@Amaranth

Tigranes kept up the barrage of suppressive fire for as long as he could. With the entire squad now inside the bunker this skirmish had turned in their favor, decisively so. Now all that the Eighth needed to do was hunker down and weather this storm. The squad assaulting their bunker wasn't large enough to manage to storm the Eighth's position successfully. And even if they were, Tigranes doubted the diminished gaggle of conscripts had the necessary skills to pull it off. Then again, the Eighth was by no means a respectable military force. But his own band of criminal conscripts had the advantage of a strong fortified position to hide in.

And, Tigranes, assumed, the Eighth in general had more military experience than the average squad within the legion. Sure, some of them like Octavia would be hard pressed to impart their wisdom upon their fellow squadmates, but Tigranes himself tried his best. Not that the middle of a firefight lent itself to a proper environment for military instruction. That's not to say that there was nothing to be done either. Tigranes had dealt with enough raw conscripts back in Hayk to know what kind of advice would be useful in the middle of combat and what lessons should be left for quieter times.

Still, this was no reason to grow complacent. The battle was not yet over, and this skirmish in the bunker would surely leave them all vulnerable to the third squad lurking somewhere else in this make believe battlefield. They were by no means "out of the tunnel shaft" yet.

He called out to compliment Octavia on her elimination of the would-be bombardier and quickly crawled closer when she motioned him. He understood her well enough, or thought he did. God Emperor above, why did she had to be mute?

The former miner steadied himself, setting lascarbine aside and taking a grenade from his belt. Going through the same motions as the Guardswoman, he threw his own grenade soon after her before dropping behind cover just as fast as he had risen and gripping his gun tight in his hand, legs straining to follow Octavia once she charged out of the bunker to finish the two stragglers off.

"Fuck fuck fuck!"

Screamed Hall as he ran through the bunker, his lasgun spewing out a hot beam of fucking death. It quickly corpsed any impeding baddies, his bayonet was slick with gore and his body was as hot as hot could get. It was hell, that bunker on the other side was not kind to the Emperor's guidance. Poor Emperor, Hall thought as he had to plow through a bunch of nobodies. Sustaining bruises and rifle butts from the myriad of melee encounters Hall saw on his way through the heretical bunker, Hall regrouped with his squad within in it rather quickly! He saw the mute down the hall and waved as he ran over.

"Emperor protect!!! It's me! The Emperor has brought us back together!"

For some reason, everyone was crouched and in cover as Octavia - the emperor's voice, threw something out to the battlefield, as Hall walked into the section of the bunker they were stationed in.

"What the..."

Was the words Hall got out when the grenade went off, his ears were ringing and tunnel vision grew quickly on the young man. "AHHH!!" he screamed as he got down on all fours, crawling to Octavia. The man was scared, too scared as he found himself close to Octavia and fellow legionaries. "The Emperor... He did not foresee this." He managed to say as he began to collect himself (probably with the help of some boots). Ammo topped off and lasgun ready, he remained behind the wall with a face-splitting grin - his eyes focused on Octavia for guidance, and also the view.

Lasgun fire found itself into the bunker, screams were heavy and frequent and death and despair seemed to be the only smell the group could continuously witness in this hell of a simulation. They could be well, the only squad left - but maybe that's not how it works. They had to do something, they had to win.

For the emperor.

Gate was a young boy, not long after his 14th birthday. It was the dark season in Taranis Prime, and the night-time temperatures had already dropped well below freezing. If you spent the entire season indoors, you would go mad from cabin fever, especially in the overcrowded hab complexes of the mid-hive. The best way to shake off the dark season blues was an evening stroll along one of the open air promenades with your family. These were some of the fondest moments of Gate's young life. The many coloured lights of the commerce arcades, the smell of hundreds of street kitchens preparing local food, the groups of young heirs from uphive and strange off-worlders. He was safe amongst his siblings and under the watchful eyes of his hulking father, free to explore a night-time world of childish excitement.

