All-Purpose Warhammer 40000 Fanfiction Thread

The Next part that I can’t remember. The landing zone outside the Fortress Monastery was in a commotion; servitors were performing final diagnostics on parked landspeeders, Marines were rushing to defensive positions, and chapter serfs were scrambling across the open tarmac, sprinting to try and keep up with their masters. In the midst of this confusion, Cyrus swiftly crossed the landing zone with nothing but contempt in his mind for the total lack of coordination amongst his battle brothers.

Fools, Boreale will be the death of us all, he thought bitterly. The Commander had no sense of patience, or any tactical assessment skills beyond direct assault. In a chapter such as the Space Wolves or the Blood Angels, Boreale would have been an exemplary soldier. Not amongst the Blood Ravens. They were seen as cowardly amongst the other chapters, as they preferred to study enemy tactics, and strike with applied force and precision rather than charging headlong with chainsword in hand and faith in heart. Cyrus had once considered Boreale to be his finest student as a young scout, many centuries ago. His swift promotion to Captain of 2nd Company was meant as a reward for his prowess in combat. Instead, all it did was inflate an already massive ego.

Cyrus continued to head for the forward defences. He’d voxed Vaenor to inform him of his arrival. He found them a few minutes later nestled in a grove of trees above the swamplands. Teral was on sniper duty, with Arreth acting as his spotter. Denmor was erecting a makeshift machine gun nest for his heavy bolter. He looked up from his handiwork, and saluted Cyrus as he approached. Vaenor looked up from his weapons calibrations peered expectantly at the Scout Captain.

“Yes, captain? What are our orders?” he asked hesitantly.

‘The Commander has demanded that our remaining scout teams retake our former defensive positions, in order to prepare covering fire for our deep striking battle brothers.’ Cyrus pointed to a ridge a few kilometres further south. It might have seemed a small retreat from their earlier vantage points, but when the Imperial Guard began using rolling barrage tactics, every inch of ground counted.

Denmor turned to the captain, ‘But it’s suicide to head out there!’ We’d be stranded in the open without any support!’

‘Denmor, we are the support. It is our job to ensure our brothers have the aid to perform successful deep strikes. I don’t like it either, but we must do as Chapter Command insists. Despite my seniority, this is Boreale’s campaign. We must adhere to his commands.’

‘But his commands will get us all killed! There is honour in battle, but you always taught us that survival and patience win wars.”

“Scout! I understand your concern, I share it personally, but we must obey the commands we are given. We will ensure as many of our brothers live this day as we can. They can ask no more of us than that.”

Subdued, Denmor bowed his head. “Understood, Captain.”

Cyrus patted Denmor on the shoulder. “Fear not, initiate, I promised I would keep you alive this morning. I don’t intend to go back on that promise now. Here, detach that heavy bolter, and we will move back towards the outer posit”- Thwump.

The muffled sound rang out again and again. A millisecond later, Cyrus had pushed Denmor to the ground as the grove exploded in an orange inferno. He was vaguely aware of Vaenor diving for cover as well. He couldn’t see Teral or Arreth in the smoke and dust. The Earthshaker Round had torn the tree line apart, leaving only splinters of burning wood and flash fried stumps behind. Before Cyrus could stand again, several more artillery rounds rocked the plateau, kicking up tons of dirt and rock in a chorus of fiery explosions. His face was burning, his flesh and bone being peeled back by shrapnel and flames. Cyrus struggled to his feet, blood pouring over his temple into his eyes, obscuring his vision. With one hand, he lifted Denmor to his feet, and hauled Vaenor up with the other. The thundering sound of Basilisk rounds being fired continued, but for now, the scouts could stand again.

Teral was dead, and Arreth’s arm was shattered by the blast. Blood was streaming from his cracked breastplate. After reorienting himself, Cyrus confirmed that only he, Denmor, and Vaenor were in any condition to fight. Arreth would die without immediate medical attention.

‘We need to get him back to the Monestary captain!’

‘Yes Vaenor. You carry Arreth! Denmor and I will provide covering fire!”

As if to answer his statement, the air around Cyrus was filled with beams of lasgun fire, shooting faster than the eye could blink. Taking cover in the new crater, the surviving scouts were faced with an oncoming rush of Imperial Guardsmen, hundreds of them.

