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A Tau infant arced through the smoke-gray sky of Syl'kell. For a brief moment its screams were drowned out by the dull thump of a heavy bolter, and a salvo of rocket-propelled shells streaked past. But none of the shots found their target, and it plummeted to join the steadily-growing pile of its dead and dying creche-mates on the street below.
"Squad marksman my ass."
The speaker, a young sergeant wearing most of a uniform and half a set of carapace armor, drained the rest of his bottle and tossed it into the pile of celebratory debris at their feet. "How in the Emperor's golden toilet did you even make it out of the whiteshields?"
"Yeah, real funny. Throw me another one!"
Farther down the bridge his loader grinned at the exchange as he reached into the bin of crying, squirming targets. The new guy had turned out alright after all, once the shooting had started and he'd figured out that a sergeant's stripes didn't make him a Throne-damned dictator. Their improvised marksmanship practice wouldn't bring back the good men they'd lost in two weeks of bloody urban fighting, but it sure felt good to give the xenos bastards a little payback.
"And just what do you three think you're doing?"
Half-drunk and lost in their celebration, none of them had noticed the commissar approaching. Three hearts stopped for a moment in panic, and three arms fumbled for awkward salutes.
"Explain this waste of the Emperor's valuable ammunition immediately! Is there something wrong with your knife, trooper?"
The heavy bolter gunner's mouth hung open as he searched frantically for the words that might bail him out. Not that he would get a chance, as the commissar continued his lecture without waiting for an answer. "I can't even begin to name your crimes here. Associating with xenos filth. Unsanctioned use of Imperial resources. Negligence in establishing a secure perimeter. Failure to observe proper uniform cleanliness. The Tau could have just walked right through here and then where would we be? At least against Orks you could have done the Emperor the decency of denying the enemy the use of three bullets." He turned to face the sergeant. "I will give you one chance to justify this appalling lack of discipline."
"Sir, I thought that a little recreation time might be good for morale, after the past week. I..."
The sound of metal scraping on leather told him all he needed to know. It hadn't been enough. A promising career, years of service, it would all come down to this moment. Only one thing remained to be done. "I have failed in my duties," he finished, straightening to something at least resembling parade-ground formality.
"And may the Emperor have mercy on your soul," the commissar replied, completing the ritual.
To his credit, the seargeant did not even flinch as the commissar's laspistol shot scattered a spray of flash-boiled brain along the road behind him. The two surviving guardsmen, on the other hand, did not share their leader's courage. They knew, with absolute certainty, that they would be next, and they were armed. The gunner began to swing his weapon around, while his loader reached for the lasgun resting against the railing. But just as quickly as the reflexes of combat veterans drove their bodies their minds recoiled in horror. To fire on a commissar would be an unforgivable sin! What good would it be to preserve their lives, only to have the Emperor cast their souls into the abyss?
The commissar nodded in approval as their arms fell limp to their sides. "You two will report to the penal detachment for an assignment better suited to your lack of character."
He thought for a moment.
"After you have finished your duties here."
The commissar pretended not to hear their complaints as they drew their knives and got to work. After all, even soldiers as lacking as those two could still serve the Emperor by catching bullets in the penal legion. It would be so much more efficient that way.
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