Occasionally, however, Gate's parents would be otherwise occupied and he would instead venture out with only the company of a few of his siblings. This time was one such occasion, and Gate was walking through the streets at the end of the evening to return to his parent's complex. The streets were beginning to empty at this time of day, as the shops and markets closed and there was little reason to be outside. As Gate walked he forgot to look where he was going, and ended up colliding with a man walking in the opposite direction and sending a bottle the man was holding shattering upon the ground. The man had the look of a vagrant, and immediately turned on Gate in anger. Rather than taking the man's side, passersby immediately assumed that - because of his appearance - the man was some thief or lunatic attacking the young Gate. Gate made no effort to be honest; he let the gathering crowd assume the man was an attacker and revelled in the privilege imparted even by his modest social status. This was an important formative moment in Gate's life. There was no feeling more reassuring than knowing society was on your side. You could look upon the less fortunate through a glass screen and never have to know their fate.

...

As lasfire blew white-hot pockets in the ruined buildings, Gate wondered if this is how that unassuming vagrant had felt. The other penal legionnaires trying to blow his head off weren't interested in his side of the story. The officials from Redemption didn't bother to differentiate him from the next legionnaire, regardless of how much more valuable an asset he might be or how harmless his crimes may have been.

The deafening percussion of a grenade blast thudded from nearby as Octavia and Tigranes made their manoeuvre. The blast triggered some additional memory, a continuation of the scene. Gate remembered that whilst the crowd did not care for the life of the vagrant, the vagrant stood his ground and pressed the truth on them anyway. They didn't listen - the vagrant was arrested and might have even ended up on a penal world like Redemption - but there was nevertheless something admirable in the futile defiance of the vagrant. At any other time Gate might have found it a pathetic sentiment, but in this situation is stirred something inside of him. Grabbing his lascarbine, he drew in breath sharply and fired it blindly over the top of his cover.

He never got the response he wanted, not that it even mattered or cared. The words were said purely to soothe his own frantic mind, with whatever else going on was merely added to the blur of action and the cacophany of lasfire, punctuated by the occasional blast from a frag grenade. He found comfort in the safety of their bunker, the lasfire safely embedding as smouldering craters in the sides, shrapnel appearing to do the same.

Then, as if the Cosmos themselves were wishing to spite the poor Redemption-born Cutman, he watched as the two fulcrums of Eighth Squad up and left in a flurry of concussive blasts. He sat there for a moment, bouncing in his kneeling position before he gripped his rifle, tears welling up in his eyes as smoke drifted in through slits in the bunker, making it difficult to see.

"Oh, for Terra!" He cursed, crawling over to the bunker door and taking off in a sprint after the other two, not quite as adept at lugging around all his gear at once. More than just once his pre-owned boots wedged their cap in a rock, sending him sprawling with a resounding thwack that left him winded. Luck seemed to be on his side, though, as he made progress towards the other two.

The smoke drifting lazily across the hangar simulation, absent of any wind, obscured his vision - what he thought was Octavia and Tigraines turned out to be two frantic Legionnaires. A more seasoned warrior would use this opportunity to get the drop on them, seize the intiative and dictate the tempo - instead, Phrike came to a skidding stop.

For a moment, both parties peered through the smoke.

Lasfire.

A volley of poorly aimed beams of red light fired where Phrike once was, the Paleman now huddled behind a burnt out wreck of a Taurus, the radiant heat scorching one side of his face. He couldn't stay here long, the animalistic "fight or flight" instinct taking over as he heard them stepping over towards him, one around the left; the other around the right.

He took off in a sprint, startling the one on the right as he booked it past him. Through sheer luck, he avoided the volley of lasfire, until the very last instant. Just as he was about to crest a mound of rubble towards the correct squad, the entire left side of his body light up in extreme agony. He didn't stop, however, even though he was no longer under fire. He had no idea if they were still chasing him.

Falling in line behind Octavia and Tigraines, panting, he gave himself the chance to inspect his wound. A lasblast had scorched his tattered dungarees, fused into his skin from the heat, across his arm. He didn't need to worry about bleeding, the wound had been cauterized, as had the other round on his shoulder and side. He'd be fine.

His lascarbine, however, was not. It had copped two blasts, one that melted the side of the barrel inwards and the other across the front of the receiver, clean through. A tentative pull of the trigger only gave him a resounding whine from the receiver and a futile spark, he ditched the weapon behind himself as they ran, clutching his knife instead as he attempted to keep pace with the other two so as not to be left alone.

