Post by Lawnmower Joe on Oct 30, 2016 12:49:33 GMT -5
Nat's throat burned as she howled: "More ammo for the stubber!" The air stank with the cordite used in the Orkz' primitive weapons, the plastcrete dust and the myriad chemicals the shelling of the atmosphere-regulating plants had released. A boy not older than 14, his face caked with dust and sweat, half-crawled half-stumbled over the rubble, a heavy crate of ammunition in his hands.
"Incoming orkz!" Yelled one of her men, and his cry was instantly drowned out by a new bout of gunfire. The stubber team hastily fed a fresh ammo belt into their battered shooter. Nat turned away and aimed her autorifle at the green-skinned xenos that were rushing towards them, their grotesque faces a blur. She pulled the trigger and her rifle bucked against her aching shoulder, its chatter lost in the hellish din of battle. The Ork she'd aimed at stumbled as if someone had thrown a stone at him before charging on, his choppah held high.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" A feral cry tore through everything else and sent shivers down Nat's spine. Over the past two (or was it three?) years of fighting, she'd heard that cry too many times. She heard it at night as she lay huddled beneath her blood and mud-stained blanket, through the veil of her hazy war-haunted dreams.
"For the Emperor!" She shouted, and emptied her gun's curved magazine into the Orkz' chest. The bullets left a constellation of green blood stains on the xenos' filth-stained jacket, and Nat heaved a sigh of relief as he fell with a clunk.
"Stop hidin', humies!" yelled an unseen Ork. The stubber had, once again, mowed down this wave of greenskins, and Nat knew it wouldn't be long before the heavy machine-gun succumbed to over-heating. When the battle had started, her squad had taken position in a small shrine dedicated to some minor saint. The shrine had since been shelled multiple times, collapsing into a pile of shattered plastcrete, with headless columns jutting skywards and the saint's statue leaning, headless, to one side. Nat ejected her magazine, threw it aside and slammed a new one into the receiver. The only thing that kept her from collapsing into a crying bundle of exhaustion were the psychostims the AdMechs had handed out.
"Shut yer gob, xeno!" She yelled back, risking a glance over the top of the chunk of smashed masonry she was using as cover. She ducked back down as a hail of disordered gunfire came from the Ork position.
And then a series of all too familiar thuds came from several blocks away, followed by the sickening screeching woosh of Ork artillery shells.
"Oh Emperor give me strength" croaked Nat, and a split second later the shrine shook with the impacts of multiple Big Lobba shells. Nat lay flat against the ground, one hand pressed against her helmet. She felt like many gigantic hands made of burning hot air were slapping her around.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!"
Her face set in a frozen rictus, Nat got up on one knee and began firing at the oncoming Orkz. The stubber had fallen silent, probably for the last time, and the Orkz came on with renewed fury. The boy, who'd been transferred into Nat's squad only two hours ago, screamed as a huge green-skinned brute bore down on him. The Ork's choppa came down and hacked into the boy's arm and chest. Blood ran over the rubble.
"Throw them back!" Shouted Nat, "NO RETREAT!"
Well, that was it. She raised her shovel and hurled herself at the Ork now thundering towards her. She ducked beneath the swing of his choppa and brought the sharpened edge of her entrenching tool into his kneecap. The Ork shouted, and a staggering blow hit her in the side of the head. For a heartbeat she felt herself fly through the air, yet more human chaff blown away in the fury of war, before the world faded into darkness.
Two hours later, Saint Dreyfus Cathedral, medicae base:
Nat woke on the rear deck of a converted agri-truck, on a stretcher that stank of blood and shit. The sky above her was orange with chemical smoke and framed by the black spyres of destroyed buildings. Someone moaned beside her.
"Ah, seems we have a live one."
Nat blinked as a man leaned over her and shone a light into each of her eyes. His face was drawn, a week old beard covering his jaw and cheeks. His eyes looked at her without interest.
"Been a while since the ambulance brought back any live guardsmen" he said. Nat felt a hand push her head to one side as the medic continued his examination. "Hm, nasty gash, but nothing I can't patch up."
"S-Sergeant Natalya Orumov" said Nat. Her mouth struggled with the words. "155th Correlian Motor Rifles."
