Colonel Sabbadin stood among the other regimental officers eligible to take a place upon the man-made plateau overlooking the specially crafted muster fields of Uzania Prime – miles of farmland that had been flattened and smoothed down into compact earthen parade grounds thousands of years in the past – one hand clutching a dataslate while the other tapped an unheard musical number on the ornate scabbard of the curved power sabre at his hip.

There honestly weren't many of them there, most of the Uzanian regiments spread across the Imperium and with no chance that their leaders would or could return home (unless it was in a body vat); nonetheless the planets Governor-General Sarkis Aras-Acquati stood to the front of the bustling swarms of dignitaries, servitors and aides, his harsh blue eyes running back and forth over the ranks of the newly formed Fifty-Second like some form of Administorum customs official.

“Excellent,” he quipped to the Brigadier-General of the Planetary Defence Force Wolter Ilmarinen, a former Guard veteran with half a face and twice the stomach he had had upon first enlisting in the God-Emperor's glorious Militarum.

“Quite so, my Lord,” agreed the more hunched and portly of the pair, possibly unknowing or uncaring that the regiments commanding officer was within earshot.

“Yes.” Stated the Governor with a single nod, no stranger to combat himself, “the Imperium has need of these men and women more so now than ever, the Lord-Protector has asked it of us.”

“Gloria in imperatorem,” muttered Ilmarinen.

“Glory to the Emperor,” echoed Sabbadin – the sign of the Aquila crossing his chest for the briefest moment – his idle hand sweeping the peaked officers cap back onto his head as he turned and made his way down toward the muster fields to join his men.

---

Second Lieutenant Hasenkamp was the perfect example of Imperial nobility, a blonde haired and blue eyed young man of approximately six-feet-and-three-inches height, his facial features utterly symmetrical, and his back as straight and erect as an Uzanian leering-cat.

Standing huddled at the bottom of the closest entry-ramp to the multiple Imperial troopships in the company of the other platoon officers, all idle and silent for the moment, he watched the soldiers of his platoon with the correct amount of practised alertness (but also the right amount of disdain) on his face.

All across the fields the common soldiery were receiving the shiny new pieces of equipment that would be their responsibility for the remainder of their lives – however long or short those may be.

Line after line passed by long tables and stalls set up by Administorum staff, manned by slack-faced servitors, and watched by nitpicking Quartermasters.

The name, rank, and number of the relative soldiers would be required and then confirmed by both servitor and man, and then the listing would begin...

“Uniform and flak, one.”

For the Uzanians it was to be a rather uninspiring dull-green Cadian-pattern affair, flak vest and helmet included, as well as a number of undergarments – shirts and such – and combat boots; like many regiments of Light Infantry the Uzanian Rifles received that extra piece of doctrinal kit: the chameleoline cloak, that ever-shifting garment made famous by those such as the Tanith First, and was an essential piece of gear.

“Poor weather gear, one. Standard-issue Uzanian-pattern lascarbine, one, and charge packs four. Standard-issue combat knife, one. Fragmentation grenades, two. Smoke grenades, two. Targeter, one. Rucksack, one. Basic tools, one. Mess kit and water canteen, one. Blanket and sleep bag, one. Lamp pack, rechargeable, one. Grooming kit, one. Identification tags, one set. Infantry primer, one. Rations, two weeks supply, one.”

Of course there were some who differed in the assigning, the heavy-weapons crew being issued an entirely different weapon along with their carbines of course, Sharpshooters Keizer and Ilia being given the long-las and there associated hot-shot packs, while Kovacs got his demolition gear.

All-in-all he knew that even with the threat of pay-cuts for lost items, no member of his platoon (Third platoon, Second company or 3/2nd) would keep all of those items for long. They might sell them off on the black market, swap them with other regiments, or even use specific items for backside relief. In spite of his upbringing and all-around aristocratic bearing, Schuyler had no problem with this and had seen it within the PDF many times before.

The Second-Lieutenant himself was dressed as one would expect an officer of the Guard to be, his finely sewn and pressed jacket and trousers in the green of Uzanian regimental dress, buttons and epaulettes polished and gleaming, his calf-covering boots polished to a shine, and both his chainsword and laspistol resting where they should be.

“Second-Lieutenant Hasenkamp!”

It was Captain Kauffmann, a grey-haired and wily old bastard who knew his business well, and also happened to be his company commander. Second company were not first company, the best of the battalion, but the fact that Kauffmann never seemed to care somehow gave his young subordinate far more respect for him than he may otherwise of had – he was of common stock after all, but he was a fine leader of men.

“Captain Kauffmann, sir.”

A salute was exchanged and the Captain placed a thick lho-stick between his lips, taking a nice long drag, before exhaling slowly and narrowing his green eyes into slits.

“Your platoon, sub-lieutenant. They are ready to go?”

Hasenkamp had been keeping a close eye on his thirty-or-so soldiers and, in his knowledgeable but not expert opinion, they were indeed prepared to embark into the belly of the transports along with First and Second platoon.

“Ja sir, at your order.”

Kauffmann gave a slight wave of his black-gloved hand and inhaled as much air into his lungs as possible, releasing it in a parade-ground burst in the direction of the third platoon.

“Third platoon! Get your gear together and ascend that ramp, there's wars to be fought and foes to be slain. Shift yourselves.”

Hasenkamp snapped his heels together as they once more exchanged salutes, turning sharply about and gesturing to command squad to accompany him into the dank depths of the hollow-bellied transport. Soon enough they would take off into the heavens, and then his new life would begin.

"You cannot be creative enough with explosives. They vary from world to world and front to front. Most of the time simple is good enough, as like complex machinery, explosives can be spoiled by over-planning and over-engineering the demolitions.

For months, Erwyn Kovacs had been in the demolitions school, learning about the demolitions of the Guard. They'd spent eight months in total in training, and he was getting an itch for real action. Kovacs had been raised to the rank of corporal just a weeks ago as a "reward" for completing the demolitions course. "Finally", Kovacs grunted below his breath, as he took his equipment and followed the lieutenant. Kovacs came from the city of Bielefeld, from a family of workers. He didn't have much respect for aristocrats, but Hasenkamp seemed good enough leader. Kovacs hadn't talked to hi much, but there probably be many chances ahead to know him better.

