Alright, let's get this show started!

What you are about to read is my latest, and probably most successful, attempt to write an Elysian Droptrooper fic. I've tried several times to get it off the ground (pun not intended), but I always reread it and trashed it, feeling sick to my stomach at what I had written. Instead, I decided to tackle it from a different approach, and found that this one was the one I liked the most.

If all goes well, there will be many more chapters after this, as my head is brimming with ideas, but I have yet to jot them all down. I must admit that alot of my inspiration for these short stories comes from the accounts and tales of airborne troopers of WWII, and I have done my best to not directly copy them.

I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed thinking it up and writing it.

Death From Above

One Shot

My crosshairs slowly settled over the head of the target, my eye squinting as I tried to get the best clarity from the scope. Even with double magnification, the ork across the river from me was still hard to get a bead on that would deliver a clear kill. From here, actually, it almost seemed as though the greenskin was small, like I could just reach my hand out and smash the troublesome brute from existence like the vermin he was.

But, no such luck. The Warboss towered above his boyz, smacking them and howling in rage for them to obey. The smaller, in comparison only, orks were in quite the dilemma that seemed to exceed the capabilities of their brains. Should they stay and suffer the Warboss' wrath, or should they turn and rush the bridge towards the Imperial weapons emplacements on the opposite side? Decisions, decisions…

A scout had IDed the great lumbering ork battle leader barely an hour ago, and there were, fortunately, no signs to indicate that the hulking creature knew it was being watched by its death. For once an experienced sniper has you lined up in their sights for the first shot, there was very little that could save you. Well, we needed one of those marksmen right now, I thought.

I let out a breath to try and shake off the tension in my muscles. If I tensed up, I could cause the lasgun to jerk, and the shot could go wide. A properly equipped sniper would have a long-las or a large caliber solid slug gun, up at a superior elevation at a much greater range to make use of stealth, height and the knowledge that no matter where their shot landed on the enemy, it would be a kill, whether by hitting a vital spot such as the brain or heart, shock from a lost limb, or blood loss from the immense, gaping hole the round created.

I had none of these comforts. A lasgun with a double magnification scope clipped to the top rail, no suppressors whatsoever, a range of only about six-hundred yards, level with the target, and the only cover my spotter and I had was the burned out husk of a wrecked Chimera. If any ork happened to catch the gleam of sunlight off my weapon or my spotter's magnoculars, we were finished.

I only had one shot, and every single condition in a sniper's nightmare to contend with, save the problem of wind. Good thing too. The gale here was howling through the ruins of the city, along the canal and into the streets. No one would have dared to try that shot with a bullet, no matter how much they compensated. No one should be trying to take the shot this close anyway. But this was our first, and quite possibly last, chance to eliminate the Warboss.

I only had one shot…I needed to make it count like my life depended on it, because it did, as well as thousands of other lives if I didn't break this siege right here.

I could feel the tremors of the enormous ork monstrosities called gargants being engaged by our mighty and noble Titans, and that battle was taking place out on the plains a half mile outside of the city. Further down the canal, the booms of Leman Russ tanks engaging ork battlewagons rang out, carried by the wind to our position. The shriek of artillery and aircraft howled above us, and the screams of dying infantry and whoops of cheering orks seemed to permeate from everywhere.

This single battle here, this major ork push, could possibly be the most important battle of the war for this world. And the Warboss, by the Emperor's almighty good graces, had decided to discipline his troops right here, at this point. Where our heavy bolters, autocannons, flamers, mortars and whatever other kinds of heavy weaponry you could think of held off wave after wave of infantry. Some men were from my regiment, others from the Cadian unit that had come before us and held this city alone. A few were from a smattering of annihilated brigades, survivors whose chances of surviving again were looking very bleak right now.

The solid ruins of the buildings at the river on our side proved to be more than steady enough to withstand the orks' bombardments, rokkit launchers and any other attempt the greenskins tried to make to force us to abandon our positions. The streets were too narrow for heavy armor, thankfully, and the bridge here wasn't solid enough to support them now anyway. Enormous chunks of stone and masonry had been blown out, and an entire support pillar had been destroyed. This was a killzone, and the bridge was already piled high with the bodies of ork dead, their blood spilling over the smashed segments to pour into the river below.

For weeks, we'd not done as we were asked, which was to 'advance forward and destroy the Emperor's enemies.' Instead, we did what was needed, holding this bridge against wave after relentless wave of orks charging forward, bellowing and screaming to try and take our position. For weeks, we'd held the line.

And now we had the one chance anyone might have to end it all. Give the Imperial forces enough breathing room to strike forward into a confused, squabbling ork mass, rather than a united, singular green wave.

I had one shot.

My spotter, Elias Garren, lowered his magnoculars, shaking his head.

"By the Emperor…I don't see how you can do it, Tomas."

