Disclaimer- I don't own Warhammer 40k or any works therein.

"What cannot be cured must be endured,"- Edmund Spencer (1552-1599)

Jericus decided that being herded through the streets as mortar-fire rained down debris of buildings was not a fun experience. Inhuman war-cries echoed through the city and the grim looking masked guardsmen shepherded them like grox to the slaughter, though Jericus hoped against all hope that they were bringing them to relative safety. Clonevan was being destroyed, block by block, and there was nothing he could do about it as the immovable object of the Imperial Guard clashed with the unstoppable force of the Orks.

Surrin PDF forces had held long enough for the liberation fleet to get to his besieged planet, and luckily up until a few days ago Jericus had only heard of the greenskin menace through pict-casts. They had been in other cities until recently when like some unannounced rowdy uncle they had stormed into Clonevan crashing against the Imperial Guard forces that had only set up a mere day before.

Now things had all gone to keck and it seemed as though Jericus' entire world was going to be torn apart, and he was in the middle of it all, watching the fall as everything he had known was thrown asunder. He barely felt the rough shoves and jostles of the panicked crowd around him as he simply went with the flow. An hour ago he had watched as the hab-block he had grown up on had been blown to pieces, most of the inhabitants un-evacuated, his own family included.

What stung most of all though, it was Guard artillery strike that had done it. He was being herded by the same people that had sent his family to the Emperor, and still he couldn't bring himself to act. All he could do was keep going on numbly and hope the people that had just taken everything away from him would lead him to safety.

"All civilians to the manufactories, proceed in an orderly fashion, any obstructers will be shot to prevent further loss of life," a skull-masked guardsman spoke evenly over a hailer. The crowd seemed anything but orderly, but Jericus noted with relief that at least no one was being trampled, and no one seemed willing to test the guardsman's threat. Suddenly the store-face to the right of the evacuation column exploded outward, showering the crowd in brick mortar.

With an alien war-cry around a dozen orks materialized from the kicked up dust and began to hack apart anyone unfortunate to be caught close to them. Jericus had been thrown over by the blast and was recovering, only to see what he thought to be his death descend upon him, as a muscle-bound ork raised its oversized axe above its leering face.

"Time fera choppin!" the bloodthirsty xeno bellowed, about to bring the crude but deadly weapon down. Jericus looked on with numbed horror as the xeno brought down the axe to end his life, only to be covered in its blood as its massive chest exploded and its head simply disappeared under a concentrated barrage of deadly light-energy. The heavy axe dropping a mere foot from his prostrate form, looking over at the weapon he hadn't noticed the grim-looking guardsmen who had saved him.

They advanced past him firing in volley's into the xenos mob, watching on he saw as the remaining orks were cut down by their concentrated fire. His gawking was interrupted as he was abruptly lifted to his feet by another guardsman who had been behind him. A macabre skull mask filled his vision as he came face to face with one of his saviors.

"Proceed to the safe zone citizen," the guardsman stated loudly above the sounds of battle, and then pushed Jericus in the direction he had been heading. His destination in sight half a block down, the mammoth entrance to a manufactory open like the mouth of some great goliath, swallowing the streaming crowds of Surrins as they were directed into it by their skull-faced saviors.

Coming to the entrance Jericus' face was bathed in red-light as he entered the familiar building, being pushed along by the crowd he eventually couldn't move any further as the space became full. Heavy grinding sounds became audible as the main doors began to close up, leaving the crowds of frightened civilians bathed in blood-red light. A tech-priest began to preach of trust in the Omnissiah and its holy machines, how they would be protected within such a sacred place as the manufactory.

This seemed to calm the crowds as people began to quiet and put their faith in the machine god, or the Emperor. Making his way over to a wall through the crowd Jericus rested his back against the cold metal of the structure. Head in hands he began to slide down to the floor, no longer caring if he would be trampled, or if the orks broke through at any moment. His home, his life, his family, all gone in the span of a day, and it seemed as through the battle raging outside would be never ending.

Burying his face into his arms and bringing his legs in Jericus Quint simply let the stresses of the day overtake him, and fell asleep.