Alongside the standard Imperial Guard equipment, Kovacs had been allotted a demolition kit, which included items like wire cutters, a lot of matches, fuses and a tinderbox, and a couple demolition charges. He was a ginger, one of the few in the company.

Months Earlier.

Friedrich stood over a small desk, he had reenlisted after all of his time away from the battlefield. He had a nice family, but his work was not doing him well as the youth of this planets generation has caught the eyes of those requiring his service. His students and acolytes served him well, and soon took over his work to create structures of various qualities for those who needed or more so now, desired.

He sat down, and began his paper work to become active in the guard since he had been reserves for so long. He wrote his signature along various lines, and xed boxes. He took a deep breath, and leaned back in the chair thinking of how lucky he had been to survive in his younger years. But now, he was ready to see his last days of mobility used well in adventure and war before his days wasted away until his death.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

SGT. Friedrich moved forward to the stall in front of him, "Sergeant Friedrich Baumeister, ID number U-Z-A-153-36892, of he Uzanian Rifles." He moved a paper, and his holotags forward to be swiped.

"Yes... Sergeant Baumeister, of the, Uzanian Rifles." said the servitor speaking in defined low gothic, "We will prepare your gear for you, and deliver it to the kiosk to your left in five minutes, and thirty nine seconds. You are ticket, ONE." the servitor said stuttering loudly at the end. "Thank you for your service, and may the Emperor protect. Please, step aside for the next individual, in line."

The Sergeant did just that and moved to his left, and back into the rather empty room, there was no other individual behind him. Maybe this generation was just not as on time and punctual, or maybe he was just late. But he took one the benches as he waited for the gear to be placed, or where he thought it would be placed.

This ordering area didn't seem too distant from what he once used when he had first joined the IG, actually it was the same, just with less people, or maybe he just went to an older part of base, it doesn't look that used, maybe the servitors helped out in that aspect.

"TICKET ONE!" Another loud servitor exclaimed, and a man moved up beside it.

Sergeant Baumeister moved towards the kiosk and held the holo-tags, and the papers once again, and they were scanned once again, then checked by the man.

"Identity confirmed, welcome back to the Uzanian Rifles, Sergeant Baumeister. Here is your gear. One Flak Vest, One Flak Helmet, Three pairs of Standard Uniform Pants, Three Uniform Shirts. One Dress uniform, four insignia shirts." It started as the man brought forward the items listed.

"One pack of undergarments, one pack of socks. One pair of boots, one Chameleon cloak." And the items were placed in front of him, "CONTINUATION! One Lascarbine, one laspistol side arm, one sword, one knife, and four standard charge packs, two laspistol charge packs."

The weapon and such were laid out on the kiosk by the gentleman checking the serial numbers on the weapons, making a receipt and tally.

"One set of poor weather gear, one targeting system, two munitions tickets for fragmentation grenades, two munitions tickets for smoke grenades, one battery for targeting system, one grooming ki-ki-kit." the servitor stuttered, "One Uplifting Primer, one ticket for ration packs. One Lamp pack, rechargeable. One set of orders to board, ship."

The items were being placed in order, the man not really caring about others being around because no one else was around. "One Rucksack, One entrenching tool, one set of basic tools, one mess kit, one canteen, one blanket, one sleeping bag." The man was having to go up and down a list as they had changed since the servitors function had been.

"One grooming kit... ALL ITEMS HAVE BEEN GIVEN, THE QUARTERMASTER OF THE STATION WILL GIVE YOU A RECEIPT!" The servitor screamed out, before retreating back into the room behind him. The man looked at him, "You are probably the only one who comes here, this is more or less just storage for the larger quartermaster building behind where you were probably supposed to go. But pack your things up and get going. We need to put a sign up, or get the servitor to move and not take tickets." he said before leaving and moving away into the darkness of the quartermasters halls."

Sergeant Baumeister sighed softly as he felt older and stupid at that moment, he knew something was wrong, and he had followed his memory, not his actual point of rearmament, no wonder he was given tickets for more consumable items like grenades and rations then the actual thing.

He then left to go get those items retrieved before he would set off for the stars.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

He was in his quarters, as he stared at the mirror, and he pressed his lips together. He stared at the dark black hair, with small bits of grey. He was aging, had some wrinkles but those could be helped with treatments and life extending agents. His hair, mainly dyed but grey was starting to show once again from his recent dying.

There was wear and tear on him from his youth, not a lot though, most of the damage would be on his hands and body. He was lucky that not much hit his face, else he might not have had children. He chuckled to himself lightly before he sighed and sat down in his bunk. "Once again, into the fire." he said softly, reaching down for his boots and taking them off, and then continuing to get ready for bed.

Kage Kyner used to work for the Caracal mining company, he really wasn't anyone special but he wasn't a normal miner he was the kind of worker that was more than mediocre at counting so he was quickly moved out of the mines and into the storage facility to work as a counter, or at least that's what the miners used to call it his job was essential, make sure that the iron, coal and essentially anything that came up from the mine matched with what the counter underneath the surface logged. It was hard work especially since the mine produced around 10,000 kg of materials per 24 hours, a servitor cant keep up with those numbers so they needed to use actual humans. The work didn't pay well but it gave him experience second to none.

---

"Alright Johnny" Kage said clasping his hands together in a theatrical manner. "Let's see here, I'm all packed while you still need to start packing. Would you like some help with your stuff or should I let you take care of it?" he said in a joking tone. He and Johnny have been working together since they were first slotted into a heavy weapons team. They worked through sweat, blood and more sweat to get the heavy weapons qualification. Johnny was always the better shot on training and Kage was always the person who could run the fastest with his backpack overloaded with weights, so it was quite obvious which one would get the gunner and respectively the ammo carrier.

---

Alongside the standard imperial guard equipment, Kage had been allotted with an ammo carrier kit, which included an extra-large backpack with a carrier plate that forfeits armour toughness which already isn't a lot by normal standards for the agility that is needed for someone with an extra 20kg on his back to move at the speed of a normal soldier or at least be able to keep up with the gunner, extra ammo for whatever heavy weapon the gunner is currently carrying and last but not least his trusty leg warmers used to keep his legs warm in not so favorable environments.

