I'm dying.

Here I lay, on this blasted and ruined field on the ash plains of Armageddon. Bodies of guardsmen and Orks are strewn as far as I can see. And I can see far, even now. Even with my helmet in tatters, even with my red blood leaking into my only good eye remaining, I can see.

My armor is ruined. One pauldron is gone; blasted off by a stray shot from a plasma cannon. Friendly fire, the Guard politely call it. The rest of it is no better off. Pocket marks from a dozen varieties of weapon scar it from helmet to boot. Beneath the holes my flesh was similarity punctured. Only a faint flicker of the tired machine spirit show me it's still alive. The power source was nearly dead, just like me.

To add insult to injury, the paint is ruined.

I'm not sure why that seems to matter. Gerult, a fellow brother that I've known since I was first recruited, always fussed over his armor between battles, making sure there wasn't a scuff or scratch to mar it. He made it his mission to convince his squad-mates to share his enthusiasm for cleanliness over the years. We fought side by side for a hundred years, he never failed to take a cloth to it after every mission. He is dead.

I cough; pain courses through my chest and throat. Iron tasting blood coats my tongue.

I'm the only one left. I think. Out of fifty men, half a company's worth of superhuman warriors. Deployed in drop pods right to the lightly defended flank of the horde. The beaming Navy officer assured Captain Roak that the area was only lightly defended, nothing we couldn't handle. Roak examined the data and agreed.

The data was wrong. There was far more Orks than they said. Instead of hundreds, there was thousands. So many shots were thrown into the air as we plummeted that we were blown off course. So many that the normally impervious armor of the pod couldn't hold up. Gerult's pod was completely blown up in midair, according to the vox. Mine was merely wrecked. Two of my brothers died before the door even opened. Three, versus a couple of thousand.

Movement? I'm not sure. I hope it's imperial and not some loota.

My weapon's clip was empty in a minute. My designated weapon is a heavy bolter. That should be an indicator of my situation. Many Orks died by my actions. Pity it didn't stop my squad from dying as well. At least they didn't die alone. I hardly noticed how much I was being shot. That should've concerned me then, even ceramite has its limits.

We weren't meant to hold for more than a few minutes, long enough to clear a zone for the aircraft. And lo and behold, they came. A stormraven, carrying capacity twelve. There was supposed to be two. A flaming wreck that crashed into to ground a few heart beats later answered that particular question. Then it was fourteen versus thousands.

Definitely movement. Too small to be an Ork, though I won't rule out gretchin.

I tossed my spent weapon aside and grabbed brother Marius's bolt gun, still held in his grip inside the pod. I doubt he minded since a piece of shrapnel the length of my forearm was stuck though his head. I quietly thanked him as I pulled it away from his corpse. I'm not sure if any of the arrivals saw it. If they did, I hope they understood. I've known Marius less than I've known Gerult, only for roughly fifty years. Different recruiting times.

We fought. By the Emperor we fought. Soon thundering fire announced the presence of a battle group of Steel Legion, hastily organized support from command. Neither my brothers or the troopers spoke to each other. We couldn't, there was too many greenskins. I wish I could've convened my thanks when I could.

The odds were evened, but it wasn't enough.

It was during that time the plasma blast tore off my pauldron and a chunk of my shoulder. I don't blame the soldier. Having a choppa to the face can cause things like that. I do wish he had enough sense to take his finger off the trigger, or at least let it drop. He might've vaporized his attacker too otherwise.

Once, long ago, I was stabbed through the abdomen with a owner sword by a renegade guardsmen. That was insignificant to the pain of nearly being vaporized by a weapon crafted to fight enemies of the Imperium. The irony was not lost on me as I blacked out.

I'm growing tired. Between my injuries and my exhaustion, I don't think I can last much longer. The shape is coming closer, paying particular attention to the armored forms.

Finally it reaches me. I'm relived to see its a human, clad in the uniform of a Steel legionnaire. He examined my wrecked armor, looking for something. My relief turned into indignation as he looked closely. Not a guardsmen, but a looter. If he touches me I'll gut him, even if it's the last thing I do. It just might be.

I lifted my gauntlet, agonizingly slow. How can I kill him If I'm moving so slowly?

He sees the lifted gauntlet and nearly jumps. Good, teach him to scavenge from the dead. He scrambled to grab something from his belt, steeping just out of my reach. Damn him. It looks like a vox of some kind. He chats into it for a moment and turns away, but he stops to turn to me.

"Thank you. If not for you, command would've never known there was another horde coming our way" he says.

I pause; what's he talking about?

"I'm part of a joint task force. We're looking for wounded. I just rang up my colonel, a few of you people will be here in five. The Emperor protects" he saluted me and darted off.

I'm stunned. I thought it was incompetence that brought me here, but it was the Emperor's blessing instead. I thought I was going to die here. I cursed my lack of faith as a fresh spasm of pain lashed out.

I close my eye, just as the armored form of another marine enters my field of view. It looks like an apothecary. I'm not sure if he knows if I'm still alive or not. As he speaks, I realize my fate.

"Severe injuries. But, a veteran of the third company. A terrible loss" he spoke to himself. It was the last thing I heard as I fell unconscious again. It was the last thing I ever heard with my own senses.

I am brother Morro, veteran sergeant of the Angels of Redemption Third Company.

I am dead.

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This insignificant piece was inspired by "confessions of a wayward son", by (o). I came up with it on my way home, and it rung in my head too much for let me to let it go. Consider this filler for Direct Intervention while I get that sorted out. As well, consider it an homage of sorts.

Now that my true colors have been revealed, I have to run. Run! Before they ge-