A/N: The following story contains heresy of the highest order. Nevertheless, reviews and criticism will be appreciated.

It is the 42nd millennium. For more than a hundred centuries, the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest among his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes – the Space Marines, bioengineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace among the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Foreword

My name is Fenwick. Thomas Fenwick, as of the beginning of this story. I don't really go by my first name, haven't since joining the Guard. Part of it, I think, has to do with my dad clapping me on the shoulder just before I left and telling me to do right by the family name. Oh, if they knew what I've been up to…

You will, soon. This is my journal, after all.

Now, in the case of my story, I must ask that you refrain from judging me a traitor until the very end. The way I saw things sort of… changed, as events progressed, and only in retrospect can I truly see how far my understanding of things has shifted. So I humbly ask that you bear with me until the very end. Once that's done, you can cry heresy and condemn me all you like. But save that for afterwards; now, let me tell you about my little misadventure on the delightful world of Armatura.

"Remind me where we're going?" The guardsman sitting to my left was speaking to me. I blinked out of my state of reverie and looked over to him, noting the tired expression he wore. I smirked inwardly; with the exception of myself and a few others, we were all conscripts here. Not a one of us had seen a battlefield, and this person was already tired. I suppose I couldn't blame him; we'd been on this ship for almost three weeks, and I was getting a little sick of it myself. I was one of the few who actually signed onto the guard instead of being conscripted. I wanted to be here. The guy to my left probably couldn't have cared less.

"Armatura," I told him, and he nodded and returned to staring into his mug of recaf. He didn't need to know more. He was as aware of the details as anyone: we were the reinforcements to the guardsmen already stationed there. Just a few orks that had been running amok, they said, and we probably wouldn't be seeing any actual battle. Apparently the guard already had it under control. So far, being in the Astra Militarum was sounding like a piece of cake. Be organized, keep your uniform clean and your gear in good shape, don't talk back to your commissar, and you were golden.

We entered the atmosphere at midday, or so we were told. We certainly couldn't tell; this planet's skies were red. That widened a lot of eyes, being a far cry from Fenksworld's ever-changing weather. Hive worlds and war worlds are, well, worlds apart in that regard. You could sense it, too, as we descended rapidly. Even before we touched down, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach, and just by looking around I could tell everyone else was experiencing the same. Something wasn't right, and we all knew it.

Our pilot landed us smack-dab in the middle of the camp, and though we were all eager to say goodbye to the transport we'd endured for the better part of a month, our exit from the vessel was slow and uncertain. We conscripts were accompanied by a single commissar, and a glance backwards told me that he was just as confused and uncomfortable as the rest of us.

The camp was dead as the dust blowing through it. Empty tents, broken crates, scattered cups and bottles of amasec. And at the end of the camp, this wall. It looked like a bunch of misshapen sandbags, hastily and haphazardly stacked on top of each other. None of us knew what was going on, until an ork with a rokkit fixed to its back came flying out of the dust, slamming straight into our ship's cockpit and going to town with the crude axe in his hand. Our poor pilot was dead in moments, and as the rest of us yelled in alarm and began to take aim at the lone ork, the wall at the end of the camp exploded.

A severed arm, encrusted with filth and blood, flopped to the ground at my feet, and I recoiled in horror. Perhaps that was what saved me, because an autogun's fire whistled through the space I'd been just a second before, filling the conscript behind me with bullets. Looking down at that arm, and back at the now-destroyed wall, I understood: it had been made of dead guardsmen, that wall - all piled up on each other in a grotesque mound of bodies. Their slayers now came leaping and whooping and roaring over that wall: Orks, dozens of them. Whether they had been concealed by the dust or hidden under the bodies while we landed, they were here now, and they wanted our blood.

"WAAAGH!"

"Waaagh!" I screamed back, not nearly as loud, and took aim. Several people immediately turned tail and ran. Our commissar was too busy shrieking orders and firing randomly into the oncoming orks to discipline the deserters, and anyway, they met their ends soon enough. As if things weren't bad enough already, from the dust behind us a savage whirring noise split the air. It was a sound I would become intimately familiar with before long, but in that moment, it might have been the most startling noise I'd ever heard. In the span of a moment, the lead escapee was viciously shorn in half by an unseen weapon. Another's face spontaneously erupted, and the last few burst into flame, falling to their knees and clawing futilely at their immolated heads. I didn't have time to try and understand what was going on back there, as the orks had reached the first line infantry.