Johnny was a young guy, a young buck who use to work the farm. He was until he decided to join up and enlist, his family needed a son in the guard. To bring glory to their crestfallen family, they simply did not have the glory they once had - far from what they once were, but now was a chance for redemption. No one would have thought joining up would place such men into a crazy training regiment, the longest that was ever heard out of the guard. It was intense but not something Johnny wouldn't be able to fuck up, in fact, he excelled in such stressful situations that were opposed onto him during basic.

Kage was a good battle buddy and they had bonded over their voyage of emotions, shitty days (all of them) and they had grown to be friends. Kage's display of fancy talking always seemed to entrance him in some kind of enthrallment. He shook his head and woke up from his fancy talk for a moment, they were about to get their equipment issued. "Naw, I'm fohn." He said going up to the other men and gathering his equipment, he was a strong as an ox as he picked his heavy lasgun and carbine along with the rest of his equipment before treading off.

It was true Kage was the ammo mule but he simply was able to move faster, carry more while Johnny was the gunner the crackshot so to say. Johnny just liked to shoot the big guns, and shoot the shit with the boys. A few minutes later he had all his shit organized and was weary to get the hell off this rock. "Les' go Kage." he said as he shuffled off with the rest of the platoon to the shuttle, not one to dawdle or idle around when work was to be done the brute headed onto the shuttle and hopefully, off to the next war.

Months Earlier.

The din of tools and the constant hiss of welding torches filled Mehl's ears as he tried to work a wire around a support beam that he could have sworn was in the wrong spot according to the blueprints. But this was part of the job, working around what the other construction workers put in the wrong places without the Foreman seeming to notice or even care was pretty much the first thing he had learned during his apprenticeship. Stretching his arm as far as it would go Mehl felt something pop in his shoulder at the same time that the wire touched the tips of his other hands fingers. Taking a hold of the wire he would pull it through enough to leave the uncomfortable position and move to a far nicer one to work from.

Several hours later and far more sore than he had been upon arriving to the work site that day, Mehl dusted himself off and threw a glance to the power switch down the hall, "Jan! Jan! Throw the switch! The power is wired up on this floor!" he yelled toward the switch. After a brief moment of waiting a man stumbled out of a different room, knocking over a bucket and some brooms in the process before throwing him a thumbs up and sauntering over to the switch.

"Any day now Jan!"

The switch flipped and the lights around the floor came on first in a slow glow and then quickly warming up to their standard brightness. Mehl smiled.

"Hamlin." came the voice of none other than the Foreman from behind him.

"Sir?" Mehl responded as he turned in place to face the man, finding a piece of Administorum parchment held out to him.

"Take it son. It's your time to serve the God Emperor."

---

Hamlin Mehl stood amongst the men and women of his platoon as they shuffled forward to the gear issue ahead. He mingled slightly with the other newly minted Guardsmen around him, shooting the shit as they waited, complaining about the heat slowly building as they waited, the timeframes that could have been simplified if they’d simply put everything in order rather than having each person walk to different stalls seemingly haphazardly places about the area to gather their things. True Guardsmen thoughts.

His time came and went to gather his gear and he found himself fumbling with an ungainly pack, stuffed to the brim with not a sliver of sense as he attempted to find a place to put it down and organize it slightly better. Finding a small area off behind the lines of Guardsmen still waiting, and began to unpack the ruck and lay everything out in a jumble.

Some twenty minutes later and Mehl was content with his efforts enough to bring the large and much more compactly packed ruck back over his shoulders just in time to hear the order to board the transport. His heart skipped a beat as he turned to face the gaping maw of the ship that would most certainly take him to his demise, but he composed himself enough to reach down and pull the Voxcaster backpack set up and across his chest before falling into the line of straggling men and women making for the ramp.

He clutched at the cold and now very familiar metal of the caster in front of him as he began to trudge up the ramp and into the consuming darkness of the hold.

Its not like Anton Illia resented his lot in life.

No, far from that, the gamekeeper was content. He had food, shelter and far more freedom than a serf like him could ever dream of having. The Voivode was a good master, despite what those lowlander snobs said in their cups. Anton's cabin in the woods was a cozy and pleasant home, far enough from everything else to grant him privacy to live as he pleased. The woods, he knew like the back of his hand and no wannabe poacher had a shot at despoiling his master's property while he worked there.

All in all, it was a good life. A very good life. Anto Illia was content but being content wasn't enough anymore. It had started small, a year ago. Just the occasional thought worming its way into his mind. During the quiet lonely winter nights, when Anton spent his time snuggled by the fireplace reading one of his old, battered books for the umpteenth time.

Surely there was more to life than this? More than this repetitive routine, this self imposed isolation from society. Didn't he yearn for more?

Back then he could easily ignore that little voice. Bury the insidious thought with work and prayer. But as the months passed and winter soldiered on, stronger and longer than usual, the Gamekeeper found his will slowly eroding. His thoughts and the dog were his company. And animals couldn't talk back. Or at least they shouldn't, the woods were a strange place but Anton would rather keep the strangeness to a minimum, and contained to the deep, dark places where not even he would dare to tread.

It was during one of his rare, but regular, supply drives to the nearby villages. Where he would collect his payment, sell a few furs and lumber to make a few extra cash, that he first saw the posters announcing the mobilization. On a whim he walked up to one of the few officers shouting about fighting and glorious service, outsiders and lowlanders all of them he had noticed, and took one of the fliers. The man's smile reminded him of a snarling wolf, ready to pounce on its prey. He stared back from behind his curtain of hair and thanked the officer before returning to his day.

Back home the flyer was forgotten inside one of the few second hand books Anton had brought from Old Man Mihai, for a few weeks at least. Before it slipped out into his lap just as he was about to discover whether or not Nikolaj would manage to warn the villagers in time to escape the flood.

That night he dreamed of leaving. Of joining the Guard and killing for the Emperor, visiting far off alien lands and just being MORE than an isolated gamekeeper in some forgotten forest hidden in the hills of Syvarch. The next day his dog was killed in a fight with poachers and Anton had one fewer reason to stay.