XXX

This is how it starts. That is what I think as I sift through the psyche evaluations. These men and women have no idea what is in store for them, the ork invasion of their planet just the beginning in a long line of confrontations they will now have to endure.

My home world, Baurin, has been destroyed, exterminatus was enacted to deny the chittering horrors its biomass, and stop the entire subsector from being consumed.

Majority of the survivors that could be evacuated chose to serve in the Imperial guard regiments that tried to save our planet. Most of the ones who served and currently serve in the 82nd Death Korps of Krieg were conscripted into said regiment.

When it was still in its prime my world was an agri-world, alive with beautiful forests, the air clean and pure, and I used to make a living from fishing, now I'm a korpsman, a blank. You see when you join, or are conscripted you're turned into a blank slate, during my training I didn't understand; in fact I hated my superiors, and in some ways I still do. But, now I know why their methods are necessary, for many years I have fought against the Emperor's enemies, mere dissenters, foul xenos, the arch-enemy, each one more sinister than the last.

In those years of service I had seen the horror and wonder which the stars had to offer. It left me with the knowledge that for these new recruits to stand up to those same abominations that all that they were would have to be erased, so that all they had was resolve and a relentless determination to destroy the Emperors enemies. Unfortunately I know that I will not succeed, because despite my best efforts they will all still have a shred of humanity left in them, and that will be both their greatest strength and weakness.

This new batch was interesting. I've served in the 82nd for about a dozen years now, give, or take what with the nature of warp travel, and in those years I've trained a good number of new recruits. Most of my own batch has been killed in action, out of the original 862 of us only about 120 remain in service give or take a few dozen, casualty reports are seldom clear.

Anyway, as I was saying, this new batch, Surrins, they're an odd lot. Then again the Kriegers themselves are still an enigma to me. But the Surrins, these people seem so pale, and their builds lean, most of their faces are sharp and angular, plus most of them have a funny way about them in general, can't really explain it, they just feel…off. It makes me wonder about their world, I would expect them to be of a more stout stature considering most of them for generations have had to work in the manufactories dotting their planet. Not to mention the slightly higher than average gravity, their muscles should be denser as should the bone structure, maybe it was, but they certainly didn't look it.

Surris itself seems like a harsh world, the air is surprisingly fresh in juxtaposition with its numerous manufactorums, but the conditions are crisp. It's on the borderline of being an iceworld, and one would think that the cold, and hard work should've forged hardier looking folk; though, perhaps they are strong in spirit to make up for their physical shortcomings. Besides we can't afford to be picky, the liberation of their world from the orks cost the 82nd more troopers than we would have liked and we need to desperately replenish the ranks.

By the Colonel's estimates we need around 1500 more souls to get back up to full strength. The Colonel is an actual Krieger and he doesn't want our regiment merged with one of the other non-krieg ones. The Randon are nutters and the Hoarfell are almost the complete opposite of the korps, undisciplined and almost casual in their regard for duty he says. The fact that said two regiments seem permanently conjoined with the 82nd by the Departmento Munitorum is baffling to him. I'll tell you why the 82nd is attached to the Randon and the Hoarfell though; the regiments work exceedingly well together.

Even so, korps troopers must be stolid in their purpose and rigid with their disciple, no room for troopers who would fly off the handle, or become bogged down by petty emotions. Thusly I have dedicated my time and energy into transforming these Surrins into the steadfast troopers the 82nd and the Imperium needs them to be. Or so the Colonel believes.

And so began the selection process. We decided on line-workers from Manufactorum-Glanis based out of the city Clonevan, mainly because they would already be accustomed to a largely structured existence and would be used to taking orders. In other words the large majority of them would have the perfect psychological make-up to become troopers in the 82nd.

Once we had weeded out about half of the original 4,000 candidates with standard psyche evaluations we moved on to the hands-on selection process. I oversaw this part myself; I had my best troopers conduct the questioning and judge the candidates. As I understand it, it's all about the subtle reactions the candidates give off when they're being questioned in-person, a slight twitch of the eye, a sniffle, a subtle flick of the wrist. We culled an additional 682 candidates, leaving myself and the other Watchmasters around 1,318 new troopers to train.