Denmor’s Heavy Bolter began pounding away, the heavy thud of its bullets shaking the air as they discharged from the gun’s barrel. Upon impact, the explosive tipped rounds tore the lightly armoured humans apart, before bursting into shrapnel, carving up the troops around the original victim. Cyrus saw that Vaenor had laid Arreth down in the crater, and was now firing off spurts of Boltgun fire as well. The hammering sound of holy weapon firing away complimented the steady thud of Denmor’s heavy weapon. The only pauses of this synchronized firing pattern appeared when ammunition had to be replaced. Limbs and blood flew in every direction as the bolter rounds impacted on their targets again and again. The suppressed guard were struggling to crawl up the ridge under the hail of explosive bullets. Despite their poor morale and weak armour, however, the Guardsmen kept coming, more and more as the stalemate continued. Cyrus was aware of the fact that the Imperial Guard was the Hammer of the Emperor; they would not stop until this world was ground into dust. Everything that Cyrus and his scouts did was only a delaying action, made to buy time until Boreale’s idiotic plan could commence.

“Fall back! Fall back to the Fortress Monastery! Move!”

As Cyrus and the remaining scouts began to pull back from the shattered hill, Cyrus’ vox link began transmitting. Captain Deimos’ voice was projected towards every Space Marine stationed in the Kaurava System.

“Brothers, this is Captain Deimos, currently stationed aboard the Fortress of Solitude. Companies Five and Six are ready and able for combat drop. Now is our time to strike! Initiating Steel Rain tactics. Pods will drop in 3...2...1.”

The sky was filled with streaking meteorites, as scores of drop pods shot through the sky. They shot through the smoke filled atmosphere like beams of light, careening towards the surface. Seconds later, the sky was also filled with Valkyries.

What Part Are We On Again?

The shooting drop pods were suddenly surrounded on all sides by Valkyrie Transports and Vulture Gunships. The automatic course correction mechanisms on the drop pods veered them away from some ships, while ships seeking to avoid collision with the Drop Pods veered into those. The airspace was suddenly very crowded. Gunships and drop pods crashed into each other with wild abandon. To his starboard side, Darius’ wingman was struck by a passing pod, sending it tumbling across the nose of his valkyrie and into another ship on his other side. Darius’s set his own gunship into a dive to avoid the conflagration of the two vessels mid air connection. However, this swift manoeuvre threw his ship into a spin, and Darius struggled to regain control of the bird as it continued its downward spiral.

He was vaguely aware of his navigator and co-pilot shouting at him from behind, but their voices were drowned out by his focus on keeping the ship airborne until he reached the target area. A hailstorm of drop pods wouldn’t stop him.

Finally levelling out again, Darius took a short moment to view the chaos above him. The air fleet was scattering to avoid collision with the passing drop pods, the telltale bursts of orange and yellow indicating when the craft connected with less fortunate pilots. Poor fools, he thought, shame they don’t have me as a pilot. I’m not going to be stopped by a few falling pods!

His thoughts were cut short when his Valkyrie made a sudden change of vector by ninety degrees as something smashed into the top of his aircraft with incredible force. The sudden shift threw his co-pilot violently into the cockpit canopy, snapping his neck on the glass covering. Darius could hear screams coming from the troop bay as soldiers tumbled out of their seats and were thrown about like discarded toys. Loud metallic thumps echoed across the top of the valkyrie as warning klaxons wailed indicating an imminent impact with the ground. Darius tried one last time to bring his ship about. Too little, too late. The Valkyrie slammed into the ground, crushed by the weight of the Drop Pod that had smashed into it in midair.

In a daze, Darius felt hot blood pooling around his waist. He tried to look down, but found he could not move his head, his spine had been shattered by the crash. As his blood poured out of his flight suit, sparks flying from his cockpit’s damaged circuitry, he began to feel the effects of blood loss, his thoughts becoming light and clouded as he suffocated without the flow of bodily fluids. The last image he saw from his permanent stare at his cockpit canopy was of a hulking red figure with glowing green eyes, sending an armoured boot at his head.

He knew something was up. He could feel it in his bones as the Commander stared at him, eying him up and down as if taking his measure.