Usually, bonded serfs like him are to live their lives working in the land of their masters in whatever roles their ancestors had. There are few ways one can free himself from those obligations in Syvarch. Volunteering for the Guard muster is one of them. Its not a path many Syvarchis choose, mind you. Anton's people are an insular lot for the most part. It's not the role of the serf to think about what lays beyond, the serf is supposed to be content with working the land of his ancestors and serving his master. Usually, when the mustering came, the Voivodes and Bans that ruled Syvarch just needed to provide food and material to the regiments. Rare were the times when serfs were conscripted.

Still, if that was what Anton had to do to quiet his increasingly unsettled mind, then that's what he would do. It was easier than expected, he found out. He had no living family, no real friends to leave behind, no properties to liquidate. It was all done in a single afternoon. And by nightfall Anton had taken the train to the mustering grounds with the few others who had decided like him.

Anton Illia did not resent his lot in life, or at least tried not to. He just wanted more.

When the day came, he stood in line, feeling incredibly out of place, his long, wild black hair failing like a curtain in his face and untamed beard giving earning him looks from the people, lowlanders all of them, as he stepped out of the train. His clothes too, marked him as an outsider, old, battered and worn things they were, patched by his own hands dozens of times in the past. He did not dwell on it too long, however, did not allow himself to, with officers hurrying him and the other volunteers into the waiting trucks to be taken to basic training. Despite the long train trip, delayed and slow as it was, Anton didn't make too much of an effort to get to know the other Syvarchis. He had never been the most social of men, and over a decade of minimum human contact did nothing to improve that.

They were separated soon after, assigned to different units. Anton's face was shaved and his hair cut shorter than it ever was in over a decade. His homemade clothes replaced by training fatigues and face still itching, Anton Illia started his training.

He wasn't the strongest of men, far from it as a matter of fact. He was a scrawny kid, living by himself taking care of the Voivode's woods did not compensate for an inadequate diet, proper exercise or genetics. But he was fast, he was agile, he could move quietly and he had an eye for shooting that few in the training cadre could match. So the powers that be took him out of frontline service and told him he was to be a scout from now on. Made him train with a gun that was too different from the old reliable heirloom he had used his whole life and taught him the basics of codes and stealth. Stuff he found himself taking too rather easily, to his fond surprise.

Basic training didn't last too long, and soon he found himself standing in line with thousands of others. He did not make idle talk, he didn't knew these people. His brothers and sisters in arms, not truly. Not yet at least, but he watched. He always was the attentive sort. Ever since his childhood, the quiet kid watching everything from the sidelines. He watched in silence and waited as the line moved at a snail's pace. He didn't mind too much, Servitors unsettled him, always had. No hurry to have and deal with them.

Colonel Sabbadin's Office...

"Ist das jetzt dein Ernst?"

The Administratum clerk, who had been standing and watching the Colonel write dispatches for at least ten minutes since giving his initial report, took a moment to realise that he was being spoken to. It had come as more of a mutter in his direction, and the clerk had no knowledge of the Jerman dialect found on Uzania Prime, but he looked to Sabbadin nonetheless.

"Pardon, Colonel?"

"I said, are you serious? My regiments uniforms will be here 'within the month'?"

"Y-yes sir, I'm afraid so."

"My soldiers were supposed to march into battle wearing the uniform of their forebears, and because of some dummkopf in your Adepta they must now clash with our enemies wearing hand-me-down Cadian surplus?"

"I am afraid so, but..." the clerk paused for a moment and gave a shrug, "it is only a uniform after all."

A second was all the clerk needed to see that he shouldn't have said anything, the expression on the Colonel's face one that could kill a man if he had been able. Oh how he wished to kill this one.

"That uniform," stated Sabbadin as deliberately as he could, "is not just an item of clothing, a costume, and had best be here in the appropriate quantities within the next two weeks. If they are not, then someone..." his eyes could not have expressed much more just who that would be, "...will be answering with more than words. Now get out."

---

---

Barrack Block 26Y - Temporary home of the 52nd Uzanian Rilkes and the Baotov 87th Lancers

For weeks now the Fifty-Second had been shacked up in a section of the troopship not too far from the opposing quarters of the Baotov Lancers, a rough rider formation assembled from moustached aristocracy and their baggage train of indentured peasantry, rich sons of stern fathers as puffed up as peacocks in their equally fine uniforms.

During those weeks in space there had been little enough interaction between the two regiments, the Lancers recently having seen combat and now being moved from one warzone to the other - they were combat-ready, puffed up on their own sense of importance, and in the tight confines of a ship...trouble was almost inevitable.

"Zey do look fine, do zey not, Gilbert?" Posited one trooper to the other, his hat tucked neatly beneath his armpit, his blonde hair and moustache gleaming in the dim light of the metallic barracks. More specifically he was leaning against the doorway of the Third Platoons section, a gaggle of his comrades at his back as they eyed the Uzanians with obvious malice.

"Ah but of course!" Quipped Sergent Lou Hugo-Lévesque back to his subordinate, "they are like the toy soldier, so clean...so shiny...so...green."

A chorus of titters and sneers joined the NCOs words, as his white-gloved hands hovered threateningly close to the hilt of his curved sabre, the Sergeant daring to take a step inside the Thirds warehouse-like barrack-room.

"Mmm, it even smells like unused weapons and contains a hint of cowardice."

Upon seeing the uniform of an officer - obvious in any regiment - girded about Underleutnant Hasenkamp, his boyish features standing out like a sore thumb, Lévesque raised one hand dramatically to his forehead.

"It would appear they even have a boy leading them! 'ow is zis possible?!"

There was further laughter from the thirteen or so Lancers, Hasenkamp turning a shade of downright scarlet as he arranged his uniform on his bed once more, turning away from the taunting and casting his eyes down - though one fist balled itself up anyway.

It was clear that the Lancers were out for trouble, Emperor they craved it even, but it was yet to be seen whether they would get any.

