It's all lead up to this. The millennia of starvation at the hands of The Bastard's family, that they may stuff their filthy, perfect faces. The negligence by The Bastard's planetary defense forces, leaving untold millions to bleed out at the hands of the Feral Orks on the eastern continent, just so their forces could "stay ready." The countless purges at the hands of The Bastard's secret police, slaughtering all who dared to speak out against the torment their families had endured, so they could "maintain public order." Was it any wonder when some of us turned to the sweet whispers of the Great Enemy? To the promises of freedom, of salvation, of happiness? Was it any wonder when the cults formed? When the sacrifices started? When the riots began?
And… Is it any wonder that I'm doing what I'm doing? No, no it isn't. I keep telling myself that, keep myself clean of any doubts. "You're our best chance," they said, "if anyone can do it, it's you." I can't afford to fail them, not now, not ever. A single slip up, a single breath out of rhythm, and it's all over. I've practiced this over and over, I can't even remember how many hours I've spent at the range… But it doesn't matter. None of it does. Not the suffering, not the loss, none of it. All that matters, is that I don't miss.
We actually arrived half an hour ago. He's still waiting down there, watching the entrance, ready to get us out of here. He was always the strongest of us, and the only reason we made it this far. Blessed, that's what they called him, the Blessed Blade of Chaos. I don't know about all that, but I do know he's a decent driver. That's all I need from him right now.
The address is starting soon, another 15 minutes. This ought to be his last one. His shield shouldn't work. Another of our comrades, she managed to seduce one of The Bastard's personal guard, get access to his refractor shield, and break the more important pieces. I still don't know how she managed that, but I'm not going to question it. They want to talk about best chances, we only have this chance because of her. Maybe she'll get a nice medal when this is all done.
I'm just scribbling at his point but writing always calmed my nerves. My rifle is ready, so is my cartridge. It's a beautiful little thing, the actual bullet is some sort of crystal, and the whole thing is covered in glowing runes. Our wyrd said something about "the force of a plasma gun," and I trust him on that. He is a damn good sorcerer, after all. Might bring the spent shell back to him, as a souvenir. I'm still not letting him touch my rifle, though.
Think I can hear the anthem now. Better get in position. Best of luck, me. I'll need it.