Less than what we need, but quality needs to be maintained. The others probably wouldn't have made it through the training, and if they did, they wouldn't be the kind of troopers we would need. As it is I expect at least another 80 will be claimed during the training period and I'm the optimistic one out of the Watchmasters assigned to training.

I am to train echo-company consisting of troopers 1,000-1,185. Their designations will become their true identities as mine had when I was first selected for training. I expect they will be slightly hesitant at the beginning, after all I certainly was; however, I will quickly break my group of that most unwanted of habits.

They will ask themselves the same questions I did when I was in training. Why was I chosen? Who are these strangers to take me away from my home? These thoughts will become few and far between, in time, there will be nothing I can do but try to give them a sense of purpose.

I believe I was promoted to the rank of Watchmaster because I have come to terms with these things, and because out of my original platoon I am one of only a handful still alive. Still, I like to think more was taken into consideration for my promotion than my mere survival.

Now as I sift through the psyche evaluations of the candidates I am to transform into Korpsmen on my data-slate I can't help but wonder which among them will actually make the transition. There are a few kinds of people in these situations, the ones who learn, and step up to the challenge, the ones who don't and die, and then there are the few who are born for it. Looking over the picts of these Surrins I don't see any who look to be born for war, I only see those who might be able to learn.

It would seem I got a fairly good crop of candidates to train though. Putting my data-slate to the side I lean back in my chair. In my temporary quarters I am allowed such luxuries such as a desk and chair. The 82nd has repurposed an old warehouse on the outskirts of the city as a makeshift barracks and the surrounding land as training grounds. The familiar surroundings and structures should help the new troopers acclimate to the training much faster.

Also we have the good fortune to be helping the severely overwhelmed Surris PDF to mop up the few remaining pockets of ork resistance as well and help with disposal of the foul xenos corpses. Thus, I will be able to train these candidates on their own home world, which should at the very least motivate them to a small degree.

Unlike myself and the rest of the survivors of Baurin they will be able to have the comfort of their native air and daylight cycles during the training. As it stands the fleet will be held up at Surris for about three standard months, more than enough time to train these new korpsmen and then I even have the time spent during warp travel to their first combat operation to whip them into shape if I have to.

As I lean back in my chair I find myself reflecting upon what a un-korpsman-like action it is. My legs seemingly prop themselves up on my desk, it is not something I should be doing, letting myself relax like this, it would not have been tolerated when I was a mere trooper. I will not tolerate such lax behavior from my troopers, but being that I'm now a veteran Watchmaster I get to have a few lapses in discipline, especially when there's no one around to see me.

It must have looked quite strange. A fully battle dressed Korpsman leaning back in a chair with his feet up on a desk, the gasmask would make any normal person see the scene as especially comical…or grim. I haven't been a normal person in over a decade…give, or take.

My moment of thought was interrupted by a knock at my door. I thought about taking my feet down, there were actual Kriegers I had under my command here, and they might report such behavior to those on high, but at the moment I didn't really give a damn. My legs stayed propped and my hands firmly behind my head.

"Permission to enter," I stated loudly for the visitor to hear. The visitor entered and to my eternal surprise it was none other than Watchmaster B-63, basically my last remaining friend from alpha-company of the Baurin batch.

"My, oh my, don't we seem to be getting comfortable." He said jovially, no doubt a grin plastered to his face behind the mask. B-63 never seemed to have lost his sense of self during and after our training. If he wanted he could have been training men and women, instead he decided to stay a Watchmaster in the grenadiers.

Says a drill position wouldn't have been exciting enough for him. Leading basic korpsmen into battle wouldn't be as fun or memorable as leading grenadiers, who get all the fun assignments. I have no idea what is wrong with the man, I served with him when we both became grenadiers and I got out of it as soon as I hit my promotion.