Friedrich moved at the front of his squad as he listened to the barking dogs of a pompous group of men, the old grizzled man continued his forward march of a less orderly style towards his barracks hall. "Do not antagonize the ones who smell of shit and piss. They will give us all a hard time not matter if you have served or not." he said as he continued forward listening to the barking of the men around him.

He shifted the small flower and plume that stuck to his a more rounded hat compared to most, sighing as again that was a relic of an older age of war fought by his people, he still had his other hat that he was supposed to wear, but at the moment he did not care, he would let them all see the times lost of the forces of his home. "The only difference between them and us it that they know how to ride horses and speak louder then others." he said softly with his lips tightened against each other.

He stared at the younger gentleman leading the front of the pack, for the entire platoon of men hoping that he would heed his words at least and try to stop something from happening if it did get out of his reach. "Do not forget they are on our side as well, it will not stain our honor and if it does I am sure we could beat one of their fool hearty officers or champions at a duel."

The old man sighed as he hoped that only those close to him would hear that, else he could spark a conflict probably between the two groups, and if there was one to be started, he would hopefully be left out of it to continue to their bunks.

Near his hometown of Bielefeld were the mountains known as the Alpernes, tall and rocky mountains with snowy mountain tops. During the winter months, the mountains were a perilous place, and during the summer, quite tolerable place to go trekking. Kovacs remembered seeing companies of young Jägers marching through Bielefeld and going to the Alpernes for training, returning a few weeks later.

Kovacs had spent a few weeks with his Vater, and had learned the basics of camping, mountain climbing and trekking in his teenage. He had learned more during the military training, and he had learned one more thing in the Guard: waiting was and is a pain. Especially when there isn't much to do.

And then there were the Lancers. Fancy, arrogant, polished and they smelled like ripe cheese. Literally, as Kovacs had often seen them enjoying plates of some blue or white cheese. Kovacs had had some contact with them during the weeks of transport. He'd played cards with some of them, to pass the time, though the Lancers had the air of superiority on them. They thought the Uzanian regiment as complete Dummkopfs.

Some of the lower ranked Lancers were tolerable, though. Kovacs had met a young officer, who had risen from a merchant family, and even him was looked down upon by the "proper" Lancer officers raised from that and that aristocratic family. If you have the talents and the guts, Kovacs thought to himself, one should rise above his station.

Kovacs was reading in the barracks. He'd been issued a couple new manuals on explosives before they had started the voyage. He had also a couple pulpy adventure books from home with him. He liked to read in his spare time.

Calth sat at the edge of his bunk cleaning his gear and occasionally commenting colorfully about how much he hated the Cadian armor. Sure is worked for Regular infantry, but for men like the 52nd it would be murder. None of the men had ever worn anything as heavy or cumbersome, even in the PDF almost all wore variants of the traditional uniform. Calth could already tell the armor would make climbing and infiltration harder then it already would be. First chance he got, he would dump the armor and get something respectable.

Calth sat on his bunk, checking through the contents of is standard issue Medical kit. The contents were a little lack luster but pretty much all he needed to keep his platoon alive. The Sound of unfamiliar voices at the entrance to the barracks snapped his attention away from his medical kit.
Putting down his kit Calth reached for his pack of pre-rolled Lho-sticks, watching as the Lancer verbal assault played out. With a sigh he looked to the man laying on his bunk next to Calth "Kaiser helfen ihnen ... Ihre Pferde weigern sich, sie zu ficken oder so?" he says in Jerman Causing the young trooper to chuckle "Sie brauchen ein Versteck. Wir sollten nicht zulassen, dass sie so sprechen." He responded quickly as he began to fiddle with his knife. With a slight smile Calth hands the boy a Lho-stick "Take a nap Kamerad, We are going to need it when we arrive to where ever we are going." He muttered in low gothic as he went back to counting the contents of his issued kit and ensuring everything is in working order.

Emperor knew Calth was a loyal guardsman, but there were times he wanted to space a couple of the Lancers. He knew some of the mwere alright, with a few being considered friends as they have on occasion traded Lho-sticks and alcohol. With a slight chuckle Calth thought about the sweet wine the Lancer officers and NCO's enjoyed, compared to the Uzanian stock of alcohol which tasted bitter and knocked most outsiders on there arse.

Ivers had stuck mostly to himself since their mustering. If the early-20s comrades of his were 'boys', than he was a mere child, nineteen and with a doughy, rounded face and smooth features. He stood barely 5'10" and was gangly and scrawny, long arms hanging down at his sides and hands marred with calluses and marks from working the agri-farms. Ferocious tan lines gave a stark contrast between the skin of his arms and that of his torso, a stark contrast of color that didn't help his situation in the slightest.

During the training, he was a mostly aloof and reserved boy, the drill sergeants having laid into him for his exceptional youth and inherent childish idealism. The solution, he'd thought, was to keep to himself. Participate in team building where required, but don't give any comrades or superiors an inch, because he knew they'd take more than a mile. And now, sitting at the foot of his bunk, organizing his gear to near perfection in his footlocker, he wished he'd actually tried to make friends. He was surrounded by what could've been strangers, all with short, regulation haircuts which made them all look near identical to him.

A jeer and cacophony of laughs broke the sea of small chatter in the barracks bay. As he traced his eyes across the crowd which was congregated, he caught sight of the Lancers. Lancers, how he loathed them. He was no stranger to aristocracy. Barons, Earls, and Dukes all served the Kaiser alike on Uzania, but they never pretended that they put themselves in any more danger than the occasional honor duel. Yet here were Baotovans, these blue-bloods who were more flashy than Scintillans and twice as arrogant. So much he wanted to say something. If the Uzanians were toy soldiers, than these Baotovans were toy dolls, mix-and-match parts of gold and feathers which just increased their pompous aura.

He looked down, a hand having unconsciously balled up into a fist. Exhaling sharply, he folded up the shelter half and thin bedroll kit in the bottom of the footlocker. As much restraint as he had, he had little faith in the restraint of his more outspoken comrades. A fight would come, all he could do is decide whether he was going to join in.

