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Part 1, Chapter 1

There was a certain numbness one could acquire to the world after having experienced or simply seen too much. Private Ison Dester was an excellent example of this. As a member of the Norgab 21st PDF Squadron, he had actually only been in two battles, but those two battles would haunt him for the rest of his days. Both were against simple, renegade Guardsmen. They weren't involved with Xenos and hadn't been tainted by the strange, malignant force referred to as "Chaos" by politicians and generals in hushed whispers. No, they had just been simple Guardsmen who, for whatever Emperor forsaken reason, had turned against the Imperium and attacked Norgab. Though the Norgab PDF had succeeded in holding them back until a massive detachment of loyalist Guardsmen could arrive, it had been at a heavy cost.

"Continuing on," said Lieutenant Leon in his nasally voice. Supposedly Sebastian Thor, one of the greatest heroes of the Imperium, had a high pitched, nasally voice reminiscent of a duet sung by a Mechanicum priest and a five year old girl. Anyone caught spreading this heretical rumor was executed. "We have reason to believe that the heretics may have.... erm.... heretical Astartes of the Reborn warband."

"Excuse me?" interrupted Sergeant Fermen. Interrupting a superior officer was justification for a summary execution, but anyone could interrupt the squeamish and cowardly Lieutenant Leon without fear. "We weren't informed that there would be Astartes. We don't have nearly enough men to hold them back."

Ison took a sip from a hidden flask of amasec, ignoring the conversation. He couldn't care less. Until the enemy was directly shooting and stabbing at him, he couldn't care less about briefings and battle plans. Even the mention of Astartes failed to pique his interest. Amasec and other, similar intoxicants were the only things that he actually cared about.

"Now, don't worry," replied Leon. "We estimate there will be fifty... ahem, Astartes at most. The Norgab 21st will be more than equipped to deal with them. In fact, the main threat is the cultists, slaves and servitors, not the Astartes. However, there is still essential information that should be known. They are members of the Reborn, a warband known for using outdated, low quality and rusting equipment, as you can see here." He flipped a switch and activated a holoscreen. For a moment the holoscreen displayed a rough image of what looked like a suit of power armor, but the image degenerated into static. "Excuse me while I fix this."

Leaning against a wall next to Ison was Private Noahm, a tall man with an unshaven face, beady eyes and cracked lips. "Hey Ison," he said. "Gimme some of that amasec or I'll tell good ol' Sergeant Fermen what kind of guard duty you were really doing last night."

"This is black mail," snarled Ison.

"So it is. Now are you going to give me the flask or not? I won't drink much."

"Give some to me too," said Private Elt. Unlike Noahm, Elt was handsome, muscular and clean shaven. His appearance betrayed him.

"And me," added in the aging Private Raul, the oldest member of the entire squadron.

"You weren't even there Raul," Ison hissed. "How would you tip off Sarge if you didn't even know what I did?"

"Yeah Ison, but I was there," said Noahm. "Now gimme it."

Ison reluctantly handed it over to Noahm, who took a quick gulp and handed it to Elt. With a wide grin, Elt greedily consumed the entire contents of the flask in a few moments of mad drinking and passed the empty flask to Raul. After attempting to take a drink, Raul gently set the flask down with a disappointed expression.

Lieutenant Leon adjusted a strange, jutting piece of machinery with a screwdriver. The image only worsened and he twisted it the other way. With a loud mechanical hiss the holoscreen went dead, failing to produce an image at all. In desperation Lieutenant Leon kicked the holoscreen repeatedly. It restarted, this time showing a crystal clear picture of a horrifying figure.

It was an Astartes alright; massive in proportions with especially giant limbs and thick metal plating completely covering its body. The archaic armor design was painted with a shining brass color and a dark, blackish brown trim. It was so thoroughly rusted that it looked as though a light breeze would cause it to crumble away. It held an aging, low quality bolter in a two handed grip at the waist. Two red eyes glowed ominously from its horned helm.

"These are the Reborn. Their armor is just as durable as standard issue power armor, despite its appearance. It lacks in flexibility, but it makes up for this increased strength. Avoid melee at all costs, even if your ranged weapons seem to have no effect on them. Their bolters are outdated and low quality. The 'bolts' they use take extra seconds to detonate, usually not exploding until several seconds after impact. The longest one has ever taken is three days, though that was an extremely rare case. This concludes the briefing. Are they any questions?"