Anyway, B-63 still has a sense of humor, something lost on most of us. I also happen to know he still has his name, most of us forget our names, and death is the penalty for remembering during training. He showed it to me once, scratched onto the inside of his helmet, which he treats almost as if it were a holy object. I'm not even sure he really knows what the marks mean, when I catch him looking into his helmet at them while we're together on the frontlines it's as if he's trying to decipher what it says.

He doesn't really remember, I know he doesn't, still he can't let it go and if it brings him comfort than so be it. Personally I can't recall mine, and I envy that I hadn't thought about doing what B-63 did…what Ruari was smart enough to do.

"You know me B-63, ever a ray of sunshine." I replied a slight edge of mirth in my tone. Not much mirth, never too much of anything really, I can't pull off genuine emotion too well anymore outside of my own head, it always come across as bland, or horrendously fake.

B-63 laughed heartily, the sound comforting to me despite being distorted through his mask. "And here I thought I was the only one who still had a sense of humor in this regiment." He paused, casting a glance at the data-slate on my desk. "Those the new recruits?" His tone contains a bit of excitement.

I gesture to the data-slate in a slightly over exaggerated flourish. B-63 takes to my invitation quickly and picks it up beginning to look through the profiles with an almost childlike curiosity. The taps of the stylus and creaks from my chair are the only sounds within my office for a few moments.

"So how did you even steal away the time to visit me? Aren't you and your boys supposed to be on clean-up right now?" I Asked breaking B-63 from his perusing. He peaked up over the data-slate and I was actually able to catch the gleam in his eye through the mask.

"Well, the higher-ups didn't want to waste grenadiers on something as lowly as purging a few running orks. So, me and the boys were slated for drills tonight, but I managed to get a request through for some R&R and the rest is as they said back home through the trees." B-63's jovial mood seemed to grow throughout his recollection. "Anyway, I decided to use my valuable time to come and visit you. Figured you could use some company…besides I thought you might have some of that Hoarfell swill stashed somewhere around here." He stated while looking around the room.

I figured there was no point hiding the fact; B-63 and I were friends. Besides anyone from Baurin wouldn't report me, we were all Korpsmen of the 82nd sure, and we would conduct ourselves with the strictest discipline whilst in battle…and most of the time out of battle. But, we were also all from Baurin, and on Baurin, when it was still around; consuming any type of alcoholic beverage in copious amounts was considered a cultural norm. Granted a norm which had to be toned down greatly for those of us conscripted into the 82nd, still every now and then doesn't hurt.

So I figured I'd indulge in a bit with my last dearest friend. I produced the bottle from my desk and placed it upon the desk, and then I produced two tin cups. B-63 sat down in the chair on the opposite side of my desk still looking through the picts. I poured us each a small measure of the 'Hoarfell Swill' as B-63 called it.

"I think these special circumstances call for a toast." I said no small measure of actual sarcasm in my voice. B-63 however, took it quite literally and raised his own tin, setting down the data-slate in the process.

"To the liberation and salvation of another planet by the brave remnants of Baurin and comrades," he stated, and then he lifted his mask up just enough to gulp down his drink.

"To the memory of our home," I replied also lifting my mask and drinking my liquor. I could practically hear B-63 grimace as he set his tin-cup down, the clank it made as it met the cheap desk followed closely by my own cup. About a second later I too was grimacing under my mask, as the taste finally seemed to hit.

"Ahhh, what in the warp, do they make this stuff from that fungus they grow on the Ipsum?" B-63 commented, a still a bit of mirth in his tone despite the pungent flavor of the drink.

"Yep, not much they don't make out of that fungus. Gotta admit it's impressive," I paused for a moment. "If not particularly appetizing, then again it's better than that slop that Danian Mess Sergeant makes."

B-63 laughed heartily at that. "Hey, I'll have you know that I very much like D-562's cooking. He makes the best field rations we've ever had and you know it."

"Yeah, but you have to admit that between deployments his culinary skills seem to take a sharp drop in quality." I said pouring myself a second measure. B-63 offered up his cup again and I poured a little more into it as well.

"Sure, still he more than makes up for it by keeping us well fed when we actually need to be. After all any army marches on its stomach, eh?" B-63 replied sipping from his cup.