For the most part Johnny was out asleep for most of the day, while he had most of his gear unpacked with his battle buddy Kage the two had been good friends throughout the entire basic. Despite it being so fucking long he knew how to keep his head down and keep the shit shooting to maximum effectiveness. For now he was racking out and catching some Z's while the rest of the platoon got to talking. The rest was needed after almost more than half a year of training he was finished basic training. Hell yea, it was a good time - not really it fucking sucked but now it was over.

He woke up to the old man telling them not to do certain things as usual, he blinked a few times feeling the federal pressure of duties and people around him. It sucked and it was also loud, there was talk about that other unit the one that was posh and stupid, he didn't care for that he just wanted to hit the ground running. Right? You join up to do something you should do it not wait around in some bunk bed to do fuck all, regardless it was pay just to be here. The honor of serving was also a major part of it. Also some people spoke weird gothic even he didn't understand.

Emperor knew that the job was going to be tough but hell it's what he signed up for, killing warp scum and surviving maybe. He looked over to Kage fondly wondering what he'd do without such a smart partner, probably dead in basic mysteriously. Or something worse, he remembered that the two of the had a job and a job that they loved, the gear that they whad was not the best but it weould get job done if you put the right people behind it. For the unit, they had those two men.

The formerly jovial expression on the face of Lou Hugo-Lévesque took a most sudden turn, his lips twisting with annoyance, his fingers tapping lightly on his sabre hilt, and his eyes roving over these simpletons - idiots smart enough not to strike first, but perhaps stupid enough not to strike at all...

"Lâches," growled the Sergeant in a steel-edged voice, turning his back to the Uzanians and waving a dismissive hand, "regarde ces imbéciles!" He half-yelled, a long finger moving to point in the direction of Ivers, "zat one there even thinks he can read...and that old man," mocked the Lancer as his digit glanced over Freidrich, "is as useless as the rest, maybe even more so."

There had been no brawl here today, the Uzanians had stood their ground and seen off an enemy not looking to kill, but one that they may yet find behind their backs in the future.

Once the Lancers left the barracks in a clatter of calf-high boots and ornate weapons, all that was left was for third platoon to contemplate where they were going and how many would die when they got there.

---

---

One week of warp travel later, Colonel Sabbadin's quarters...

"Surely you jest, mein Oberst?"

"I am afraid not, Herr Kauffmann," sighed the Colonel as he transferred the recently recieved orders over to the dataslate of Zwei Kompanie, "t appears that the Imperium, even in this critical moment of its history, can find little better for out brave men and women to do."

"This has to be because they are green, surely?" Questioned the sharp-eyed Captain, his back ramrod straight and his cheek twitching with barely contained anger, "they wish to test us, ja?"

"Let us hope so Hauptmann. I doubt it shall cheer the troops much, but we go where the Kaiser bids, and this time he bids us here."

"Ja sir, I shall relay the orders with all haste. Der Kaiser beschützt."

"Indeed he does," half-whispered the Colonel as he turned back to face his desk, making sure the Captain was gone before he allowed himself to relax somewhat, "indeed he does."

---

---

Later in the Assembly Hall of the Second Battalion...

Oberleutnant Zilla Haas, second-in-command commander of the Uzanian Rifles 2nd Company, had been beautiful once. Men had come from all over her region to marvel at her statuesque looks, her proud bearing, and to ask for her hand in marriage...she had refused them all. Instead she had taken up her fathers occupation by joining the Guard, and in doing so had cost herself the suitors, the admiration, and half of her face to shrapnel in the field.

Now the diminutive officer, standing at a proud five-feet-and-six-inches in height, glared over the thousand or so soldiers arrayed in ranks before her with both her glacial blue eye and her red bionic both.

"Kamaraden!" She announced from the dais upon which she stood, able to see the slightest movement in the ranks, and thus far quite proud of what she saw, "as you know, most of the glory goes to First Company...our orders are with me now," a hand lifted a dataslate to show this was no bluff, "and they are inglorious to say the least."

With a small nod to a nearby clerk the room was darkened, a huge projection appearing above the masses in the shape of an orb - a planet in fact - as if the gods had descended to illuminate their squalid lives. It spun slowly on it's axis and, by way of technology, the voice of Lieutenant Haas echoed about the room so loudly that none could fail to hear.

"What you are seeing is Arosep Tertias, a rather unremarkable planet in most respects. It is classed by the Mechanicus as a 'civilised' planet much like our own, except hotter due to its closeness to its respective sun."

Multiple spots on the globe began to radiate colour, specific spots shown for specific reasons.

"These are the planets fuel refineries, and the only reason that the Imperium cares so much about this planet. It is the only producer of fuel within a two sector radius, and our superiors wish us to clean it up and hold it against the followers of the Ruinous Powers."

She waited for whatever chatter may erupt after such an announcement, holding up a hand for silence.

"But...that honour will go to the First Company, while the Third will act as a holding formation in orbit should reinforcements be needed. We-" she paused momentarily, "we will be on peacekeeping duty behind the front line, the planet having been held by the forces of the Great Enemy long enough for residual corruption but not enough to claim the planet."

Another few moments passed before the Lieutenant spoke again, only half her mouth moving, the other metal half fused shut after her injuries.

One more click and the globe became larger, points becoming illuminated in a mass of settlements, a network of roads clearly visible linking them to one another; the terrain looked normal enough, some forested areas surrounded by rolling hills - the only thing out of place was the largest of the holographic splotches some miles away from any habitated location, that being the Eron Sigma Refinary.

"Our company shall be spreading itself over this landscape like a net, patrolling between twelve to fifteen smaller settlements, the fuel refinary having its own security and unneeding of our aid. Our mission here is hearts and minds, ladies and gentlemen, so lets try our best not to upset the locals."

Then it was all over, the globe disappearing and the lights returning in moments, Haas standing as still as she had been from the very beginning.

"We disembark in three days, rest up and prepare your equipment; this should be a quiet one, but never say never," she jokingly gave a small tap of her faces metal half, using the time to fill her lungs before shouting in her best parade-ground voice...

"DEE-SMISSED!"

Uzanian billets, located on Temple Passage...