I am not exaggerating when I say that we crumbled like stale bread before those greenskins. You must understand: we were, almost to a man, completely inexperienced, and outnumbered two to one. We had never pointed a gun at an actual enemy, nor had we come here expecting to. Still, I fired my lasrifle dutifully, teeth clenched as I tried to ignore the agonized cries of my falling fellows. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man who had sat to my left during the descent now hoisted over a Nob's head, screaming as his body was ripped in half and cast in pieces to the earth. Lasers riddled the Nob's body to little effect, and with a jovial roar, it continued on its rampage through the hapless guardsmen. A wayward rokkit found our unfortunate commissar, annihilating most of his upper body.

An ork Boy, swinging its choppa wildly, opened the stomach of the man to my right and elbowed me hard in the ribs. My breath knocked out of me, I sank to one knee, and was sent flying when another one barreled into me, ignoring my kneeling form in favour of the soon-to-be-dead woman behind me. A spatter of blood hit the side of my boot as I lay, dazed and in pain. I knew I had broken ribs, but I also knew that I had to get up, or I'd be trampled by battle-crazed Boyz. The crunch of booted feet slowly approaching got me to push myself onto my elbows and look up. There was the Nob, grinning horribly, its power klaw clenching and unclenching with adrenaline and excitement. Well, I thought, this is it. Not even my first proper mission and I'm already dead. Good going, Fenwick.

This thought was shattered when the noise from before came back at full volume. The Nob's eyes widened in stupid surprise, a throaty growl issuing from its mouth. And then, with a bestial howl, the huge chainaxe completed its arc, mincing the ork's neck and sending its head tumbling to the blood-soaked earth.

As the body slowly toppled sideways, I saw him for the first time. A lanky youth, no older than I, with a shock of red hair stained redder by gore. Wearing tattered civilian pants and a breastplate that revealed much of his wiry but well-muscled frame, and on his face, the broadest smile and brightest eyes I'd ever seen. The world swam before me as I looked upon the shapes emerging from the dust behind him, and when I lost consciousness, I was still completely certain that I was as good as dead.

When I awoke, the sky was less red. Well, still red, but of a more earthy quality. Or perhaps it was dark orange? Almost looked like a sunset. I missed sunsets, I realized; even the dim, hazy ones on Fenksworld could be captivating – if not wholly pleasant – if you were bold enough to climb to a level where light properly reached through the grimy, dark clouds. From an Upper Hive balcony, they might have looked even nicer, but I'd never had the privilege to be on one. I wondered then if, had I come from a richer family, I would have signed up for the guard anyway. Perhaps I would still be on Fenksworld, enjoying those rather grim sunsets with a glass of amasec and a pretty noblewoman laughing at my stiff, awful jokes.

These inane speculations were what filled my thoughts as I lay on my back, looking up at that sky, dimly aware of the bodies and pooled blood all around me. I laughed hoarsely at the fact that I was alive, that everyone else was dead, and I was all by myself – no, that wasn't true. I was simply the only human on the planet, and would have plenty of company from the orks. I might have lain there longer, were it not for the voices that answered my laughter.

"Oi, he's awake!" A young, gravelly voice, full of excitement and vigour.

"What a pity." A guttural rumble, carrying with it age, boredom and derision.

"Just as planned." A whisper that reached in my soul and mind, tinged with amusement.

"Lucky boy." A woman's voice, unnaturally smooth and rich. I blinked and forced myself to sit up.

There, standing around me and peering down, were four humanoid shapes, two of which towered over the others. I immediately recognized the crimson-haired young man from before. He was leaning on that chainaxe and was grinning like he'd caught a fish. I noted his oddly sharp, grey teeth, and worry immediately began to gnaw at me. Sharp teeth and a chainaxe, not to mention…

I looked at the two towering figures, and scrambled to my feet, my lasrifle abandoned and the pain in my ribs forgotten. They each had to be eight feet tall. The one was clad in spiky black helmetless armour, had spiky black hair, and carried a spiky bolt pistol and a huge spiky sword. He was just spiky all over, this monster of a man. His orange, wolfish eyes were fixed on me with unconcealed scorn, even approaching disgust. I wasn't sure what I did to earn his disapproval, and I got the odd feeling that I would never really know.

