I claim no ownership to any Games-Workshop stuff here. Enjoy this one. N. Kage.

Crouching, he bolted from the doorway to dive into cover behind a ruined wall. Breathing hard, he looked over the wall and spied the enemy moving up the street towards him. Ducking back down, he pulled a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin, holding the spoon tight though. As the enemy closed, he hurled the grenade into their midst. A dozen voices shouted in alarm, before the explosion drowned out their cries. Bits of viscera and blood rained down for a moment, but stopped just as soon. However, the grenade did not go unnoticed, as he was pulling a bit of intestine off his helmet; a snipers bullet went through his hand. But, he did not scream in pain. Instead, he stood to a half-crouch and dived into a shell crater with half a guardsmen still in it. Peeking over the rim of the crater, he slowly and carefully scanned the shattered skyline of the city. Not a shadow. Sliding back down, he grabbed the torso of the dead guardsmen and pushed it up so the head was above the crater. Another shot rang out, the dead guardsmen head blew off, but he saw where the sniper was. He was two hundred meters south, in the shadow of a ruined manufactorum. Drawing his pistol, he fired off a pair of shots and bolted out, running towards a burned out Chimera ten meters away. As he ran, the sniper fired again, this time the bullet glancing off one of his greaves. The impact caused him to drop, but he rolled into a ditch as another bullet impacted into the ground next to his head. The ditch was half filled with blood and the red made the dark green of his armor seemed darker. Crawling forward through the ditch, wondering if any bullets would find their mark in his body, he got to about where the burned Chimera was before he rose again, blood dripping off his armor and sprinted to get into cover behind the Chimera. Glancing through a hole in the armor, he could no longer see the sniper. Damn that bastard, he thought, the sniper knew to move after shots. Another shot rang out, this one punching a hole in his foot. Gritting his teeth, he bolted towards a shell-pocked apartment, firing bolts randomly to cover his movement.

The door of the apartment was closed, but he shouldered his armored torso through it and crashed through into a crowd of traitors. Snarling, he drew his knife and stabbed into the closed traitor's stomach, the traitor's hot blood making his hand wound burn. He pumped a dozen bolts into the crowd, the mass-reactive bolts blasting huge holes into those hit, the holes revealing blackened hearts and lungs. His pistol then ran empty, the hammer clicking home on an empty chamber. With a shout, he dragged his knife free and slashed it down, splitting a traitor guard's head open, thick blood spurting out, splattering the wall. Then, he slashed across and slit open two throats to the bone, the traitor's heads rolled back. With that, this particular fight ended. Running through the apartment, he reloaded his pistol and sprinted up the stairs, until he reached the upper floor. This floor had had a shell land on it, vaporizing most of the roof and part of one wall. Keeping in the shadows, he crouched and carefully watched for any sign of the sniper, like the glint of a scope, or movement.

For one hour, he remained motionless, waiting for the sniper to show himself. There! A quick, darting shadow, about thirty meters away, then nothing. Another quick moving shadow, this time twenty-five or so meters away, then nothing, a shattered building in his line of sight. Slowly, the sniper was working his towards the apartment, possibly to take up position in the same spot he was in, or if the sniper had seen him, to investigate. As the sniper neared, he readied his bolt pistol, waiting for the sniper to make the last final, fatal sprint to the apartment. There! The sniper was sprinting towards the apartment. The sniper was tall, clad in the dark camouflage of the traitor guard units, a sniper pattern auto-gun grasped in his hands. Calmly, he fired three bolts into the sniper, the bolts exploding in his chest, blowing him wide open, like a surgeon's puppet.

Sighing in resignation, he moved the other side of the apartment, in case another sniper had seen him. He crouched there for several minutes, watching the seething chaos of a city at war, flashes of fire, intermixed with explosions, and bright gouts of flame. For the first time in three days, he thought about why he was there. He was Scout-Sergeant Erasmus Harkon, of the Warhawks Chapter. He normally commanded ten Scout-Brothers, but the traitor guard had counter-attacked and wiped out his squad. To add insult the grievous blow of losing his entire squad, he had been cut off from the rest of the Warhawks forces. Then, a massive artillery bombardment from the Imperial Guard in the area had forced him to flee further into the enemy area. So, for three days, he had been waylaying enemy forces, or setting traps and the like, but his ammunition was running low, and he was no where nearer to the rest of the Chapter now then when he had been separated. To top it off, his com-link was being jammed, so he couldn't even contact his Brothers. But, like any true Space Marine, he was prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible, especially since the noose was tightening around him. Yesterday, four snipers had been sent to kill him, and this one was the last one. On one of their corpses, he had found a mass of papers, but they had been written in the enemies' gibberish of a language. The papers were probably detailing his whereabouts and to kill him on sight.

