They taught us to hate.

I am Guardsman 873E19-36, recruited into the 873rd Corinth Volunteers. I am a Guardsman of the Holy Imperium of Man. My master, the Emperor of Mankind. My rifle, my creed.

There are none as can stand before me, for I am the bringer of death. When my brethren and I take the field we are the Destroyers of Worlds. We hate the Xenos, for he seeks to destroy Man. We hate the Heretic, for he seeks to usurp Man. We hate the Daemon, for he seeks to corrupt Man. None can stand in our way, for we are the Righteous.

My first words spoken as a Guardsman, the Oath of Allegiance taken by every recruit in our Regiment and drilled into each man until we could chant it in unison. I used to believe in those words. My faith burned with a fire brighter than any in the outfit, my life was to serve.

Over countless worlds we fought and died for a cause we could barely even comprehend, for reasons hidden from us by zeal. Not once did we face the harsh tongue of a Commissar's justice, nor the mad rush of defeat. We fought alongside the mighty, the Adeptus Titanicus and the legendary - rumored Sons of the Emperor himself – Adeptus Asartes. We fought in the defense of worlds we have never seen, nor ever will again. We killed, and they called us heroes. They gave us medals and marched us past the Holiest Imperial Palace itself. "See for yourself" They said, "the brave soldiers of the Imperium, who have never known defeat. Hear their Glories and Praise their names!"

Yet with all our victories, all our friends lost on alien worlds, they betrayed us. Left us to die on some dank, worthless death-world with no hope of salvation. They left us to fight an enemy we were ill-prepared and ill-equipped to fight. Fifteen hundred of my brethren dropped on that world. Only twenty five of us survived the massacre.

That was the day I lost my faith.

They took us prisoner, and in turn took us through their dark portal to their city, Commorragh. There they bound us in chains and sold us as slaves for their twisted desires. My squad-mate and I, Rifleman Redwood found ourselves sold off to the Arena. The others, I never saw again.

***

I was what the Guard calls a Marksman. Truthfully, just a smart way of saying I'm a good shot. I'm not a sniper, by any stretch of the word. No, those boys get lots of specialized training and expensive gear. I was given a badge, a new rifle and told to go wild – as long as I observed the proper litanies and rituals. I worked, Company Techpriest over my shoulder, to make my weapon a thing of beauty. The action was smooth as could be, the barrel reinforced to take the higher stress of a greater las-charge. A fore grip was mounted in-place of the standard bayonet lug. It was my creation as much as the technician who stamped it out.

My role in the platoon was not to engage the enemy head on, in the frantic chaos of firefight – not the insanity of Close Quarters Battle. My job was to stand back, provide fire support and disrupt the enemy before he could engage. My job was simple, and I was good at it.

When the enemy took us, these... twisted parodies of the Eldar, we fought, tooth and nail we fought. Like Guardsmen we fought, and we fell as Guardsmen should. I felt the hot kiss of their weapons against my flesh, the stench of their breath as they passed over me. Yet, I refused to pass on, to give up. My rifle lay not two feet from where I fell. I summoned the last reserves of my will, and once again, my beloved was with me. It flared in my hands one last time, laying what appeared to be a squad leader low. It wasn't long before they were upon me once again.