"Uh-huh" said the medic as he finished cleaning her wound. Nat hissed as he dabbed disinfectant on her cut and began stapling it shut. "Seen a few of your regiment. All dead. Word is the Orks broke through the Northern sector. Won't be long until they get here...aaaaand there you go. Don't touch it, let the healing enzymes in the staples do their work and you'll have a new scar in no time."
With that the medic patted her on the side of the head and moved on to the next patient. Natalya rolled over and sat on the edge of the truck's deck, her legs dangling in the air. A quick glance around her revealed several other guardsmen lying on stretchers at the back of the truck. None of them moved, and a few had flies and corpsebugs buzzing around them.
Nat grabbed her knees to steady her hands and stared out at the square in front of Saint Dreyfus. Rows upon rows of dead guardsmen lay on the flagstones, and ambulances came and went, disgorging a constant stream of dead and injured soldiers.
So the 155th was no more. In four months of fighting, Nat's squad had been annihilated ten times, five times while holding the small shrine. They'd lost it and retaken it countless times, held it until they ran out of ammunition and, after Order N.115 was issued, holding it regardless. Nat couldn't remember any of the men and women who'd fought by her side in this Emperor-forsaken city. All there was was a blur of mumbled conversations and shared Lho-sticks.
The city...Adranas was its name. Before the Great War, Nat wouldn't have dreamed of ever visiting it. Adranas was home to Correlia's AdMech, home to ancient and hallowed technology as well as many palaces and shrines. On the prints and video projections she'd seen, Adranas was a beautiful green city, its streets lined with trees, its buildings gilded with gold and bronze. A lowly plant tender like her would never have been allowed to leave her sector and set foot on Adranas' smooth flagstones.
But the Great War had turned everything upside down. The trees and plants Nat had to care for had been burned to the ground, and Adranas had gone from being a place of peace and beauty to one a place of death and horror.
Nat slowly raised her eyes to the skies. Something was disturbing the swirling orange clouds and had drawn the attention of many in the square. Bright lights flared high up in the atmosphere. Had the AdMech found some mothballed flyers to throw at the Orks?
The guardswoman's eyes went wide as a ship emerged from the clouds, several Ork fighters in hot pursuit. One of the ship's engines exploded with a gush of black smoke and flames, and it began to lose altitude. The Ork fighters strafed it with gunfire.
Nat had never seen a ship like that before, and with good reason. It was a Thunderhawk.
"Incoming orkz!" Yelled one of her men, and his cry was instantly drowned out by a new bout of gunfire. The stubber team hastily fed a fresh ammo belt into their battered shooter. Nat turned away and aimed her autorifle at the green-skinned xenos that were rushing towards them, their grotesque faces a blur. She pulled the trigger and her rifle bucked against her aching shoulder, its chatter lost in the hellish din of battle. The Ork she'd aimed at stumbled as if someone had thrown a stone at him before charging on, his choppah held high.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" A feral cry tore through everything else and sent shivers down Nat's spine. Over the past two (or was it three?) years of fighting, she'd heard that cry too many times. She heard it at night as she lay huddled beneath her blood and mud-stained blanket, through the veil of her hazy war-haunted dreams.
"For the Emperor!" She shouted, and emptied her gun's curved magazine into the Orkz' chest. The bullets left a constellation of green blood stains on the xenos' filth-stained jacket, and Nat heaved a sigh of relief as he fell with a clunk.
"Stop hidin', humies!" yelled an unseen Ork. The stubber had, once again, mowed down this wave of greenskins, and Nat knew it wouldn't be long before the heavy machine-gun succumbed to over-heating. When the battle had started, her squad had taken position in a small shrine dedicated to some minor saint. The shrine had since been shelled multiple times, collapsing into a pile of shattered plastcrete, with headless columns jutting skywards and the saint's statue leaning, headless, to one side. Nat ejected her magazine, threw it aside and slammed a new one into the receiver. The only thing that kept her from collapsing into a crying bundle of exhaustion were the psychostims the AdMechs had handed out.
"Shut yer gob, xeno!" She yelled back, risking a glance over the top of the chunk of smashed masonry she was using as cover. She ducked back down as a hail of disordered gunfire came from the Ork position.
And then a series of all too familiar thuds came from several blocks away, followed by the sickening screeching woosh of Ork artillery shells.