Octavia skidded into a crouched firing position and brought her rifle up to bear. Her slide had left marks in the ash and dirt and blew up a cloud of particulates that would have obscured a lesser warrior's vision. However, Octavia's killer instinct was almost primal at this point into the battle, she smelled blood and could practically see the red liquid coursing in the other men's veins. She whipped her lascarbine up and rapidly squeezed off a burst of rounds. The first missed and dinged off of a pile of wreckage. The second found its mark and scorched half of a helmeted man's face into a slag of melted flesh and bone which fell with a thwump into a pile of dirt, dust and blood. The third blast took the other man's arm off in a spray of half-misted blood. His rifle in his severed hand, kicking off lances of crimson as it twitched its last moves, tumbled through the air until it landed on the ground. The crippled man screamed as he flopped down and died.

Octavia stood up with a satisfied look on her face and scanned the arena for the remaining few squads. Her rifle radiated heat and the metallic tang of blood. She looked back at her squad; the pale doctor looked like he took a hit but was still standing, the former enforcer seemed shaken but was still able to fight, and finally the PDF soldier seemed fairly steady as far as PDF soldiers went. The rest of the squad was out of her sight at the moment, although she could hear the crazed man's shouting so she assumed he was still 'fine.' The veteran motioned for the rest of the squad to fall in behind her; the hard part was over, it was just clean up by this point. The rest of the squads were likely to be in shambles and would be easy prey for a full strength squad like the Eighth.

Octavia looked back over the battlefield and scanned again for any signs of life. Any sounds were for the most part drown out by dying screams and moans. No lasfire could be seen either. Curious, the enemy must be too frightened to come out. Octavia took a knee and removed her helmet, brushing her hand over her short cropped hair and wiping some sweat that had pooled on one of her forehead scars. Killing was tiring work. Leading a squad AND killing was downright exhausting.

@Drunken Conquistador@Laduguer@Amaranth@DeadDrop@Hank@Cash78

CEASE.

And just like that the place was silent once more, no more explosions, no more risk of being taken off ones feet by a burning bolt of laser, and only the murmurings of the living and the groans of the near-dead able to be heard.

Put down your weapons, prepare for debrief.

The hiss of opening doorways could be heard by anyone able to listen, an entire troop of fully armoured Cadian troopers flowing into the false battlefield and setting up a cordon for the entourage of Guard officers following them in. There were a variety of uniforms among them, from Cadians to Steel Legion, the foremost figure a tall and well-built Colonel with a bionic eye and greying hair shaved close to his skull beneath his peaked cap; in his sombre brown flak armour and beige jacket he looked every bit the commanding force.

“Eighth squad?” He questioned an aide at his side, the smaller man in a simpler but no less regal outfit, one slender arm pointing toward the squad was currently huddled as he eyed a dataslate in his grip.

“Eighth squad!” The Colonel now shouted, making his way over toward them, Guardsmen cautiously forming a cordon around the group – these were still convicts after all, “my name is Colonel Harvar of the Cadian Seventy-Fifth. You have all proved yourself today, along with those other squads who competed here before you, and those that shall after. I would be most grateful to speak with the leader – or the person in command - of your squad, are they present?”

((OOC: I can only hope that most, if not all, of you are still here and willing to go on. If so then let's do this, if not, or if you are eeerring on going on, then I understand. The Emperor protects.))

@Jbcool

The end of the skirmish came as a surprise for Tigranes, the former PDF Sergeant was sure there were still other squads to take care of, and it the sudden entrance of the Cadians and the host of officers was something on a entirely different level. Tigranes could count in his fingers the number of times he had seen so many officers together in one place. He didn't knew what to feel about it, though the fact that the Cadians -real Cadians!- hadn't shot them yet was reassuring. Or maybe the officer in charge was just waiting until he could announce that they were going to be executed, some officers back home liked to do that.

He shook these thoughts away, if they were going to die there was nothing he could do to stop it. Only get nervous and then give a reason for the Cadians to shoot.

When the Colonel finally reached their little group, Tigranes snapped a salute, more out of habit than anything. Failing to do that back home would earn a soldier at least 15 lashes and docked pay. And just as his chest swelled with pride at the mention of their victory, his mind turned to the question, finding that coming up with the answer was rather easy. And so, steeling himself Tigranes stepped forwards.

"Your Excellency, that would be Octavia." He spoke up, pointing to the former Legionnaire. "She was the one that took the bunker for us and led the counter-attack to drive off the other con-" He corrected himself. "The enemy. Granted, her disability is a negative, but I figure that even with that there isn't anyone else with as much experience and training, she being former Guard and all, Your Excellency."