The other giant's armour was light blue and gold, not nearly as spiky as the black-clad one's. I couldn't see his face, as it was concealed behind a helmet topped by a rather large ornamental headdress. A long, hooked staff was leaned on his gilded pauldron. He observed me through glowing eye-slits in his helmet; his body language told me he was relaxed, or perhaps simply unconcerned.

I stumbled back, my mouth falling open in awe. Everyone knew the stories, whether they were told to them as legends on their homeworld or as factual recollections by guardsmen. The men before me were the descendants of the Emperor himself, fabled warriors who unfailingly brought death to the enemies of mankind.

"You're Space Marines," I whispered, still unable to believe my eyes.

"And you're a Guardsman," sneered the black-clad warrior. "A Guardsman who, by all rights, should have died, until someone decided to save your worthless life."

"Oi, I didn't know I was saving anyone until I'd tripped over him. I thought I was just chopping off a Nob's head." It was the kid with the chainaxe speaking. I looked from him to the Space Marines, not quite comprehending. I was no expert on the Adeptus Astartes, but I knew enough to be sure that he was not one of them. He grinned sheepishly at me. "Yeah, I saved you. Don't let it go to your head, though – first time was an accident, and second time probably won't happen."

"Many thanks," I mumbled, feeling very much like I'd awoken from a nightmare into a fever dream. The feeling of something soft pressing against my back as two pairs of arms encircled me from behind only added to this feeling. Especially when I stopped to think about that. "Wait…"

"Where's my thanks?" the woman's voice from before cooed in my ear, soft and… delicious. That's not an adjective I would normally ascribe to anyone's voice, but hers was. Equally soft lips pressed against my ear, making my breath hitch. Just a little concerned for my safety, I pulled away and looked at the woman, and what I saw made my stomach turn in fear.

Dressed in scanty rune-engraved black armour, her body lithe and curvaceous, and her smiling face impossibly beautiful, was what could only be a daemon. Her skin was an odd shade of purplish white, and two of her four arms ended in wicked chitinous claws. Her long, graceful legs had birdlike talons instead of feet. As she watched me scramble away from her, she laughed, but it wasn't a cruel laugh, which only made me all the more wary. "Ooh, he's afraid! I feel bad now…perhaps I should have let him bleed out."

"Huh?" I looked down at my torso. Sure enough, there was a strip of cloth, wound tightly around my ribs, with a red stain over my broken bones. The Daemonette laughed again, moving towards me and using a claw to tilt my chin up to look at her. Those eyes were mesmerizing…

"You were bleeding quite badly, so I took some cloth and put together some makeshift bandages," she said, smiling winningly at me. I looked back at the Astartes behind me, at the chainaxe kid, and the looks on their faces told me it was true. Not only that, but her being there unapprehended confirmed one thing for certain.

My face fell in abject defeat. "You're all heretics, aren't you?"

"Yes." The chainaxe youth chuckled, looking far too at ease with this revelation. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

"Of course it does!" I sputtered, eyes flickering from him to my discarded lasrifle. Even if I could reach it in time – and I was fairly certain I couldn't – there was no way I could take out two Space Marines, a daemon and Chainaxe. From which arose the question- "…Why aren't I dead already?"

"Because I saved you, silly," said the Daemonette, brushing past me to stand beside the blue-and-gold marine.

"No, that's not what I mean," I protested, wondering what was keeping my tongue going in the presence of these heretics. "Why didn't you kill me?" Or leave me to die? I looked at the Daemonette, who winked back at me. Spiky got to his feet and switched on the power field around his sword. I swallowed as his glare bored into me.

"If you'd rather be dead, that could easily be arranged," he said coldly.

"Um… no, thanks," I squeaked.

