Targus Lorr chipped away at his lasgun with a mixture of hatred and anxiety. The gold-colored Aquila was steadily chipped off the gun with a piece of scrap metal in his hand. He felt joy as he effaced the weapon and started to etch the circular emblem of Chaos in its place. Targus' hands trembled with each stroke of the chisel. He was nervous.
The initial secession from the Imperium hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. Millions of Imperial soldiers had perished during the long struggle to retake Barden II, but Imperial forces had managed to surround the rebels up the gentle slopes of the mountain fortress he was now protecting. Mt. Rust, an artificial landmass created from the refuse of the hives and remains of several scrapped spacecraft, was the planet's last stronghold. After most of the Barden II had been captured, the Imperials had laid siege to the massive citadel atop Mt. Rust. Hundreds of rings of trenches surrounded the fortress, intermingled among the hulks.
Targus, a former dry dock welder, had been stationed in trench 64, on the fringes of the defense ring. His superiors had told him that it was a crucial position that must not, under any fall into enemy hands. Suddenly a small shell landed a few trenches over before a giant plume erupted from the dugout. A loud, unanimous cry rose throughout the defense line,
"GAS!"
More shells followed, each in turn detonating and spreading their deadly contents. Screams of men and curses to The Emperor intermingled with the hissing of pressurized gas escaping canisters rang out from trench to trench. Targus leapt from the bench and headed deeper into the maze of trenches. He ran as fast as he could, but couldn't outrun the mustard colored cloud. He tried to hold his breath and hide his face under his coat but some had already leaked in. It quickly singed his lungs, they felt as if they were smoldering within him. His eyes burned and it like they were trying to swell out of his head. He opened his mouth to yell but all that came out was a garbled choke. Gas flooded into him, his lungs felt like they were being shredded with a rake. He let out a silent scream as his vocal chords shriveled up inside him. As darkness began to cloud his vision he saw the corpse of a traitor officer wearing a gas mask. He desperately fell on his knees, tearing off the mask from the body and placing it over his own face. He took deep breaths, creating small patches of condensation on the inside of the mask's eyepieces. The air he breathed in was stale, dry, and tasted slightly of dirt, but at least it was breathable. He grabbed an extra magazine from the corpse and headed back through the yellow fog.
Multiple other lucky survivors from the gas attack and plenty of new reinforcements joined him and took their places along the trench. He jumped onto the parapet, and leveled his gun into the cloudy gloom. The planet was covered in a thick layer of fog from the once large oceans being evaporated by pollution and from the thousands of manufactorums. His eyes scanned from one side to the other, struggling to see into the haze. As he searched a faint light caught his eye.
It gradually faded in and out in the distance. Several others began to appear along the trench line. Out of nowhere, a long stream of light shot out of the fog and coated a poor traitor a few men over from Targus in liquid fire. The man's gas mask melted and the molten rubber mixed with his melting face as he shrieked and cried out, crumbling to the floor of the trench a pile of smoking flesh. The trenches were so tightly packed with men that the garments of other rebels standing next to him were set ablaze and the heretics wildly waved their arms in the air as they screamed and ripped off their burning coats and skin. Targus turned back to the creators of the flames, a collection of dark figures emerging from the fog. Soldiers, hundreds of them, hunched over with large tanks of promethium on their backs and wearing layers of fireproof fabric over their helmets. Every spurt of flame they released into another trench lit up the scratched skull motifs on their gas masks, half hidden in shadow. Targus raised his gun and fired a few potshots at the advancing flamer operators. The lasgun gave a loud crack with each shot. The first few rounds missed but one struck a Krieg operator in the torso and traveled through him, penetrating the tank on his back. It immediately exploded, showering two more operators and the remaining defenders of the small forward trench with glowing hot promethium. Targus smiled, happy to return the favor to the Imperium. His grin was soon replaced with a frown, however, as twice as many Korpsmen took the place of their fallen comrades. Recognizing the threat, more operators began shifting their focus to Targus' trench drowning is occupants in streams of fire.
Targus had turned around to fall back when he was suddenly staring into the barrel of a bolter. The enforcer, the traitor equivalent to a commissar, brandished his giant weapon around, threatening anyone who dared run under his watch, and seemed content with making Targus into an example. Targus could see the yellow, gas burned eyes of the enforcer through his eyepieces as he pointed the bolter at his face. Targus was so filled with fear that he didn't hear the crack from another lasgun. The enforcer lost his grip on the bolter and fell limp to the ground. Another rebel had shot the enforcer and grabbed at his gun. Other rebels grasped the weapon, wanting it for themselves. As they fought Targus saw an operator taking aim at their trench and immediately took cover in a small nook in the side of the trench, covering himself with a sheet of scrap metal.
The flamer gave a dull whine as it soaked the trench with burning liquid, almost overpowering the shrieks of its victims. Targus held the metal cover over the opening, desperately homing that none of the flames would leak in. The air around him instantly rose in temperature and he could feel the moisture leaving his body and fog up his eyepieces. There was a loud thud that caused him to jump, something had hit his shield. He was aware of the metal suddenly heating up as the banging continued.
"Targuss! Tar-guss!" came a garbled voice, it almost sounded like Targus' commanding officer, "Let me inn! It buuurns!"
The thumps grew quieter and fewer in between until they stopped altogether. Targus waited a short while, not sure of what he would find on the other side of the metal, not sure he wanted to. After several minutes he pressed against his shield, now noticeably heavier than before. When he pushed it aside and emerged from his hovel. Clinging, almost hanging off was the charred remains of Targus' lieutenant, his hair singed and skin burnt to a flakey crisp. Targus looked up from his fried superior and saw a Korpsman trudging through the muddy trench, dispensing sporadic bursts of flame at any wounded traitors lying in muck. Targus, filled with rage at the Imperium charged at the operator, plunging his bayonet into the promethium tank. It trickled out and onto his lasgun, dissolving the bayonet; the operator focused his weight on his left leg as the leaking liquid severely burned his right calf. Targus swung his deformed gun at the Krieger's head, making a metallic clunk against the helmet. The soldier grabbed a large bayonet from his leg and deflected a few wild swings from the crazed heretic. As they fought over the busted weapon another Krieg soldier turned into their trench and spotted the brawl. Targus saw him out of the corner of his eye and held the wounded operator with the bayonet across his throat.
"Don't move!" Shouted Targus, his throat burning as he did, "I'll kill him!"
The other soldier paused for a moment, as if considering the fate of his comrade before raising the flamer at them. Targus's heart sank as a torrent of searing white light burst from the muzzle of the flamer. The wounded operator cried out,
"May His light…" were the last words Targus ever heard as the scorching liquid enveloped both of them.
The flamer gave a low shriek as it sputtered and stopped gushing promethium which pooled like mercury on the ground before cooling into a steaming, shiny puddle. The Krieg operator looked at the burnt remains and gave a slight nod of his head in tribute to his fallen comrade before continuing deeper into the defense line, ready to baptize more traitors in holy fire. A dull hissing noise was heard as the light of a flare dimly permeated the thick fog in a gentle arc across the sky, the next wave.