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Ahoy there, everyone!

So, I've been writing for years, but I've never actually written a 40k fanfic until now.

The thing's still being written but the plot can be boiled down to this: a Space Marine Chapter on the Eastern Fringe ends up suffering catastrophic losses during a campaign against a heretic world. Because two thirds of their marines were wiped out, the Chapter has to increasingly rely on its Dreadnoughts for combat until they can replenish their losses. The situation isn't helped by the fact that one of the Dreadnoughts is the former Chapter Master, who was rumoured to be somewhat loose with his following of the Codex Astartes prior to internment, and that most of their Dreadnoughts seem to be a bit loopy...

As I said, it's still being written, but any feedback is well appreciated. And on top of all that, I hope the story's entertaining, at the very least.

Be warned; blood and gribblies lie ahead...

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Prologue
Between A Rock...

There was a sharp crack as a stray shot whipped past the Astartes’ head, blowing a fist-sized crater into the earthen trench wall next to him. The sounds of the heretics were growing closer. He gave it about twenty seconds before they stormed the trench network.
Five thousand heretics, mostly Guardsmen, armed with everything from Lasguns to power tools to butcher’s knives.
On top of that, he’d lost his damn helmet.
He got up and ran along the trench, heading to the nearest command bunker. He kept low, hiding as much of his body as he could as he ran. It wasn’t so much to protect his life – well, then again, a dead marine was useless to the Imperium – as to prevent the heretics from knowing there were any more Astartes on the planet. Now that he was alone, isolated from the rest of the Company, he’d have to rely on stealth and cunning to make a difference.
There was a dull rumbling as something exploded, far away from the trench. The pools of water spread along the floor of the trench trembled, both from the force of the explosion and the pounding of the Space Marine’s feet. He turned a corner just in time to see an engine, or what was left of one, plough into the roof of the ferrocrete bunker just up ahead. There was a searing blast of heat as it shattered, but he ignored it.
He kept running.

The door was jammed partway open and he had to force it, destroying the servos and control mechanisms hidden away in the wall. There were a few Guard still alive inside the bunker, all of them injured in some way, and they all appeared visibly relieved as the Space Marine entered.
‘M’lord,’ said the Sergeant. His left arm was badly burned and in a sling, but he was helping to shove a heavy mess table onto its side to act as a temporary barricade. The Astartes grabbed the door and yanked it shut before kicking it solidly, ensuring it wouldn’t reopen.
‘What’s the plan, m’lord?’ asked the Sergeant as the Astartes strode over, reloading his boltgun. The Sergeant pulled a plasma pistol from its holster while the other Guardsmen, four in total, frantically checked their lasguns. They took up point positions across the cramped bunker, with the Sergeant and the Space Marine taking cover behind the overturned mess table. Several boxes of ammunition were stored there as a brace, and behind the table was a set of narrow steps descending into the earth.
‘Stop the heretics from reaching the digsite.’
‘And what if they kill us too soon?’
‘We make sure they do it at great cost.’
The Sergeant said nothing and nodded grimly, checking his plasma pistol once again. Then came the crashing at the door, followed by the infuriated roar of a hundred angry men as they found they couldn’t get in.
It was a wonderful situation, thought the Astartes. Outnumbered, injured, fighting with their backs to the walls, having to work alongside the weak Guardsmen who couldn’t even defend the planet from their own people, and he’d lost the damn helmet.
It was the kind of difficult combat situation one could only dream about.

Sparks began to fly from the top of the door. As the bright light of the arc welder descended, molten steel began to flow in rivulets down the door, the shapes oddly reminiscent of candle wax. The Sergeant was shaking with fear, but he didn’t move. He kept the plasma pistol pointed directly at the doorway, intent on murdering as many of the heretics as he could before they could take him down.
The Astartes found himself admiring the man’s resolve.
The welder got two thirds of the way down and stopped. There was an abrupt silence, and then something heavy began to slam into the door, creasing it inwards. The split in the metal widened, letting the full sounds from outside into the bunker. There were words in there, floating along the seething mass of sound coming from the horde, but most of what the heretics were making was noise.
Inarticulate bellows.
Pure, unwavering rage.
As soon as the gap had widened, the barrels of several guns were jabbed inside and began to fire. Bullets and lasgun shots ripped through the air, smashing into anything loose and pulverising whatever they struck. One of the Guard flinched and was bored through the skull, collapsing in a heap like a sack of jelly. The others took cover.
The Space Marine did not.
He waited until the barrels withdrew and opened fire with his boltgun. The noise was profound in the confined space, but not quite as loud as the sound each bolt made as it struck home. Fist-sized holes were torn into the thick metal of the door, and for a brief few moments the angry rabble outside was replaced with terrified screams. Blood spurted freely and burst through the air, only ending when he stopped firing.
For a few seconds, there was silence.
‘What are you waiting for?’ growled the Astartes. ‘Start shooting.’

The Guard were better disciplined than the Astartes had been expecting, only firing when members of the horde exposed themselves. Blood began to paint the bare steel of the door and the murky yellow walls around it. The Sergeant timed his shots well, too; all of his shots had hit something, and the horde had grown more cautious as soon as they realised plasma weaponry was being used.
Without warning, the doorway exploded.
The door itself was thrown inside like a boomerang, ripping one of the Guard in half and embedding into the wall behind him. Pulverised rock and dust flooded the bunker, and before the defenders could recover the horde had started to swarm inside.
The Astartes fired. Limbs exploded. Bodies were torn apart. Heads flew. Blood sprayed the walls and ceilings in thick showers until the air was thick with its smell and the floor was covered. But this time there was no stopping the horde. They had gotten inside and only death could stop them
The Sergeant fired, too. There was a blinding flash and a terrible noise, and when the Astartes glanced over the Sergeant’s whole right side was a boiling, liquefied mess. The plasma pistol steamed. One of the Guard was tackled and hacked to death, his screams drowned out by the cheer of his attackers. His helmet flew into the air and landed by the Astartes’ feet. There was still a chunk of skull with the scalp attached sitting inside.
He kept firing. The dust in the air turned a light pink, limbs thudded to the ground, blood splashed in streaks and smears. Then the boltgun began to click. Empty.
He simply swung it like a club at the nearest heretic, the man’s neck breaking like a twig. Swinging again, the next heretic’s ribcage was smashed inwards and he fell writhing to the ground. One heretic fired at his head but he missed; the Astartes responded by backhanding him and snapping his spine
There was a harsh buzzing as an Imperial Guard-issue chainsword came swinging around, aimed for the Space Marine’s head. He ducked and the chainsword continued to swing, instead tearing through one heretic’s body and embedding into another. The wielder never saw the giant armoured foot strike out, hurling his smashed body into the wall where it left a star-shaped streak of blood.
The heretics stopped attacking after that, shrinking back as the broken body slumped to the floor. The Astartes swiftly picked up the chainsword and activated it, despite his size in comparison. For a moment he had an image of what he must have appeared like to them, one of the servants of the Emperor, clad in dull orange armour and spattered with the blood of their comrades. What a terrifying sight it must have been, to see something so powerful rearing up in front of you like that.
The only warning for what happened next was a sharp whistling. Then the lights went out and, a moment afterwards, the bunker exploded. Ferrocrete punched down from the ceiling, pulverising everyone who stood underneath.

I like it, I hope to see more.