The red-haired young man sighed and hefted that monstrous axe across his shoulders. It was only then that I noticed – the weapon was as big as he was. How in the Emperor's name did he wield it? He stepped closer to me, and I must've flinched, because he stopped and frowned. "Like I said, it was an accident at first. Rosie just had to go and fix you up, because that's what she does." He looked over his shoulder at the Daemonette, who smugly crossed her two pairs of arms. "But looking at you now…" His eyes were on me once more, and I felt their intensity. Looking into them was like peering down the barrels of a pair of flamers. "…there really would be no satisfaction in fighting you. You don't even know how to use a gun. Shooting an ork in the gut!"

He snorted. I frowned. Now, that was unnecessary. I knew how to aim and fire a lasgun just fine. Perhaps I lacked a bit of combat experience, and perhaps that was an understatement, but I was still indignant about him calling me useless. "For your information, I do know how to use a gun," I told him. When he smirked and the Daemonette giggled, I only grew more incensed. "I do! I've just never had to use it in a combat situation! So-"

"Ah," the youth interrupted, suddenly right beside me and slinging a thin-but-muscular arm around my shoulders, "but that's the only thing that matters, isn't it? A gun is useless unless it's firing on flesh – just like a blade is useless unless it's biting on flesh. That's what they're meant for, you know." He shrugged, clapped me on the shoulder and moved off, soon followed by the two Space Marines and the still-giggling Daemonette. I turned and watched them go, until the kid spun around and spread his arms. "Well? Grab your gun, snatch the pistol and chainsword off that commissar, find some rations and get going!"

I started. That was not at all what I was expecting. "You want me to… come with you?" My question was met with that broad grin of his, which was oddly reassuring in spite of his mouthful of fangs.

"Yeah, of course! The more the merrier, or so I think. Thurion might disagree, but he's just grumpy that way." This earned him a snort from the spiky marine, who hadn't slowed at all. The other Space Marine and the Daemonette, however, had stopped and were looking back at me expectantly.

I quickly weighed my options. I could stay here, surrounded by the corpses of fallen Guardsmen – most of whom I didn't know – and wait for more orks to arrive and finish the job, or I could tag along with a band of Chaos-worshiping heretics until I found some way off this blasted planet. The very name 'Armatura' now seemed to embody misfortune and insanity. All I could do was hope that an Imperial ship would come along and rescue me before I died… or worse. What could be worse? Looking at this merry band of heretics, I could think of a few things.

Then again, it might not turn out that bad.

I stuffed several of my fallen comrades' rations and ammo packs into a backpack, shouldered my lasrifle, and finally, with shaking hands, pried the chainsword and bolt pistol from the commissar's cold dead fingers, trying not to retch all the while. The viscera of orks and my fellow Guardsmen strewn all around me made that task difficult, but I managed somehow, retreating with a gasp and clipping the chainsword to my hip. Wow, it was heavy…

"Ready?" The youth asked.

I held up my hands. "Wait a moment. There's something I've got to do." My hands and shoulders shaking, I quietly recited the Litany of Devotion, along with a prayer to the Emperor for the souls of the fallen guardsmen. Followed by a tiny, selfish prayer for myself, asking him to forgive me for what I was about to do. I knew I was a terrible guardsman and would be considered a traitor by most Imperials now, agreeing to band together with heretics – even if it only was to save my skin. In that moment, though, there was no one to judge me that way, and I decided that I'd rather be a terrible guardsman than a dead one. At least, that's how I thought then. I still pray for forgiveness every day.

I turned to the young man and nodded, trying my best to look determined. "I'm ready." With a start, I realized the others were already a long way away, tramping off into the dust. Only the red-headed youth was still there, waiting patiently. His grin showed no signs of disappearing, and I resigned myself then and there to getting used to those spiked teeth of his. I'd have to, if I was to stick with them for any length of time.

"Got a name, Guardsman?" he asked, as the two of us started off into the wasteland of Armatura.

"I'm…" I hesitated, then realized I had no reason to withhold my name. "Fenwick. Thomas Fenwick."

"Well then, a pleasure to meet you, Thomas Fenwick," he exclaimed, snatching my hand in his and giving it a vigorous shake. "I'm Marrlë."