The world dissolved around Phrike in a lazily shifting fog of war that floated across the makeshift battleground, clogging his nostrils and making his eyes water from the residual vapours from the burning wrecks and explosions. He clutched his knife in one hand, chest rising rapidly as he began to hyperventilate, his world becoming a tunnel.

As if by the hand of some cosmic God and with the resounding claxons bringing an end to the conflict, save for a few sporadic bursts of lasfire, he crawled to his feet. His mind never left that tunnel, dragging his way into the rough formation that made up Eighth Squad. In a flurry of activity, he felt shoulders, hands and elbows shove him around as they attempted to get into some sort of respectable form before one of the prowling, white-clad Arbites took the better end of a shock maul to their skulls.

"Inmate!" He raised his head from the hunch it was in, just in time to see the half-face reflection in the helmet of an Arbites. "Where is your service weapon?"

"I-..." Came the start of what would have been a sentence, had he not been cut off by the crack of a fist that sent him sprawling out of the loose formation of inmates. None looked his way, used to this occurance, and the assembly of Imperial Regiments didn't seem too phased to the abuse he sustained.

There was no resistance on his part, no fighting back. He curled into a ball as fists were rained upon him, a semi-circle of other Arbites keeping a close eye on the action and the other convicts. Before the eyes of those who cared, you could see the socket of his eyeball break, his lip crack and split, maybe even a tooth or five come loose and hit the ground.

For what seemed like forever, but in actuality was maybe even a minute or two, the assault continued until one Arbites came around with a resounding swing of his maul, striking him across the skull. Even amongst the commotion of the assault and the formations, the crunch of his skull caving in was harrowing, the kind of sound you remember for the rest of your life.

He fell limp, and the life drained from his body, as the group of Arbites scattered, pushing the body over onto the side to bleed out, lifeless and still sans a few spasms - no repercussions, no ordeal. Maybe in a few minutes a servitor or a serf would come and collect the body to be recycled, his sparse equipment to be dispersed among the inmates.

Phrike, the only member of Eight Squad born on the prison colony of Redemption, had done what few had ever done; he escaped Redemption, dying free and amongst a great cosmic expanse that he had wished he could of explored had the hands of fate not cut his thread to early.

Gate felt the adrenaline flush out of him as the klaxon-voice announced the cessation of combat, as though the shadowy officials running the exercise had pulled some plug from his brain. It was replaced by a weary warm glow in his muscles that was uncomfortably hot and did not make him feel any less anxious.

He did not know for sure how long the exercise had been. He remembered several salient events - the grenade burst, falling, opening fire - and used them to construct a rough mental timeline. Based on this timeline, he reasoned that the whole engagement must have been quite swift indeed. On one hand, he was grateful for how brief the experience had been and prayed that all future combat would play out similarly. On the other, he was deeply disturbed by how quickly he had been overcome by the stress and shock and rendered little better than an animal following Octavia and Tigranes. His quick wits were his best asset, and he couldn't afford to lose them every time he was put into combat.

The doors opening and the entrance of the officers was like a fresh breeze flowing into the room. It represented survival and a definite cessation of hostilities. Whilst he hated these men for so carelessly almost costing him his life, he was nevertheless overjoyed to see them. He tried to collect himself, and pressed together with the rest of the squad.

“... my name is Colonel Harvar of the Cadian Seventy-Fifth. You have all proved yourself today, along with those other squads who competed here before you, and those that shall after. I would be most grateful to speak with the leader – or the person in command - of your squad, are they present?”

'And here we are', thought Gate, 'now the blockhead soldier will elect himsel--'

"Your Excellency, that would be Octavia."

Gate blinked with surprise and let out a quiet dry gasp of laughter, quickly checking himself and returning his composure lest he offend the serious atmosphere.

'I suppose it's not all bad...', thought Gate with a smirk, 'with the mute in command, there'll be no one to bark orders at us'.