"I guess so." I sip what's in my cup gingerly. The liquid burns all the way to the pit of my stomach, its pungent aftertaste lingers on my tongue far longer than I would have liked. Still, there's something to be said having a stiff drink with a friend, it transcends the unpleasant taste.

B-63 had returned to the files and was actually beginning to read a few of them. He was actually pretty good at assessing a troopers ultimate potential, you have to be when you're the Watchmaster of a grenadier squad. Being able to figure out who'll be good enough to replace the often short-lived grenadiers under his command has given him an eye for these things, not to mention B-63 used to be a hunter on Baurin before the fall. Helps him understand the animal side of people he claims.

"See anyone you like?" I asked casually. B-63 looked up from the data-slate for a moment, then back down. "Don't worry; I'll give you first pick of any potentials before the other grenadier Watchmasters." I stated reassuringly.

"Keep an eye on these two." He said suddenly, prompting me to look at the two profiles he had brought up. One a pale, lean looking man, brown hair cropped close to his head with the common Surrin green eye color. The other a woman, also green eyed, black hair, roundish face, also lean like most Surrins. Both were one designation apart, S-1049, and S-1050. They didn't look particularly special to me, but I didn't have B-63's 'gift' so I figured I'd humor him.

"Just look like new meat to me." I stated indifferently, "the man even looks like the type to crack if you ask me. Woman might make it through training, but she don't look like she'd be particularly adept at soldiering."

B-63 chuckled for a moment. "Ya know for someone who's risen up in the ranks to a command position I'm still amazed at how you can't grasp a troopers worth. Then again you were always better at understanding the flow of a battle then me, so there is that to compensate for it."

"Please do enlighten me then, because I honestly don't see too much worth in these two." I asked seriously. By this point the half empty cups of Hoarfell swill sat forgotten as I listened to B-63's opinions. He straightened up a bit trying to compose himself; the alcohol has loosened him up a bit, and maybe muddled his thoughts slightly.

"Oh, you know I can't do that. It's all instinct; the hunter in me is all. When I look at that guy." He points to the picture of S-1049, "I see a natural survivor, mark my words that boy may not be born for war, but he is born to survive. As for the other one, she just seems like the most determined candidate I've seen in your company. Out of the two I'd say she's the one who'll really grow into this." He paused for a moment looking contemplative.

"Anyway, if those two survive their first combat action then I want you to send them my way," he raises his cup to me the remains of the Hoarfell swill—I think they actually call it rungtin—sloshing around in it, a little even spilled over the edge from the motion. "Whaddaya say old buddy 'o mine?"

"Sure, I'll make sure you get 'em…if they survive their first action." I raise my cup in return and propose our final toast of the night. "To the new troopers of Echo Company, may they become steadfast Korpsmen of the 82nd and save more worlds from the Emperor's enemies?"

"Aye, that'll do," we struck our cups together making a resounding clink, lifted our masks, and downed what was left within them. So it goes…

XXX

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, it is raining, and on Surris the rain is always freezing, always on the verge of becoming hail the size of small rocks, but that doesn't matter. Jericus has counted the drops that plink on his helmet, each and every one, from the moment he was ordered to stand at attention, that was about five hours prior and by now his legs and everything else was so stiff and uncomfortable he was sure that he would fall over at any moment, and he desperately didn't want to do that.

His watchmaster wouldn't take too kindly to it, an eminently fair and brutally efficient mentor Watchmaster B-52 would kick him with heavy Korps issue boots to get him back on his feet, and if that failed it would be the lasbolt from his pistol that would make sure Jericus never got up again.

Right now Jericus has counted up to almost one million drops, and that number just keeps going up. Meanwhile Watchmaster B-52 paces along the lines of conscripts, scrutinizing posture, state of dress, and any multitude of small details which he could use as excuse to enact discipline.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, at this point Jericus has lost count and is sure that his arms and legs have locked up, and that this is the only reason he is still standing. He tries to glance to his left to view the familiar mask that is always there, but his gasmask obscures his peripheral vision, and he doesn't dare turn his head for a better look, no matter how much he wants to make sure she is all right.