"Oh Emperor give me strength" croaked Nat, and a split second later the shrine shook with the impacts of multiple Big Lobba shells. Nat lay flat against the ground, one hand pressed against her helmet. She felt like many gigantic hands made of burning hot air were slapping her around.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!"
Her face set in a frozen rictus, Nat got up on one knee and began firing at the oncoming Orkz. The stubber had fallen silent, probably for the last time, and the Orkz came on with renewed fury. The boy, who'd been transferred into Nat's squad only two hours ago, screamed as a huge green-skinned brute bore down on him. The Ork's choppa came down and hacked into the boy's arm and chest. Blood ran over the rubble.
"Throw them back!" Shouted Nat, "NO RETREAT!"
Well, that was it. She raised her shovel and hurled herself at the Ork now thundering towards her. She ducked beneath the swing of his choppa and brought the sharpened edge of her entrenching tool into his kneecap. The Ork shouted, and a staggering blow hit her in the side of the head. For a heartbeat she felt herself fly through the air, yet more human chaff blown away in the fury of war, before the world faded into darkness.
Two hours later, Saint Dreyfus Cathedral, medicae base:
Nat woke on the rear deck of a converted agri-truck, on a stretcher that stank of blood and shit. The sky above her was orange with chemical smoke and framed by the black spyres of destroyed buildings. Someone moaned beside her.
"Ah, seems we have a live one."
Nat blinked as a man leaned over her and shone a light into each of her eyes. His face was drawn, a week old beard covering his jaw and cheeks. His eyes looked at her without interest.
"Been a while since the ambulance brought back any live guardsmen" he said. Nat felt a hand push her head to one side as the medic continued his examination. "Hm, nasty gash, but nothing I can't patch up."
"S-Sergeant Natalya Orumov" said Nat. Her mouth struggled with the words. "155th Correlian Motor Rifles."
"Uh-huh" said the medic as he finished cleaning her wound. Nat hissed as he dabbed disinfectant on her cut and began stapling it shut. "Seen a few of your regiment. All dead. Word is the Orks broke through the Northern sector. Won't be long until they get here...aaaaand there you go. Don't touch it, let the healing enzymes in the staples do their work and you'll have a new scar in no time."
With that the medic patted her on the side of the head and moved on to the next patient. Natalya rolled over and sat on the edge of the truck's deck, her legs dangling in the air. A quick glance around her revealed several other guardsmen lying on stretchers at the back of the truck. None of them moved, and a few had flies and corpsebugs buzzing around them.
Nat grabbed her knees to steady her hands and stared out at the square in front of Saint Dreyfus. Rows upon rows of dead guardsmen lay on the flagstones, and ambulances came and went, disgorging a constant stream of dead and injured soldiers.
So the 155th was no more. In four months of fighting, Nat's squad had been annihilated ten times, five times while holding the small shrine. They'd lost it and retaken it countless times, held it until they ran out of ammunition and, after Order N.115 was issued, holding it regardless. Nat couldn't remember any of the men and women who'd fought by her side in this Emperor-forsaken city. All there was was a blur of mumbled conversations and shared Lho-sticks.
The city...Adranas was its name. Before the Great War, Nat wouldn't have dreamed of ever visiting it. Adranas was home to Correlia's AdMech, home to ancient and hallowed technology as well as many palaces and shrines. On the prints and video projections she'd seen, Adranas was a beautiful green city, its streets lined with trees, its buildings gilded with gold and bronze. A lowly plant tender like her would never have been allowed to leave her sector and set foot on Adranas' smooth flagstones.
But the Great War had turned everything upside down. The trees and plants Nat had to care for had been burned to the ground, and Adranas had gone from being a place of peace and beauty to one a place of death and horror.
Nat slowly raised her eyes to the skies. Something was disturbing the swirling orange clouds and had drawn the attention of many in the square. Bright lights flared high up in the atmosphere. Had the AdMech found some mothballed flyers to throw at the Orks?
The guardswoman's eyes went wide as a ship emerged from the clouds, several Ork fighters in hot pursuit. One of the ship's engines exploded with a gush of black smoke and flames, and it began to lose altitude. The Ork fighters strafed it with gunfire.
Nat had never seen a ship like that before, and with good reason. It was a Thunderhawk.