The Uzanian 2nd Company was dropped initially by Valkyries into the Arsevain Grove - a quite spacious clearing in woodland many miles behind the front line, of more than ample space to allow drop and assemblage of the thousand-or-so offworlders and their equipment, including some five-dozen domesticated grox for the carrying of heavy equipment and supplies - from there they made their way further inland, splitting apart into their respective platoons, the platoon of Second-Lieutenant Hasenkamp moving by foot to their new temporary home in Shayrith.

Shayrith was a medium-sized self-sustaining township of some couple-of-hundred civilians, as well as a handful of PDF troopers - more like glorified police than actual military, useful to garrison towns but for little else.

Initially given a warm reception by the citizens of the town, these recently liberated folk soon dipped into a pattern of lukewarm contact between the Imperial soldiers and themselves. That was apart from those that dealt in favours of the body, and the trading of alcohol, occupations that always supported those with money whatever their leaning or occupation.

For nearly a month now - remaining clad in their Caidan pattern rainments for far longer than had been promised! - the Uzanians had had little else to do but patrol the streets, sleep away their days, and engage in close-order drill and marksmanship from time-to-time; for those that wished to melinger, to gamble, to see nothing of war it must have been close to a paradise, but to those who wished to see some fighting and to cover themselves in glory in was like the Warp on earth.

Boredom was surely setting in when smatterings of units began to made their way back toward the Grove for departure, the Imperial fleets controlling the space and skies for the moment, while their enemies were contained but continued to prove formidable adversaries on the ground.

Soon enough the Uzanians were greeted by columns of Arcadians, their distinctive spider cult markings visible even beneath wounds and the grime of war, mechanised trails of Brimlock Dragoons rattling through the town in plumes of dust and smoke, and Corscan artillery moved back along with their Basilisks and other heavy field pieces; even more regiments, companies and squadrons moved through on their way to the front, but the Uzanians neither saw nor heard anything of the conflict but what they were told in official documents or by word-of-mouth - neither of which were exceedingly trustworthy sources either way.

As the fourth week of peacekeeping duty was coming to an end, the weather a balmy haze of heat and cloying moisture, the rot of boredom all but complete among the platoon (and likely all across the 2nd Company itself) and light began to flash on the platoons vox.

Once the message was recieved and decoded, it was discovered to be a plea for support from a patrol of Faeburn Vanquishers that had apparently come under heavy fire from unknown enemies while moving through the woodlands only a couple of miles from Shayrith.

---

---

Hasenkamp pounded down the corridor of the Uzanians billet house, an old farmstead just outside the town connected to what was known as 'Temple Passage' because of the large number of... well... temples - the largest and most cntral building served as the barracks, another as the medical station, another as the cookhouse and another as the HQ building.

The young Leutnant fairly flew from the HQ and into the barrack building, glancing about the sleeping or milling troopers until he found Sergeant Baumeister and his archaic self.

"Sergeant @Jamesyco," he said, gesturing for him to come out into the hallway, "I want the men dressed, kitted out and ready to move in ten minutes, they are to assemble in the courtyard," stated the younger man simply and plainly, "all will be explained then, needless to say I do believe we're about to get a bit of action."

With that, and a smile plastering his face, the eager officer checked his equipment as he made his way into the courtyard that was the focal point of the farmstead and waited.

The Sergeant stared at the man and nodded, "Jawohl!" he said before turning on his heel in about face and he walked off towards the barracks. The first the he was to do, get his men dressed for combat and ready, including himself. "Get dressed and ready, kit and all!" he yelled out as he started to pack his own pack.

"As soon as you are ready out to the courtyard and ready to march, go!" he yelled out as he made sure all of his things were together before he left that barracks for the next group of soldiers, all in one minute. Nine to go.

"ACTUNG! We are moving, get ready, go go. Kit, and go to the court yard in formation. Go!" he yelled out once again, blowing a small whistle letting it drop on his chest. "All soldiers, get ready!" he yelled out, "We have little time, go go!" he yelled to where the two groups would be sleeping. Eight minutes to go. He twisted his hat, and made sure the plume was nice and secure before fluffing the beautiful white flower on the front.

Running a mental checklist of things on himself before he would even care about going into formation himself, and after each soldier was out. He was waiting for the first one to exit before he started the head count.

Calth had been sitting at a makeshift table playing a hand of cards with several other of the squad when the yelling began. almost on instant he ran to his bunk and got into full battle dress. "For the love the Emperor!" He called as he dropped his clunky Cadian helmet. " I Hate these Throne forsaken Cadian made garbage." he muttered as he picked it up. After a few minutes, of getting ready and helping his bunk mates get ready, Calth sprinted out side with his lasgun strapped to his shoulder and the platoon medical kit bumping against his side as he ran.

Calth was terrified, all this could only mean one thing. They were going to do something important, most likely combat. Since joining the Guard, the only action Calth had seen was climbing the mountain to gain his edelweiss and needs of the local villagers. He had treated more sprained ankles and work related injuries then he did back home working at his mother's Clinic. Calth couldn't help but pray for combat, He hated the monotony of playing the village doctor. sure the town had a small clinic, but the doctor in charge is little use as he made a habit of drinking during work hour. Back home That kind of doctoring would have got you at the very least fired, if not getting the throne loving hell beaten out of them.

Standing in line Clath watched the rest of the unit race out of the barracks and stand in formation. Soon after he could see the Sergeant began to make a head count.

The day had become overcast by the time the entire platoon assembled itself in the courtyard - some fifty effective at full strength, including heavy weapon support and the platoon command, separated into five squads all clad in unexciting brown fatigues and overlapped by 'the usual' Cadian-pattern flak and helmet; the only thing that separated them from any other emulators of the vaunted Cadians, Hasenkamp noted with a scowl, were their Uzanian lascarbines and cameleoline cloaks. It also did not escape his notice that more than a handful of his command had made off into the surrounding lands, going AWOL in military parlance, including one of his finest sharpshooters and a member of a weapons team! Yes, the heavy stubber could be used by one person, but it was a damned pain to keep the ammo flowing alone.