Though he has no idea why he would need to, the woman to his left, Fenria, has practically been the exemplary trainee of the conscripts from Surris, just about everything comes naturally to her, and despite some initial issues with adjusting just as all the conscripts had she has become one of the top trainees in their company. Jericus could only hold the fact that he was top in close quarters combat, and then only just barely, though none wanted to spar with him anymore due to his tendency to break limbs, and exploit various 'sensitive' parts of the body to his advantage. It had gotten to the point where only experienced Korpsmen were allowed to spar, or drill with him, and this was the one thing for which he was praised.

He was adequate at most other aspects of their training, but still Fenria and others like her were leaps and bounds ahead of him in their training.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, his renewed count currently had him at eighty drops… scratch that, make it ninety.

"At ease," Watchmaster B-52 stated loudly for all assembled to hear, the resounding uniform clatter of multitudes of boots filled the air. "The next time any of you decide not to give your training one-hundred and ten percent I'll have you all out here until the break of dawn, and then begin that days training without breakfast, fall out you wretches."

He didn't ask if he made himself clear, Jericus noted that ever since Watchmaster B-52 put a lasbolt through a trainee's head on the first day that he never asked if he made himself clear. It was obvious, he was, or he wasn't, and if he wasn't clear to your foggy head then you wouldn't be around long enough for him to become so. Ever since he had been conscripted Jericus' life had become a checklist, get up in the morning and eat breakfast through a straw, check, assemble for the days training and work with the others in his platoon to get into numerical order in less than one minute, check. Begin the day with a five mile run in full combat gear, check, it went on and one and on into oblivion, just like the plinks made by falling rain drops on his helmet.

This check list was superseded by a set of non-negotiable rules to follow while he conducted himself for the duration of his training… and most likely the rest of his life. Never refer to yourself in the first person, if you do you'll most likely be summarily executed, always do what you're told, if you fail refer to the consequence of breaking rule one. There are many more rules Jericus did not wish to recollect at this moment in time, right now he was focused on getting to his bunk so that he could recover his energy for tomorrow.

He had to wonder what he had done to deserve this, when the Imperial Guard had sent out the notices for the conscription he figured he would have a hard time of it, after all he was just a simple line worker. He never figured he'd fight for the Emperor, keck the PDF had turned him down when his father had made him apply, yet the 82nd Korps had specifically chosen him via psych evaluations and various other criteria out of billions of other candidates from Surris. He just didn't understand.

But, then again he didn't need to, his life had become a checklist and to excel all he had to do was follow it to the letter. Jericus felt someone nudge him in the side, turning he took in the sight of the only comrade he could actually call a friend, Fenria Ishta, or S-1050-82-Echo, S-1050 for short.

"Are you alright S-1049," she asked lowly, they weren't really supposed to talk outside of communication during drills and training. But Fenria and Jericus had a deep connection forged at the very beginning of the trials of their training, and so they would take these chances to make sure the other was doing well and help when need be.

"This trooper is fine, it is just tired, you would think that after six weeks of this the others wouldn't give the Watchmaster reason to take disciplinary action," Jericus gave a long sigh and continued to trudge onward to his destination, he was beyond tired and though he knew he should he wasn't going to get something to eat from the mess.

"This trooper understands the sentiment, are you going to mess," Fenria questions, Jericus takes note that though she must be exhausted she makes no outward sign of it, then again he muses that maybe she just isn't.

"No, it's rack time for this one," he replies.

Fenria tilts her head, imploring him. "You should eat S-1049, these troopers always need their full strength for training, and it's not wise to skip out on meals. How do you expect to keep your title as CQC champ on an empty stomach, you know CQC drills and sparing are scheduled for tomorrow," she admonished.

Jericus wondered why they always looked out for each other, though Fenria hardly needed looking out for, it was really the other way around, so many times he would have been dead before now had it not been for her and he knew there would surely be more of those times in the future. However, today Jericus was in the mood to defy fate... and her.