Nathan pulled himself out of the bunker where he had been fighting, the man was covered in sweat and blood - was it blood? His faced bruised and bloody as he spit out something reminiscent of blood. He limped forward towards where everyone was forming up, his eyes were pulsing it hurt to even have his eyes open. It's just the way it was, you survive death but the feeling of wanting to die just came back. Nathan knew it wasn't his time yet so he continued to push forward, his legs dragging themselves as he made progress towards the group - his squad. Out of the corner of his eye he stopped and looked towards someone from his squad. They were getting fucked up by a group of Arbites - absolutely fucking TWISTED.

A shame, this life isn't for everybody. It's only for the chosen and the faithful - just like Nathan. A warm embrace fell over him, it was the Emperor for sure. His life did have meaning, it just needed to be expressed in some way - that way would be on the battlefield. Now that he was in line, he felt like a veteran among the proven. Yet most of the people he saw before survived, the mute, the sergeant or something. Who they were was irrelevant, Nathan was who what mattered - and the emperor. Looking up to this high rank, he squinted as his words fell deafly upon his blessed ear drums.

Something about a leader - Octavia the mute. Maybe she was the leader, Nathan wasen't one to care who led him because the real leader would be the Emperor in his heart. He spoke up "I'm the second in command aswell.. The Emperor had me see to our survival along with the mute's." He said a gross smile crawling over his face, like it always does.

Octavia shouldered her lascarbine and looked at the rather grandiose procession of Guardsmen that had suddenly entered the makeshift battlefield. She silently scanned each uniform and matched it to a name she recognised. There were Cadians, Elysians, even some Kriegers, and Steel Legion. The former guardswoman felt a pang of shame and jealousy upon laying eyes on their greatcoats and respirators. That should be her. She should be among them. Of course she didn't let it show on her face. She merely stared impassively as more men poured into the room. Finally the stream of soldiers stopped and formed themselves around the 'victors' of the skirmish. A few prisoners didn't quite understand what was going on and ended up paying the price. A wet smack caused Octavia to look over. It was Phrike, the prison doctor, his skull caved in from a power maul. Unfortunate. He could have been useful. She only prayed that the Emperor forgave whatever sin had him locked up in the first place.

The penal legionnaire looked over at the rest of her 'squad' to make sure they were not getting themselves into trouble. A few of them looked particularly uneasy. Gate seemed quite excited all things considered. The PDF Sergeant, Tigranes seemed slightly on edge. She understood his concern. Executions were not so uncommon at gatherings such as these. Nonetheless there wasn't anything they could do about it now. Their lives were in the Emperor's hands now more than ever.

A throng of officers made themselves visible, inquiring about Eighth Squad in particular. Curious. They hadn't won had they? Merely survived. The Colonel (as Octavia noted by his insignia) began to speak.

“Eighth squad! My name is Colonel Harvar of the Cadian Seventy-Fifth. You have all proved yourself today, along with those other squads who competed here before you, and those that shall after. I would be most grateful to speak with the leader – or the person in command - of your squad, are they present?”

Octavia considered for a moment. There wasn't a true chain of command, though she supposed she WAS the de facto leader of Eighth Squad, especially after what had happened not mere minutes before. However, she was mute so perhaps she would be passed over for command on account of being unable to vocalise orders. Of course, Tigranes had other plans.

"Your Excellency, that would be Octavia. She was the one that took the bunker for us and led the counter-attack to drive off the other con- the enemy. Granted, her disability is a negative, but I figure that even with that there isn't anyone else with as much experience and training, she being former Guard and all, Your Excellency."

He pointed to Octavia and she stepped forward and saluted. When he mentioned her disability, the mute pointed to the scar across her neck, hoping that it got the point across. Octavia allowed herself to hope for a moment. Perhaps if they put her in charge they'd give her voice back. It couldn't be that big of an operation. Maybe a few medicae and a day or two in the medbay... She forced the thoughts away. It was a nice daydream but in reality she didn't even know what she'd do if she got her voice back. Octavia forced herself back into the here and now and warily eyed the Colonel for his next set of orders.

Ogryn prisoners, while rare, were not unheard of on Redemption. They had their own custom built ward, with full metal doors and specialised restraint equipment; bars were too easy to bend. Waldo spent most of his time in a solitary cell. His meals were brought to him, as there were too many brutal fights over what passed for food on Redemption to give the Ogryn's a cafeteria. There was an hour of rec time away, in which Waldo and his fellow prisoners were allowed into a communal yard. It was sparse, with a few scrap beams, chains and large old tires to toss around. Brawls happened there, though always bare fisted. There was an unspoken understanding amongst the stupid abhumans that if any one of them picked up a weapon during these brawls, the rest would turn on them.

