reason a troubling feel to it. I cant quite put my finger on it but, something doesnt feel right......

Advent wrote:Damn you and my expectations of the emporer giving her a "High Five". Joking, although this puts a very unique and for some reason a troubling feel to it. I cant quite put my finger on it but, something doesnt feel right......

Of course it doesn't feel right. WE'RE DEAD! However, Candroth... MOAR! Or I won't export any more GOOD beer to the States, and it will be all your fault

You see my plasma gun was too loud/destructive/awesome to bring on the mission to the palace, thus they gave me a hellgun. i got jipped

hehe, *sings* I got the Melta I got the Melta I got the Meeeellllltaaaaa!!

Anything you say can and will be used against you in this story ... >.> <.<

wow this is a awsome.

Candroth wrote:Anything you say can and will be used against you in this story ... >.> <.<

nice, now we get to see how i don't die like a bitch, but live like a man

Ennkay wrote:nice, now we get to see how i don't die like a bitch, but live like a man

Oh no. You're dead. But so is everyone else, so it's okay.

Nuruhuine wrote:

Advent wrote:Damn you and my expectations of the emporer giving her a "High Five". Joking, although this puts a very unique and for some reason a troubling feel to it. I cant quite put my finger on it but, something doesnt feel right......

Of course it doesn't feel right. WE'RE DEAD! However, Candroth... MOAR! Or I won't export any more GOOD beer to the States, and it will be all your fault

NOT THE GOOD BEER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You evil canadian!!!! Do not let this happen Candroth!!!

Moar dammit, Moar!!!!

Candroth wrote:Anything you say can and will be used against you in this story ... >.> <.<

Don't you dare lady.

Very Nice!

When is there going to be more!?!?!?!?!?!

Advent wrote:When is there going to be more!?!?!?!?!?!

When I'm not throwing up so much I'm dizzy .... ugh. Hard to write when I'm busy heaving up everything I ate in the last week. Don't worry, plenty of ideas coming soon. (:

So, you're getting idea's from all the heaving....?
Just screwin with you. Well I speak for all us fluff crazed maniacs when i say get better so the story can continue.

precisely, get well soon,
get writing soon please