[MOD]
Villanous Scum
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A friend of mine said I should post this here so I am, its kind of 40k meets WW1;
After weeks of static one message suddenly broke through “you are fated to die, your death is certain and engraved in the stars.” He studied the message, read and reread it. His death was certain. Finally he burst out laughing. His death was certain! No gak. They had been facing down the traitors and heretics for weeks, of his company only twenty were left. Death had been his companion for longer than he wanted to think, through shelled habs, tenements blasted in fire, a girl lifeless in his arms. Death was all he knew, through fire and attack, fall back and counter attack, death had surrounded him. His lover, his final friend.
On the forty second day their flank had collapsed, sections two and three had died to a man, in fire and blood they fought to stem the tide. Wave after wave of corrupted flesh and terror and blood had come for them and they fought. Like avatars of courage they had fought, dug in to the ruins of their homes and families they fought. Fall back and fire, fire and fall back. Over the ruins of numbers sixteen Grand Rue de Emperor a bloody counter attack, sixteen men screaming their defiance and hate, charge with bayonet and empty power pack, into the enemies twisted faces. A shell from nowhere ends their brief defiance, torn to pieces in blood and bone.
Through a tide of hate they fought, around huddled fires and brief built sangars they fought. A world doomed to die and still they fought. On the thirty eighth day a brave new lieutenant, shiny and new with bright brocade, “We can throw them back” His words rang on leadened air. “For the Emperor and Glory” third company followed his call. In shot and shell and bitter blood they died, across the street and through happy café they died, in tangled limb and slippery guts they died. They gained ninety meters and they died. Young men fighting for sweet smile and old men fighting for bitter dreams, they died.
The hundredth day rose in glorious light, the pain of phosphex on their skin. In the gutters they stood and died, a last grenade and hurried shot. In droves they died, second, third and fourth companies dead in pain and shock and fire. Through shot and fire, shell and flame they died. Every heretic that fell beside them one last bitter victory, every cultist dead another one last glimpse of hope. At number twenty two Grand Emperor the tide was stemmed, with hate and love they drove the tide back. With courage and faith they drove the tide back. With passion and devotion the tide was turned back. One glorious bastard turned the tide, his family lost, his world in ruin. A lasgun his last friend, he turned the tide. Rising through fire and shot and shell he turned the tide. The ruin of brothers of fifth upon his skin and cloth, he rose with fury. Firing from the hip he charged, a bestial face smashed in bloody ruin, with underslung bayonet a filth incrusted body fell. The last shattered remnant of his company follows, the lusty roar, the fire ruin playing on determined blade. Through the remnants of the happy dead they fought, no ammo, no hope. The last remnant of humanity fought, the last bestial core of what makes one man fought, through hell and hell fire they fought. Inspired with lust and blood and devotion, their brothers and sisters rose with them. Across once pleasant parks, where lovers walked arm in arm, they fought. Through ditch and briar and lusty boudoir they fought. They died in droves, like quail on an empty plain. Humanity cried their empty breath, through shot and shell they screamed, through fear, terror, unrealised ambition they cried. They died and died and died.
Brave eighth stood on the corner, melta and missile stemmed the tide. In the ruins they built their shelters, target and select, bumpfire, auto fire, death and searing pain longed to turn the course of events. The big guns fire, eighth died and died. Ninth behind them gone in flame. The commercia, Tenth and Elventh stood their ground. Bolt and shot, flame and heart of new born star sought to dislodge them. Humanity would not be broken, through the tempest of death they rose with voices singing, ringing, the light of the Emperor shining upon their breasts. Through the ruins of commerce, of day dreams unprepared for bitter night, of happy days and sunlit ruin they fought. Reinforced with hopes of wrack and ruin, the tide surged. Barely forty men and women, were once thousand stood, they fought to the edge of all that was once was sane. They fought beyond that limit. In the face of the most grotesque horrors, of blight and ruin, the debasement of all that was clean, they fought. Through horror and subjection they fought. The reserve joint the fray, lacking in training they didn’t lack for faith. Trained to handle fuel nozzles and diagnostic equipment they picked up the gun and fought like ten thousand bastards. They died, oh how they died. In the ruins of man’s dreams, they died. Flanking fire, enfiladed, beaded in. They died. Who could withstand the tidal wave of death and horror. The glory of a noble death. The righteousness of it. The gloriousness of it. They died in fire and fear, blood and guts, fear and horror.
For the Emperor.
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