We are the dead.
Corpses, forgotten and worthless, without humanity, without emotion, without fear, without life.
We are the dead.
Without regret, without sentiment, without uncertainty, without choice, oblivion the only truth.
We are the dead.
We are the Death corps of Krieg.
We are your death.
Gasmask overlaid by an obsidian black mask of steel in the visage of a grim skull, layered steel plate and flak armor of the same color; Watchmaster 1867's great coat fluttered on the buffeting wind of artillery detonations as he stood atop the edge of the trench. In one gauntlet of obsidian steel the Watchmaster gripped a solid bolt pistol, muzzle charcoal black and body scratched from use, lifting a sleek, subtly curved sword over his head in his other. Blue lightning danced faintly across the magnificent weapon's flawless steel inlaid with golden bands of power. The blade shimmered in the light of the rising sun, rays reflecting in a dazzling spectrum for a moment as it swung through the air in a forward cut to the south east at a nearly perfect thirty-degree angle from the sun. The vertical cut was calm, deliberate, nonlethal. Yet that simple motion, technically a harmless tradition passed down since time immemorial, was the deadliest foe we had faced since birth.
Fifty-three other individuals of identical dress mimicked the gesture across a battle line of roughly one or two kilometers. Rising from trenches blasted to mud and barely four feet high seven hundred stoic souls, dress in uniform to our Watchmasters save the black skull plate, heeded the command without a word of affirmation or an instant of hesitation. Then, like the mindless pawns of Regicide, we took the first step of the charge and seven hundred and fifty-three minds, hearts, and souls thought not of themselves, their comrades, or the enemy before them. They thought of death, and if that first step had been into their grave.
At the beginning of every charge undertaken by every single assaulting force since the beginning of conflict and war there is a single instant when time stops for everyone involved all at once. Not a round yet fired, aside from the constant artillery in this case, or a man yet fallen. All would wonder for a split second if they would the first to die, if that first step had been their last. All combatants, human or otherwise, react differently to this singular moment in battle. Some hesitate, some freeze, some shout with a raw emotion they cannot name, some flee, or many more. It is impossible to predict the complete experience of any one entity in a situation as harrowing and exhilarating as a frontline charge.
But then and there seven hundred and fifty-four souls saw death staring down at them two hundred and twenty-three meters away. They wondered, who would the God-Emperor take as penance first? But regardless, every single Krieg on that battlefield did what every Krieg had done since the blasphemous rebellion of our planet fifteen hundred years ago without hesitation or consideration. Their duty.
Without a word, twitch, or speck of doubt, seven hundred and fifty-three men charged head-on into whatever Fate and the God-Emperor of Mankind had in store for them.
And we began to die.
Author's Note: A homage to the Death Korps of Warhammer 40K. Might do something with this, might not.