Thunder.
Dirt flies through the air, stained red.
\Can't see. Can't hear./
Thunder.
Body parts, dirt, clay, rusted steel.
A single slug catches him in the shoulder, blowing his arm clean off. He screams.
The Commissar is still barking orders. Another slug relieves Commissar Septimus of his right leg. He falls, but nothing stops his voice. "Hold the line! Fire into the smoke! Never stop! For the Emperor!"
He finishes wrapping his shoulder stump. Lines of red light fly into the smoke. Guttural roars.
\Can't see. Need to see./
Thunder.
Body parts, green this time. Rusty axes and pistols. A severed head thumps into the trench. Volan screams, turns to run.
Septimus turns, watching Volan. His boltpistol moves, fires. Volan falls. Septimus barks, "Hold the line! Run and face me! Fire! Fire! For the Emperor!"
The first Ork breaks through the smoke. He fires. The las draws its attention.
\Good. Come on, big boy./
The Ork raises his gun. Its arm is blown off. It, and he, sees Septimus laughing. "Kill him, Obel! Spill his green guts across this battlefield! The Emperor pro-"
A slug hits Commissar Septimus in the forehead, leaving a neat, round hole. Septimus's brain mixes with the mud.
\Good. Less distractions./
Obel and the Ork square off. Obel draws his knife. It charges, axe held high. Obel rolls, slicing its knee. The Ork roars. Its leg gives way.
\One./
Another from the smoke. Obel fires, the las luckily catching the Ork in the eye.
\Two./
Thunder.
Obel rolls back, avoiding the raining Ork and human parts. He stops beside Septimus's body.
\Laspistol is nothing. Need his boltpistol./
Obel throws his laspistol down.
Another through the haze. A bolt blows the Ork's head clean off.
\Three./
Another pops up from the trench. Obel throws his knife. The Ork is blind, but not dead.
\Need his sword./
The Ork charges. Obel ducks the axe, grabs the sword, slicing into its groin. The Ork groans in pain. Obel's thumb jams down the button. The chain sputters, starts, and digs into Ork flesh. The chainsword rends the beast in two.
\Four./
Thunder.
The dirt and smoke obscure Obel's vision. He shoots into the veil. No response.
Again.
A groan, then a sick splat.
\Five./
Slugs pepper the ground around Obel. He dives down, sliding under the Commissar's body. The line breaks. Obel hears guardsmen fleeing, shouting, praying.
Rapid shots. Screams.
\Autocannon. Or heavy bolter./
Obel peeks out. Three Orks, riding a ramshackle groundtruck. A scavenged Imperial heavy bolter is welded to the truck's bed. An Ork operates it, firing and laughing.
Obel rolls, lies flat, lines up his boltpistol. He fires. Ork brains spill over the heavy bolter.
\Six./
The truck stops, reverses. The Ork in the passenger seat fires out of the back window. Obel rolls, coating himself in mud. He fires back. Misses.
\Can't hit him laying down. Have to stand./
Obel pounces up to his knees, somersaults forward. He fires. The Ork fires.
The bolt blasts through its face. The slug eats through Obel's knee. He falls.
\Seven./
The truck continues back. Obel lies face up in the mud.
\Can't crawl away. No weapons to use…/
He closes his eyes.
Thunder.
Heat.
Life?
He opens his eyes. The truck has exploded, a dozen feet away. Wreckage pins Obel down.
Heavy footsteps.
Bolter fire pushes the Orks back. The green tide ebbs, replaced with a black wave.
\Space Marines. Dark Angels./
The Dark Angels push onward, leaving Obel in the mud.
Thunder, distant now.
Footsteps, a single set.
The Chaplain bends down. He pulls the wreckage away, examines Obel's body.
"You can be saved." Deep, reverberating through the skull mask. "You've done a great service this day, citizen. You are a hero of the Imperium."
Obel smiles. Coughing, then Obel's voice. "The… ci…ty…?"
"The Hive-City is safe. We arrived in time to protect it from the Orks. Thank the Emperor for this chance to reclaim your world."
"No…" Obel chokes out. "Not… the Em… peror. Us. Thank… us…" He coughs again, closes his eyes.
The Chaplain rises. "Ahh." His boltpistol snaps to attention. He fires.
For Obel, the sounds of distant battle fade away. Now, the rustling of the Chaplain's power armour dominates. The hammer of the boltpistol cocks, then slams into the bolt. The bolt explodes out of the barrel. Then, silence.
The Chaplain barely hears the boltpistol fire. "Another heretic purged, for the Emperor."