No Pity…
So many, he thought. They were all around him and the Tactical Squad, flooding the glade in waves of violent green and earsplitting noise. Orks, one of the greatest threats to the Imperium. Beside and behind him, his battle-brethren readied themselves, reloading their weapons, making sure their knives were ready and within reach and of course, whispering their last prayers to Sigismund, Rogal Dorn and, most importantly, to Him Enthroned on Earth. All the while, their gazes never left their foes. Though there would be no more tomorrow for any of them, they had sworn to take as many of the xeno scum with them. As the tide of greenskins lollopped closer, babbling in their loathsome tongue and waving crude yet viciously effective weapons, he thumbed the activation rune on his own chainblade and clicked the safety of his bolt pistol off. After what seemed like ages, the enemy was upon them…
No Remorse…
With a cry to the God-Emperor, he brought the whirring chainsword down on the head of a snarling brute, splitting it from crown to tusked chin. As the corpse fell, another leaped at him waving what looked like part of a Techmarine's servoharness. He took aim and felt his bolt pistol kick in his hand. He smiled grimly as the round took the monster's face in a bloody halo. His elation lasted only for a second, as two of the foul creatures spotted him and loped towards him. All around him, his brother Marines had all engaged in the hell of close-quarters combat, the honorable way. For all the good it did. He felt a pang of sadness in his hearts as he saw one valiant Initiate torn apart by a ravening mob, his vengeful oath dying on his lips. Still another fell with three smoking holes in his chest, courtesy of a crude handcannon. It seemed, as it was the truth, that no matter how many Orks were killed, more would always be ready to take their comrades' place. The thought filled him with righteous wrath. Screaming the unforgiving warcry-litany of his most esteemed Chapter, he raised his bloody weapon and crashed into the thickest part of the melee, determined to make the greenskin menace pay…
No Fear…
They were dead, all of them. Their remains lay all around, and with them, a sizable toll of woad-painted green bodies, a testament to the might of the Adeptus Astartes. Soon, he would join them. He stood at the center of a tight circle of the xenos, holding his own for as long as he could. As he blocked a makeshift axe, he gasped as he stumbled backward. Adding to the many wounds decorating his armored body, the arm that had held his bolt pistol was gone, sawed off by a lucky choppa blow. He spat blood as he struggled to keep his balance. He would join his battle-brothers, yes. But not before he made their enemies pay. As the beasts closed in, he dropped to one knee and reached behind him, grasping a rewired melta charge in his gauntlet. With a last oath, he pushed down on the button that would send him to an honorable death and his foes back to whatever alien hell that spawned them…
(I know it ain't really that good, but I kinda needed to get this posted… And maybe to get rid of my damned writers' block…)