The Commander was old. He’d been old when Fabian joined the regiment. Rejuvenation treatment had kept him alive, but his age was starting to show on his wrinkled, hairless face. Not so much as a whisp of hair was growing on his head. The lads often joked that he’d make a prime Space Marine candidate. He was dressed in his full uniform, his right breast laden with medals, including the pin that marked him as the overall commander of the Planetary Defense Forces on Hive World Ghastis, appointed by the Planetary Governor, as well as the Chapter Master of the local Space Marine Chapter.

“Something wrong, Sniper Fabian.”

“Not at all, sir. It’s just not often that a trooper’s called into the Commander’s seat of office, sir. Unless of course you’re reprimanding me for my lax shooting at yesterday’s cultist raid.”

“I’ll blame you for nothing, Sniper. I’ve heard from reliable sources that you weren’t the one who botched the shot.”

He produced a pict-slate, scanning over it with a steaming mug of caffeine in his other hand. Fabian’s mouth watered. He’d always been a sucker for caffeine. Some might even call him a bit of an addict. It had the (according to some) unfortunate side effect of making him the best caffeine brewer in his PDF regiment.

“I’ve been looking over your service record. Almost forty years in the PDF. Perfect marksmanship. Lacklustre rate of fire.”

“With respect, Commander, what does my service record have to do with why you called me here?”

The PDF Commander sighed, put the slate down, and stood up, his effort boosted significantly by his cane. He looked over at Fabian with furrowed brows. Whatever news he was about to bring, it was troubling.

“The Administratum has decided that it’s time for Ghastis to pay the Imperial Tithe. We’re to ship three six thousand men strong infantry regiments off-world to serve in the Imperial Guard.”

Fabian looked at the Commander with a raised eyebrow. The relationship between the Ghastis PDF and the Guard had always been stretched because of the latter’s refusal to help the Ghost Walkers and their homeworld because, as the troopers put it, the local Lord Militant had a copy of the Codex Astartes stuck so far up his arse it was interfering with his brain. Of course they’d never say that in front of an officer.

“Again, sir, I must ask, what does this have to do with me?”

“We have to assemble six thousand men from the Ghastis PDF. I want you to appoint and command our snipers in the Second Ghastis. I want you to hand-pick two hundred snipers from your current roster.”

“...Sir, you’re giving me a promotion? I’m just a foot soldier! I’ve never commanded a unit in my life. What makes you think I won’t botch this completely?”

“I trust you’ll grow with command, Lieutenant”, the Commander said, addressing Fabian by what he assumed would be his new rank. He was starting to shake a little. He was not confident with command. He realized he’d snapped a bit when the Commander furrowed his brows again.

“I’m sorry, sir. I just don’t think I’d be a good Lieutenant.”

“I think, with a bit of training, you’ll be the right man for the job.”

“So I’ll be the Right-tenant, sir?” He found himself grinning, despite the circumstances. The look on the Commander’s face alone was worth it.

“Bad jokes aside, I’ve got important information you will need to know. Ordinarily I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but I know where they’re shipping you off to, and I feel that the officers have a right to know. You’re being shipped off to the Jericho Reach. It’s a long way from here, even with Warp-travel. Your boys won’t know, as per the orders of the Lord Militant who leads the Jericho Reach Crusade. Also, a Space Marine will be traveling with you. He’s to be initiated into the Deathwatch.”

“Is his name Laszlo, by any chance?”

“I took your accuracy for skill, not warp-dabbling, Pawlak.”

“I knew the man. I just made a lucky guess, sir. Warp-dabbling isn’t my thing. Too much faffing about with the embodiment of fear.”

“If that’s all, you’re dismissed. I expect you to meet up with Colonel Otto in the morrow with your two hundred snipers.”

“As you wish, sir. Will any Astartes besides Laszlo be accompanying us?”

“No. Why do you ask that?”

“Curiosity. If there are eight feet tall demigods in ancient suits of armor on board the same ship as I, however well-meaning they might be, I’d be glad to know.” “As I said, no other Astartes will accompany you.”

“Thank the Emperor.”

“Dismissed, then. At 0800 hours tomorrow you’ll see the rest of your regiment. Good luck, and remember, the Emperor protects.”

Fabian saluted once and walked out of the Commander’s office with a heavy heart, shaking hands, and an aching belly. Where had he left that frakking caffeine pot again...

Not so much as a whisp of hair was growing on his hair.