None of them bothered Waldo. He wasn't particularly large or any stronger then most of them; indeed nobody was stronger then the eight foot tall beast that constantly drooled and muttered "Nug nug" when spoken too. No, even Nugnug was intimidated by the metal plate covering half of Waldo's skull marking him plainly as a Bone'ead. It was partly superstition, as if the augments were personally placed there on the Emperor's authority. It was also fear, as if Waldo operated on a higher level of authority because he could string whole sentences together, as simple as they may be.

Thus was life on this new planet, and it wasn't so bad as far as Waldo could tell. Less work then the Guard, just boring. That is until one day rec time came, but the guards didn't take Waldo to the yard. They brought him to a different room, where there was a man wearing a shabby long black coat and a matching peaked cap. In the centre of the room was also a large Ogryn sized chair made of dark metal.

"Prisoner Waldo!" barked the man in the black cloak. He looked like a Commissar, and Waldo straightened involuntarily.

"You're out on good behaviour," sneered the man with an unpleasant grin. "Sit in the chair so we can process your paperwork."

Waldo didn't know anything about the mystery that is 'paperwork' but he knew it was important. Every officer he'd ever met grumbled about how much trouble they'd be in if they didn't do their paperwork. Waldo, not wanting to be in trouble, settled his bulk in the large chair. It wasn't very comfortable.

With a loud clank, circular restraints rolled out of the chair, clamping solidly on the Ogryn's wrists and ankles. Before Waldo realised what was happening, the guards who had escorted him to the room rushed forward, pulling further restraints from behind the chair to hold him across the thighs, waist and chest.

"Hey!" Shouted a startled Waldo. "Lemme go! I don't wanna do paperwork!"

The guards stepped back laughing, and the 'Commissar' removed his cap and jacket, revealing a uniform identical to the others in the room.

"Stupid bloody Ogryn!" He jeered, and the others joined him.
"No wonder they call them boneheads!"
"I can't believe that worked!"

---------

The next 24 hours were a blur of unpleasantness. The chair was on runners, and a beefy servitor hauled Waldo from room to room. First, he was hosed down with freezing cold water. Next he was taken to a hanger, and an Ogryn-sized rucksack with a Ripper Gun and a humongous trench shovel made of solid steel strapped to it was dumped in his lap. A thick collar was bolted around his neck, and it was laboriously explained that if he misbehaved, it would blow his head off. Waldo stopped trying to bite those that got close to him, and mostly ceased straining against his chair.

Finally, the servitor hauled him aboard a transport craft, and the chair was strapped down amongst other cargo. A shaky flight took him from his berth on Redemption to the carrier orbiting the planet. The only thing that kept Waldo from panicking in the confines of the transport were the words of the Guard who fitted him with his collar.

"Second chance, big lad. You're in the Guard again."

@Drunken Conquistador@Laduguer@Amaranth@DeadDrop@Blueskin

Ioanus Secundus, how had they landed on this shithole planet?

Months had passed since Eighth squads first live-fire exercise, the wall of muscle that was Sergeant Mason remaining with them throughout, up to, and including participating in their first deployment to this so-called 'Civilised World'; Ioanus Secundus was a former colony world of the Imperium that had been allowed to grow organically from the ground up, the faith of its citizens strong as iron...until his arrival.

He had come as an off-world traveller, a trader in ideologies and philosophies that seemed strange and exotic to say the least, the planets rulers - and the Planetary Governor to boot - being each of them wise enough to know when something was amiss. Slowly but surely the rot of something foul took root on the planet, riots and revolts against the rightful rule of the Imperium springing up in any number of cities across the planets face, strange symbols being daubed on the very walls of Arbites precincts, and folk going missing in the night only to be found later without certain organs or limbs.

It was when a forceful investigation was made by the Arbites into rumours of cult gatherings that the planet erupted in turmoil, the capital city of Pitchpoint becoming ground zero for a revolution in the name of the Ruinous Powers, and only then did the Planetary Governor send word via astropath out into the wider Imperium with a request for help.