"Does the armor have any weak spots?" asked Sergeant Vale.

"The knee and neck joints are relatively weak and can be penetrated by the average lasgun shot. However...."

Ison hadn't heard any of that. He was busy imagining Elt's brutal murder at his hands. "Klicking heretical wulfren feth xeno son," he muttered. "Took the last amasec, even after all the work I had to do to get it. Ought to be fed to the Warp Dragon, whatever the klick it is. Klicking wulfren feth Elt."

Part 2, Chapter 1

The Norgab 21st PDF Squadron waited within a massive series of trenches. Before the trenches laid row upon row of barricades and traps which was preceded by a landmine choked field. The Reborn, whoever they were, had made the crucial mistake of allowing the PDF time to reinforce their base and bunker down. If they had attacked just a few hours earlier they would've likely won, but now they seemed completely hopeless.

"The Scouts say they're close," Sergeant Fermen announced. "Switch to highest alert now. If your lasgun's safety is still on, turn it off. No talking. Now is not the time for distractions."

Ison stared through the sights of his gun. A combination of dirt mounds, tank traps, barbed wire, assorted barricades and fog made it difficult to see. For all he knew the enemy could be ten feet in front of his trench and silently crawling up. Supposedly events like that actually occurred quite a bit during the still raging Tyrannic Wars.

A bloodcurdling scream cut through the silence. Followed by another. And another. Then there was the sound of an explosion. A tiny flare of light could be seen in the distance. More explosions lit up. Each explosion seemed bigger than the last; the enemy was getting farther through the mine field. When Ison squinted, he caught a glimpse of a dozen or so charging figures.

Fermen seemed unfazed. "Almost within range," he said calmly. "As soon as I give the word, open fire."

A pebble, likely kicked up by an explosion, rolled through a tangle of barbed wire and past a tank trap until it stopped directly at the edge of the trench. Its arrival seemed strangely ominous. Ison kept on aiming. Now the figures were more clear, but it was still difficult to make out details. Some seemed strangely inhuman with tentacles, horns or even extra limbs but this was probably just illusion caused by the fog or the explosions. Ison was sure that smart arsed Science Officer Kievlin would have an explanation for it.

The shouts and screams of the cultists were growing louder. Now a few could even be heard over the explosions, albeit barely. It was clear that they weren't far away in the distance anymore.

"Death to the False Emperor!"

"My masters demand blood!"

"Die! Die! Hahahahahha! Die! Come out from trenches meet your fate!"

"We are the destroyer!"

"Burn the body! Sear the soul!"

Raul panicked. He dropped his rifle and spun around, attempting to clamber out the back end of the trench. Without hesitation or remorse, Fermen turned his lasgun towards him and fired twice. Both shots hit flesh, each burning a shallow hole in his chest. Screaming in pain, Raul slipped and fell onto his back. Fermen shot him one final time in the face.

Turning towards his squad, Fermen demanded, "Is there anyone else whose having second thoughts about their loyalty to the Emperor? Anyone?" After hearing no reply he said, "Good."

One figure cut through the mist. It was a short, hunched man wearing old rags. He wore a single, bulky piece of carapace armor on his right arm. A red eye had been drawn on the otherwise black shoulder pad. After getting scarcely within ten feet of the trench, his foot became snagged in a tangle of barbed wire. He tripped, landing squarely on one of the many barbed spikes set up hours prior. It easily penetrated his chest and even pierced his back, sticking up from his prone form. The cultist hacked up blood and reached towards the PDF in vain before finally succumbing to his wounds.

The figures in the fog were clearer now, though still obscured by barricades and reinforcements. Some still had the illusion of horrific deformities and mutations, strangely enough. Ison dearly wished he had his amasec, which brought his thoughts back to his rage at Elt. Did that klicking wad of wulfren feth even understand how hard it was to get amasec in this Emperor forsaken army?

"Fire!" Fermen shouted. "Open fire! Open fire!"

Ison pulled the trigger. Lasguns, as laser weapons, experienced no recoil. A simple pulse of green light flashed from the barrel and disappeared, likely hitting nothing. He fired again, this time aiming at one of the larger figures. Though the weapon seemed to hit, the figure didn't even slow in its mad charge towards the trenches. As it neared, it's appearance became clearer.