He whispered, as though even over the howls, explosions from afar, the bone-flaying wind and the gunfire from our positions a few meters behind us, one of the orks might still hear us and raise the alarm. Sitting in the burnt out hull of an APC in the middle of the road was pushing your chances, after all, so maybe Garren just needed to reinforce his will.

I know mine could use a few plates of adamantium to bolster it.

"I'm not sure I can. But I have to try, right?"

My eye didn't leave the scope. The Warboss seemed to have found a few of his lackeys to be distasteful, as he shot the closest ork full in the face with what looked to be a shotgun-like weapon before grabbing another in his meaty hand, smashing the hapless creature into the ground until blood flew with every impact. The Warboss threw the corpse carelessly over his shoulder into a pile of scraps, as though he'd pulled it off his shoe. Actually, I wouldn't have been surprised if the thing still lived. Orks were a hardy breed, one of the most difficult things to kill in the galaxy.

My right elbow was balanced on my Type 5 pressure helmet, sitting on the floor of the wreck. I'd taken no chances, deciding that my visor was too much of a visual obstacle for this task. I wanted my bare flesh pressed against the steel and glass. Elysian Mk. XII flak armor was allegedly second only to stormtrooper carapace plates in strength and durability, and the helmets, when coupled with a facemask to seal up the edges, were designed to repel flying debris that might be encountered on the way down, but that red visor only got in the way here. I wasn't even cleared to be a sniper, as a matter of fact. A pure and plain infantryman is what I started out as, throwing myself out of a dropship alongside the rest of the company or grappling down the lines from a Valkyrie with my squad. The 19th Elysian Droptroopers were proud of their troopers' daring. Whenever volunteers were called for dangerous missions, several of our boys raised their hands at once. Whenever the commanders said that a drop had a high risk of not coming back, we cocked our chins and jumped without a complaint. I'm just thankful I'm not a part of 2nd Company. Captain Fyan is a daredaemon, and coming from another Droptrooper, that's saying something. He expects all his soldiers to pull their weight as much as he does, and that makes them the most effective company in the regiment. No thank you. 4th Company is fine for me.

I'd gotten temporarily assigned as a sniper when I received a leg wound after a drop not too long ago. A chunk of steel spearing right through my thigh when I dropped on it. I would have lost that leg if another Trooper hadn't run over and caught me, preventing my weight from dragging the metal even deeper through my flesh. Ordinarily, a wounded Guardsman would sit back, let the field medics patch him up, and listen to how the battles were going. But for a Droptrooper, there is no sitting back. I was handed a scope and assigned a spotter and told to move ahead and find good vantage points.

I shook myself from my mental reverie, training my crosshairs again on the Warboss. Six-hundred meters away, that monster was moving towards the bridge, as if to storm it himself. He was lucky that the wreckage of our own vehicles around the mouth of the bridge blocked our view, or I would have knocked him off from my little sharpshooter's nest. Now, instead, my finger began to tighten on the trigger, my breath hitched slightly before I settled into a relaxed breathing pattern. I watched his movements, looked for any sign of a rapid change. Nothing.

I took a deep breath, let out half of it and brought the crosshairs as close as I could to come between the Warboss' eyes.

One shot…one chance…

I pulled the trigger just as he turned to urge on his followers.

The lasbolt slammed into the side of the Warboss' head, driving through one of the long horns and leaving a smoking streak on what remained. The massive ork stumbled, swinging his shotgun around wildly, his meaty fingers opening and closing in panic as he tried to figure out what was going on.

"Shit! Tomas, you better take another shot! He's still up!"

Not even bothering to take the time to tell Garren that I was aware of that fact, I corrected my aim, firing again and sending the next lasbolt straight into the creature's chin, ripping off half its jaw. The Warboss stood there, fuming but mute, angrily trying to come to terms with the sudden attack on its person, when I fired my third and fourth shots. The third shot was the one that killed the ork, drilling through its temple and splattering its brains in a spray of blood and ichor. The fourth shot was merely a precaution, and smacked right underneath the third shot before the ork fell. And Throne, when the brute fell, he fell hard! He toppled to the ground, crushing a snotling or two beneath his weight and leaving the other greenskins staring dumbly at the body of their leader.

"Time to go…" I muttered, standing swiftly and grabbing up my helmet. Garren said not a word, snatching up his own equipment and running after me.

We heard the howls behind us before the orks began shooting each other, each one vying for the suddenly vacant position of Warboss. They'd mostly slaughter each other in their mad attempts to seize power, and even when this conflict was resolved, every ork up and down the line would want the same, and begin to off the competition around them.

We finally made it back to the safety of the buildings, and a few cheers rang out. A hand fell on my shoulder, and I looked up at my sergeant, out of breath but still smiling at his practically beaming face.

"I -knew- you could do it, Degnan! Just knew it! Look at that! The battle's over! The brutes just don't realize it!"

I laugh raggedly, still trying to collect my breath.

"Well sir, when it came down to it, I asked myself whether I preferred jumping out of a dropship or being a skin in some ork's hut. I chose the latter and tried to miss. Rotten luck."