Ioanus Secundus was not a particularly high priority planet in general, but the taint of Chaos could not be allowed to spread, and so an Imperial Expeditionary Force was assembled - it included two dozen or so regiments of the Imperial Guard, a small contingent of white-clad Astartes from the Absolvers Chapter, and enough armour to level entire districts.

Included within their number were, of course, the Eighth Squad of the First Redemption Penal Legion under Arbitrator Kenelm and Sergeant Mason.

What had begun as an open attack across the planets main, and most heavily inhabited, continent had soon become bogged down and turned into trench warfare. It is here, some miles south-west of Pitchpoint, that the First Redemption in their full strength were about to be awoken in a most ungracious manner.



"Alright, everybody up!" Came the booming voice of Mason, his red bandanna clearly visible through the plastic sheeting that covered each dugout - a shining beacon of military style in a grey and dreary war - the man himself wearing little more than a vest and his usual combat trousers and boots, "there's more digging to be done today, so don't slack on me, ye hear?!"

A week they had been where they were, the Eighth Squad of a regiment consigned to death or redemption in the God-Emperor's glorious name, digging their own section of the overall trench network like the slaves that they honestly were. They may not have been servitors, but they weren't far off. Meanwhile Kenelm had been in meetings with the other Arbitrators of the Penal Legion, as well as the High Command, and things were not looking good.

If reports were anything to go by, they'd be making contact soon enough...

The former Bone’ead known as Waldo had been given the chance to change and put his kit on before being introduced to his new squad. It was an unorthodox appointment for both he and them both. Ogryns in mixed units were very unusual, as they usually took too much looking after and there was a risk of accidents due to clumsiness.

Still, it was better then his cell back on redemption and far better then the chair they’d used to transfer him to the fleet. Waldo had taken to his squad fairly well, even though Arbiter Kenelm has had to remind him several times about the explosive collar around his neck. He liked Mason, who he thought was loud and friendly and otherwise did as he was told by Tigranes or followed Octavia’s gestures.

They would find him a fairly pleasant companion if they could get passed his questionable personal hygiene - only showering when he was specifically ordered, and even then usually just a rinse - and distaste for small spaces. Waldo laughed at any joke anyone made with deep happy chuckles, even though he usually didn’t get it and even nodded along with the mad ramblings of Hall, who shared Waldo’s love of the Emperor but took it rather more seriously then anyone else he’d met.

On the planet of Ioanus Secundus Waldo had started cheerful and happy to be out of the shop and to see the sky. The feeling had waned however as the Catachan had set them to digging trenches. At one point they had finished their emplacements just in time for the lines to change. They’d had to hoof it to a new location and start digging all over again.

As Mason hollered at them to get back to digging, Waldo reached for his huge trench shovel. He stood with a burp and picked up where he’d left off. Mason made sure he kept going in the right direction, moving as much dirt as a whole squad. The rest of 8th Squad merely had to tidy up the trench behind them, which was easy enough so long as Waldo didn’t accidentally toss the dirt back in behind him.

Tigranes' body screamed its weariness to him as the former miner awoke. Ignoring the dull aches and tiredness that seeped his form as he carefully checked his meager belongings to ensure nothing had been stolen. Petty thievery was an endemic problem during his days back in Hayk, it would be incredibly naive to assume that a Penal Legion wouldn't suffer from the same malaise. Upon finding out that there wasn't anything amiss (and how could it be, when Tigranes pretty much cuddled his bag every night to ensure nothing would mysteriously disappear come next morning) he put on his boots and flak armor with practiced smoothness.

He exited the dugout with shovel in hand and his lascarbine shouldered. Leaving the gun where it could be easily reached in case of heretic attack, the Legionnaire busied himself with digging, hoping that this time they would get to stay in this position for a little while. Though, truth be told, the digging didn't really bother him that much. He had grown used to it far before he ever ended up in redemption. He had been born in a miner family, after all, and if it weren't for the civil war back home he would've lived out the rest of his days digging new veins of rich minerals and carrying cartloads of valuable ore back to the surface. And then at the end of the day return to wife and kids. Maybe he would've managed to marry that pretty shepherdess and...

He shook the thoughts away. No matter how much he disciplined his mind, Tigranes never managed to chase these daydreams away entirely. Contemplating them would do no good. Only weaken his resolve as he longed for something he would not and could never have. Instead, he struck the earth with increased resolve and force, as if beating the dirt into submission would help him focus on the task at hand.