[b]Imperial Transport – Fiery Purger.[/b]


	Colonel Howlard grumbled as he watched the companies of the 64th loading up the landing craft. Thousands of guardsmen and hundreds of vehicles filling up the large holds of the ships. Absent of course, the Basilisks and Griffons because the Administratum couldn't pass the opportunity to remind everyone just how much of an asshole the whole organization was. But stewing in his own anger would do nothing now. That was for later, after this battle was won, preferably with a bottle of amasec and Major Farzbard to hear him rant off through the night.

	Now however, it was time for the meatgrinder. The regiment had never faced such bad odds, and internally Howlard was half excited and half scared to see just how well his efforts in training his troops would bear fruit. If he were to be honest with himself however, the Colonel feared that this battle might just irreversibly maul his regiment. His best companies were being deployed into a killing zone, and if the rest of the Imperial forces refused to pull their weight then the 64th was done for. Or at least until someone decided to send more prisoners his way. Though he wasn't going to count on it happening anytime soon.
	
	The Colonel's musings were interrupted by a junior officer (one of the noble sorts who had bought her title, if he recalled correctly). She saluted crisply and reported:

	“First, second and third companies have finished loading up, sir. Pre-battle drug and alcohol rations are being distributed to the troops. And the post-battle doses are already prepared and under guard by the usual detail.”

	“Very well, return to the transport, Lieutenant Boroca. I will be there shortly.” Howlard replied. The Lieutenant saluted again and left quickly.

	Colonel Howlard was about to follow her when his nostrils were assaulted by the unmistakably strong and pungent smell of Torcharian's bootleg perfume. Howlard turned, face twisted in disgust, to see the Commissar casually approaching him, flask in hand.

	“Colonel!” Torcharian smiled, offering the flask. “How about a sip of fortificante before we throw ourselves into the kill zone?”

	“Speak for yourself, Commissar.” Howlard replied, accepting the flask and taking a sip. “I am very comfortable directing the battle from a safe distance.” 
	
	“Careful now, Colonel.” Torcharian smirked at him. “I wouldn't want to execute you for cowardice and unbecoming conduct.”

	Howlard snorted, handing the flask back: “Says the Commissar that goes to battle drunk and snorts with the troops.”

	“It's called bonding, Antunes.” The Commissar smiled. “You should try it someday. Maybe then you will have more people to listen you whining every night.”

	“Well, do be careful out there Commissar.” Howlard said as the Commissar took another swing off the flask. “I would hate the idea of having someone actually competent replacing you.”
	“You always says the sweetest things, Antunes.” The Commissar chuckled. “But don't you worry, the worst that can happen is that I will have to redo the painting on the Brawny Fisherman after we are through with these rebels.”

	“You mean your men will do it. While you drink and sit back. As always.” The Colonel replied.

	“I'm just taking the teachings of the late Commissar Bolange to heart.”  The Commissar smiled again. “But enough of this. We're running late and there will be too many Commissars there. Better not give them any excuses.”