"This trooper will manage, go get something for yourself, this trooper will see you in the barracks, don't worry about it, it will be okay," he replied not unkindly.

Knowing that he was too stubborn to budge on the issue Fenria gave him a simple nod and departed in the opposite direction toward the mess hall, with the rest of the other trainees. Jericus counted his footsteps and the soft crumps they made as he walked across the frosted ground, the rain had stopped, frozen on the ground causing the tough plains grass of Surris to become brittle. Jericus noticed a herd of shemlings as they walked across his path; the small vermin were abundant on Surris and had a tendency to die en-masse during their migratory patterns.

"That's what we all are now, just shemlings following each other to their ends," he thought as he finally arrived at the entrance to the barracks. Entering them he noticed that he was the only one in the building, the other trainees having been smart and gone to eat whatever horrible nutrient paste and protein bars the mess sergeant deigned to feed them that day. Walking down the silent rows of bunks Jericus came to stand beside his own, he went about depositing his uniform within the footlocker allowed to him to keep his meager possessions, all supplied by the 82nd of course.

He stripped off his great coat, which doubled as his flak armour as well as his boots, belt, suspenders, and lastly his helmet. Everything else was left where it was on his person, fatigues, socks, and last but not least the korps issue gasmask he and every other trainee was required to wear nearly at all times. He finally lay back on his bunk, springs creaking in protest at his weight, and let loose a tired sigh releasing the weight of the day and mentally preparing for the next.

His eyes closed of their own accord and he fell into slumber, only to be awoken by a gentle prod to his left ribs what seemed to be minutes later. Groggily Jericus peered to his left, and gazed upon the all too familiar form of Fenria, he also noticed that she was down dressed as well, it must be late in the night, looking at the other occupied bunks confirmed this.

Once she saw that she had gained his attention Fenria reached into her pant pocket, withdrew two protein bars, and held them out to him. His eyes widened behind his mask, they weren't allowed food outside of mess and for her to even have gotten extra would have been against regulations... and punishable at the mercy of Watchmaster B-52, in other words not good.

"What are you doing? You know how much trouble you could get in for this," Jericus responded in a hushed tone, his worry evident.

"S-1049, this trooper knows regs, but you have to eat," she said quietly as she pushed the bars into his hand. "Eat them now and the Watchmaster will never know."

Jericus sighed looking back and forth from her mask clad face to the protein bars in his grasp, her worry for him was obvious in her posture, and after months of living with people who always wore a mask you begin to pick up on body language. And Fenria's spoke volumes about her concern. Without saying a word Jericus smuggled a bar under his mask, careful not to let any crumbs fall, and quickly devoured the bland tasting meal, he then proceeded to choke down the second one disposing of any evidence that contraband had been in the barracks.

"Thanks," he replied as he lay back in his bunk. Fenria had taken a huge risk to do that for him, and though it may have been unwanted for the danger she put herself in the least he could do was voice his appreciation. After all she was right, he would need food in him for tomorrow, and he had been stupid to even pass up mess to begin with. He watched as she got into her own bunk next to his, a mere three feet separating them.

Once Fenria had finally settled down Jericus felt more than heard the familiar quiet that descended on the barracks late at night, save for the howling winds outside.

"S-1049," Fenria said, letting his designation float in the empty air for a moment. "You remember it right?"

"Of course S-1050, always," Jericus' reply was instantaneous, as it always was when it came to this particular question. Her voice always spoke to fear and unparalleled worry when she asked that question, and he always wanted to allay that fear as soon as was humanly possible, because that same dread always prompted his own quiet barely audible question for her.

"Do you?" He would question back.

And she would unfailingly respond the same as he, "Always, S-1049."

Yes Jericus' life had become a checklist, wake up, look out for his only friend, check, get through training for the day, check, confirm that he did indeed remember the name entrusted to him, check. Ask if she remembered his name for him… Emperor he hoped she wasn't lying… check.

XXX

The next days CQC drills and sparing went as would be expected, Jericus had found a talent for it, currently wielding his sparring knife point toward his opponent and waiting for an opening. Training in the Korps taught that they were better off being the aggressor when it came to knife fights, but Jericus had always found his reactions to be much quicker than his actions.