"Space Marine!" yelled Ison. "Marine!" He pointed. "Right over there! Space Marine!"

Fermen immediately ordered, "Focus all fire on the Astartes!"

Shot after shot was fired at the massive Reborn. The majority missed, having been deflected by barricades, caught in the fog or simply aimed poorly. Furthermore, the shots that did hit had no effect. Due to the distance it was unclear if the lasers were penetrating his armor but failing to harm him or if they couldn't even get past his armor at all.

The Reborn cleared a tank trap in a single leaping bound and tore through a patch of barbed wire with ease. Now his appearance was clear. He was identical to the holoscreen image in almost all respects. The only obvious differences were his helm (which was more reminiscent of a Standard Mark 7 Aquila Armor pattern with a topknot) and his weaponry. Instead of clutching a bolter he held a grinding chainsword in one hand and a bolt pistol in the other. His ceramite boot came crashing down on one of the many wooden spikes portruding from the ground. It immediately shattered under his weight, leaving the Reborn unscathed.

"Keep firing!" said Fermen. "Hold steady! Keep firing!"

As the renegade Astartes rolled behind cover, he pulled the trigger of his pistol. The bolt pistol immediately began to bark, spraying dozens of shots in the rough direction of the trench. Ison was splattered with gore. He turned and saw Private Shyian, a quiet and unassuming soldier, clutching a gory wound in his chest. Shyian toppled over backwards, moaning in pain. And the bolt exploded. Shyian's chest momentarily expanded as if he were taking a great breath. A dozen tiny new wounds opened up in his chest, soaking his jacket with blood. Shyian fell silent.

"Shyian!" exclaimed Noahn, dropping to his knees and leaning over the corpse. "Are you okay? Shyian?"

"Get back into formation Private Noahn! That's an order!"

All fire concentrated on the large barricade the Reborn was hiding behind. Though some shots managed to score deep grooves in the metal, most had no effect. As the squad continuing shooting at him, two Servitors lumbered out through the fog. Both had bionic legs and large, whirring drill arms stained with blood. At the rate they were pushing through the defenses, they were far more of an immediate threat than the Reborn. Ison fixed his gun on the left one's forehead and pulled the trigger. To his surprise, he hit. The Servitor's head caved in and it went rigid. The strange sight reminded Ison of a factory drone powering down for the night.

It was too late to catch the other servitor. The cyborg plowed into the trenches, knocking soldiers aside. Fermen was too slow to get out of the way and was stabbed in the gut by the Servitor's drill arm. As the drill rotated it caught on intestines and viscera, inadvertently yanking them out. Injured beyond belief, the Sergeant vomited up a nauseating mixture of bile and gore onto his attacker. The emotionless Servitor only drilled in farther.

"Take out the Servitor!" Ison shouted, fighting back his own disgust and despair. "Fire! Open fire!"

A hail of lasers blew the cyborg along with the wretched form of Fermen to smithereens. Still horrified, the squad kept firing. And then Elt's head exploded. Normally Ison would've felt satisfaction at this, but he instead felt fear. Spinning around, he saw the Reborn emerging from cover and clutching a smoking bolter. Before anyone could react, the Reborn fired again. Another soldier, whom Ison didn't know, lost his arm. He screamed and collapsed, blood gushing from the stump. A third shot hit Ison in the chest.

He toppled over backwards and looked down. It was a minor wound. The heat had cauterized the tiny entry wound and it didn't seem like it had hit anything vital. Then again, Ison wasn't a doctor. Suddenly he remembered the very important facts that bolts explode.

"Klick!" Ison cursed.

He frantically dug into the wound with his index finger and thumb, wishing for the bolt. It hurt unbelievably. Only through sheer mental strength was Ison able to do it. Finally he felt it. The metal was still warm. Desperately, Ison tried to wrap his fingers around it. Blood was spilling everywhere; his arm was soaking in it.

He grabbed it. Overjoyed, Ison wrenched the bolt out. Just as it exited his chest, it exploded. His hand disappeared, leaving behind a bloody vapor and a horribly burnt stump. Ison slipped into blissful unconsciousness.