"Soldaten!" Began the Second-Lieutenant, one hand on the hilt of his chainsword and the other gently holding the peak of his officers cap (even his was a Cadian prop, and he didn't like it), "I have voxed headquarters about our current situation, and they have given us the go-ahead," now he moved his hands behind his back and tried to make himself look like the officer he was - even at only twenty three years old - "what is the situation, you may ask? Well, it would appear that a convoy of Guardsmen from the Faeburn Vanquishers have got themselves into a spot of trouble within our patrol radius. We shall be marching with all haste to bring them aid... and possibly to see some action."

An adjutant handed him a dataslate and Hasenkamp lifted his eyes to glance over the ranks, "the following men shall be accompanying me and my command squad - please step forward and fall in about me. Operator Mehl, Jäger Varren and Unteroffizier Baumeister."

When all was said and done - the Voxman, medic and Sergeant following his trail of four other soldiers to the head of the platoon - Hasenkamp took one last look at the sleet coloured sky overhead, noted in his mind the slight drop in temperature, and put the cap back over his neatly brushed hair.

"Zug, vorwärts ... März!"

---

---

It was a forced march of nearly thirteen miles from Shayrith to their target, a nearly five hour march mostly on roughly shod track and roads but also across more rugged country, the site of the ambush reported from inside what was known as the Northlore Forest - an area some thirty-nine square miles in total, ranging from thick deep-woods to thinner outer woodland, an area which could be seen as the weary platoon hauled themselves over a rise and looked down at the sight before them.

Spread out beneath them was a landscape of bracken and rock-strewn moorland, nothing covering the half-a-mile from the ridge to the treeline, which could be seen as an almost never-ending sea of treetops sprouting from the earth.

"Spalte, halt!" Ordered the Second-Lieutenant, who waited until the marching column came to a complete stop, "platoon to form into squads... prepare and rest a moment." With a curt nod to his subordinates, he sent them scurrying to relay the order down the line and looked out at the woodland with wary eyes.

"Unteroffizier Baumeister," came his voice in a querying tone, the officer not turning to see where the fifty-four year old was but instead continuing to speak when he heard footsteps nearing, his eyes glaring through a pair of old-fashioned binoculars at the treeline ahead, "you are an old soldier. Tell me, bearing in mind that the call for aid came from a mile or so within that forest, and that the Vanquishers are not a green regiment, what would you do if you were in my position?"

It was a genuine question, and although time was against them it was never too late to ask more veteran soldiers their opinions.

Calth's pulse was racing as he marched, by the emperor they were going up against the Damned followers of chaos. He knew little about the Ruinous powers, and he knew even less about the forces on this planet. Calth knew they were depraved and wanted him, along with his brothers and sisters in the regiment, dead and used to please whatever passes for their god. When calth was young his mother, and when he had been bad, had been told stories on how the Daemon legions Khorne of would steal him up if he kept misbehaving. Calth chuckled slightly as the Lieutenant called a halt.
Slowly Calth took a knee to rest. He this was the real deal, but he couldn't help but recall the ruck marching during basic training. All the yelling of the drill instructors, the smoking when one of the squad messed up. He couldn't help but smile as he recalled his first smoking. It had been the second week of training and his Senior drill instructor Sergeant Müller, had caught trainee Kara Keller with a unstrapped helmet during inspection. The squad was forced to do high knees four an hour and a five kilometer run, on top of everything else they had to do that day. Calth never really hated anyone like he hated senior drill instructor Müller, but as much as he hated him, Clath couldn't help but be thankful to him. Thanks to him, the march they just made felt like a moderate game of sport rather than a grueling military march. Sure he was tired but he knew he could still fight if need be.
As they rested Calth couldn't help but worry about the platoon. While every guardsmen in the regiment was combat treatment certified, Calth was the platoon medic. His job was to ensure his platoon would be taken care of in the event of casualties, while going through medical studies again during basic training, He was told by his instructor something that had profoundly effected him. He would be the last person some of the other guardsmen will every see or speak to before going to the emperors side. For months he struggled with that pressure as he worked through the medical classes, He saw via Recording just how gruesome many of the common place injuries in combat were. Artillery wounds, Melee wounds, Plasma burns, Las wounds not even to mention the more exotic Xenos and Damned Chaos warp craft. He would have to treat men and women who he trained with, more so he would have to give them their last rights. Throne knew he was willing to fight and die for the Emperor, Having to hear the screams and cries of his Regiment was a whole different ordeal. The only thing that kept him sane was the fact the wounded and dying needed him to be strong, he just hoped when the time came and cries for medic arose, that he would have the courage to be the medic they needed.

Mehl’s Vox had been on standby when they had been woken up, so whatever it was that the regiments headquarters had caught on the Guard net had been long since transmitted by the time he knew enough to turn the damn thing on and try and listen in. But it hadn’t stopped him from keep the headset firmly over his ears all throughout their short briefing and the subsequent march to the aid of the Vanquishers.

He’d had little time to think about exactly what they were getting themselves into, in fact he’d had little time to think about anything beyond the fact that the Vox was catching some strange ghost transmissions on the net, echoing in and out every so often, far more often than he had ever experienced in training, but it did nothing to unsettle him beyond mild annoyance as he constantly sling the heavy Vox set to his chest to fiddle with the dials and switches enough try and clear up the interference.

The halt came precisely as he was fiddling with a dial after a ghost transmission that sounded more like incomprehensible screaming than any sort of real transmission bouncing off the mountains of Arosep Tertias. Nearly walking into the halted medic in front of him Mehl cursed and did what his predecessors had done for tens of thousands of years before him and would continue to do long after he was dead with no actual success. He hit the Vox.

“Damn thing keeps catching ghosts.” He mumbled to Varren just in front of him as he slung the pack back around and took up his las in a ready carry. Taking a knee facing the tree line some several hundred yards out to their right Mehl sighed and wished it were a bit warmer, “You stick close to me, I get all the medic requests right here,” he patted the Vox on his back as he continued to watch the tree line, “so if someone needs you, I guarantee I’ll be able to tel you before anyone else can run to get you. Head start on helping ja?” he shrugged, not waiting for the young medic to answer he stood and trotted over to the Lieutenant and Baumeister.

“Nothing on Guard net since we started this Sir, I can try their known freqs but I’m not positive they can hear us, getting some wild ghosts out here, could be the mountains Sir.”

@caliban22@Jbcool