Watchmaster B-52 had expected him to be one of the lower ranking conscripts in this facet of their training because of this, and yet to everyone's surprise the average height, lean built S-1049 had become the best CQC fighter in Echo Company. At first it had been thought that it was a fluke, he had beaten S-1001 who was quite a bit bigger and burlier than he was, but after having done so to many other consistently the Watchmaster knew it was no fluke. For the life of him though he still couldn't figure out why Jericus was as good at it as he became.

The two were circling one another for a solid minute Jericus' opponent knew that to strike first would be his undoing, so he was waiting for Jericus to make the first move. But Jericus was equally as patient, and if he was going to make the first move than he would do so when the advantage was his. Finally his opponent threw caution to the wind and tried a straight rush aimed to gut Jericus with a thrust up into his stomach. Contrary to what most would think this sort of move would effectively take anyone by surprise and usually result in a kill as the Korps had taught, and such was usually the case.

However, Jericus had experience with this move and made a dive to the left and behind his opponent, staying clear of his knife hand. Recovering quickly he rounded and leapt after his now off-balanced comrade landing right behind him, he kicked the back of his knee forcing him down grabbed his knife hand, and then thrust his own training knife into where his kidney would be, a fatal hit. Though he didn't stop there, he thrust several more times, working his way from the lower body, to the ribs, and ending with what would have been a blade through the windpipe.

"Trooper S-1049 is the victor, next up," Watchmaster B-52 called the bout and Jericus let his opponent stand, the two nodded in respect for each other and his opponent to take his place in the surrounding groups of trainees. Jericus was glad that Fenria had snuck him that food last night, it had certainly helped he couldn't deny that. Standing there he waited for his next challenger, it was standard practice to keep going until you lost, and Jericus seldom did.

"Trooper I have a special surprise for you today, seems your peers aren't enough for you, so I've decided to bring in a more experienced hand. I'm sure you remember K-556," the veteran Korpsman stepped up through the crowd to the edge of the ring training knife in hand. Jericus sure did remember the man; he had been the first to have been taken to the ground by him on their first day of CQC training. Now he was eager to test the skills he had been cultivating against him to see if he was finally better.

"You may begin," B-52 stated clearly. K-556 wasted no time in evaluating his opponent, in true Death Korps style he became the aggressor, his movement precise, purposeful, and incredibly fast. Jericus found himself keeping up with him though, the two traded blows and parried lethal thrusts and slashes, it was full contact, punches pushes, and holds were all permitted in the fight.

Jericus blocked an elbow only to have to lock K-556's knife arm to prevent getting stabbed in the chest, then he threw out a knee to K-556's groin. The Krieg vet blocked it though before it made contact, Jericus used this moment of distraction to push K-556 back and gain distance. Stumbling from the sudden force K-556 was quick to recover, but not before taking a fierce front-kick to the solar-plexus courtesy of Jericus, payback for their first fight.

Winded the Krieg vet still attempted to stay guarded, but Jericus having none of that simply rushed him, batting his knife hand away and stabbing up into his stomach over and over again, capitalizing on the man being breathless and hitting the vulnerable point a few more times. Finally Jericus pushed K-556 away again and the man landed smack on his own butt, simply sitting there to stare up and the trainee who he had bested not a month prior within moments.

"Trooper S-1049 is the victor, excellent job that is some dramatic improvement trooper. Both of you clear the ring, next two up," the Watchmaster called out. Jericus offered his hand to K-556, who still a bit winded took it and allowed himself to be pulled up. Finally standing the Krieg veteran gave a nod of respect to Jericus before the two made their way out of the dirt ring to let the next two trainees go at it.

A/N: I felt like trying something in the WH40k verse, I'm going for something a bit different. Experimenting if you will, I plan on this story being somewhat non-linear, a style of writing I in general don't particularly like and rarely seem to see others recieve well, but I want to give it a crack. Can't improve unless you utterly fail am I right? Please R&R

300-709.