Shaking off the trance, Erasmus climbed out of the apartment and quickly looted the snipers body. Nothing but auto-gun ammo, food and more papers with more gibberish. Looking at the mans face, Erasmus noticed he was hideous; his face scared hundreds of times in intricate patterns. The scars were old and faded, but still deep. The enemies of the Emperor are many and varied, thought Erasmus, but we still fight them. The light was fading now, but to his auto-senses it was still as clear was day. Before he had been cut off, the Warhawks lines were to the south, so Erasmus set off in that direction, staying out of sight as much as possible. The stamp of booted feet to his left caused him to drop to his stomach behind ruined wall. Peeking through a shell-hole, he observed at least four dozen guardsmen marching in parade formation heading south. The guardsmen were in the uniforms of the Carthion Ninth, the first guard unit on the planet to turn traitor. Erasmus's heart burned with righteous fury as the unit marched by, but he held himself back. There was no point in dying in some futile fight.

Erasmus remained in cover until the traitors marched by, then, he picked himself up and continued on his way, knife sheathed but pistol at the ready. Suddenly, through the smoke to his front, an armor form stepped forward. Cursing, Erasmus silently ducked into cover behind barricade. Glancing over it, he watched as the spike-encrusted Traitor Marine strode through the smoke, his bolter at the ready. Praying to the Emperor that the Marine didn't see him, Erasmus ducked back down. Because he wasn't a full Battle-Brother, he could not take down the Traitor. Glancing back up, he saw the Traitor had been joined by another two, one with a flamer. The head of the one with the flamer blew apart, his brains splattering a dozen meters. The other two spun, but before they could return fire at their unknown enemy, they were struck by a dozen bolts, the mass reactive shells blowing huge holes in their flesh, their blackened blood pooling around their shattered bodies. From the smoke, a dozen Marines stepped into sight, in the green and red armor of the Warhawks, the 1st Company symbol on their shoulders.

Rising to his feet, Erasmus called out, "Brothers, do not shoot!" The Marines spun towards him, bolters at the ready, but they evidently recognized him and did not fire. Running towards them, Erasmus raised his hands and said again, "Do not shoot me, my Brothers." One of the Marines, with a chainsword said, "Are you Scout-Sergeant Erasmus Harkon?" The Marines aim did not falter, for any number of alien or Traitorous things could have taken control of his body. Erasmus nodded, "Yes Brother-Sergeant."

The Sergeant lowered his pistol and said, "Captain Mepesto sent us to find you. He wants to see you."

With trepidation, Erasmus stood at attention in front of Captain Mepesto. The Captain was fully armored, his ancient artificer armor scarred and pitted in a dozen places by the recent fighting. The Captain was standing the lee of his Land Raider Crusader, his Command Squad mounting. "Sergeant Erasmus, I was sorry to hear of the loss of your entire squad. But, as I understand it, you fought on.' Erasmus nodded, but Mepesto seemed not to notice. 'Since that time, you have managed to show your courage countless times over the last several days. For this, I have decided to promote you to a full Battle-Brother. You will have the Black Carapace implanted tomorrow and when you have recovered, you will be gifted with your power armor. Because of the exception leadership you have shown over your career, you will be immediately given Squad Lazagrus. Lazagrus was killed in the bombardment that cut you off from us. That is all." With that, Mepesto turned away and mounted his Land Raider.

An Apothecary walked up to Erasmus and said, "I shall be implanting your Black Carapace. Please follow me."

Two Days later on the Battle Barge Wraith of the Emperor…

Erasmus was in deep prayer, his body aching after his surgery. His skin was raw, the skin several shades darker from the Carapace. His power armor was assembled in front of him, and he had been anointing it with oils and holy water for several hours and now was praying to the Spirit of the armor to accept him as its new bearer. It was a solemn ceremony, and even more solemn was the ceremony he was going to conduct on the bolter and chainsword he had been given. When he finished with his prayer, Erasmus slowly and carefully put on his armor, starting with the greaves and working his way to his snarl-nosed helmet. With a hiss, he sealed the helmet. Instantly, his retinal-display came on, every thing working perfectly. Calmly, he moved over to his bolter, which was resting on a nalwood rack. Kneeling in front of the weapon, he slowly and carefully disassembled the bolter, cleaning each and every piece, praying to the Weapon Spirit for acceptance to wield the weapon in battle. Then, he assembled the weapon and slammed home a magazine. With a deft move, he cocked the weapon and walked to the armory to test the bolter and see if the ancient Weapon Spirit had accepted him and would not malfunction. Breathing deeply, he stepped up to the firing line and firing two bolts, the weapons report echoing in the empty space. The Master-Techmarine had cleared the entire armory for this ceremony. The weapon did not jam and Erasmus fired anther five bolts, the shell-casings clattering to the steel floor. Again, Erasmus fired, this time firing the rest of the magazine in one long burst, the tongue of flame a half meter long. Erasmus swapped magazines and repeated the firing ritual. Satisfied, Erasmus walked back to his chamber and began to consecrate the holy chainsword he had been given.