Pain; signaled the body. Copper; signaled the tongue. Excitement; signaled the heart. Duck; signaled the brain.

Dodging a punch meant for his face, Jvarn swept his legs around and knocked his opponent off their feet. A loud thud accompanied their fall. Reversing the momentum of the sweep, Jvarn brought his heel down on his opponent's gut. It was caught and suddenly Lunk found his world rotating as his opponent twisted him around.

When the world had stopped spinning, he found himself against the deck with his opponent above him, fist raised to finally finish the fight. The fist swung down and Lunk moved his head as far to the side as it'd go. This move caused the punch to glance him. Not powerful enough to knock him out but still strong enough for him to see stars. Knowing another would end him, Lunk brought up his legs and kicked with all his might. The extra weight ceased to press down on his body as his opponent was flung off.

The action also brought him back to his feet. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Lunk watched as his opponent picked themselves up. Raising his fists, Jvarn awaited the next attack. It never came.

'Commissar! Commissar!'

The reaction was immediate. The crowd that had formed around Jvarn and the other trooper dispersed with enough speed that they were gone within two beats of Jvarn's accelerated heart. Lunks himself lowered his hands and turned from his former opponent-a trooper named Hayt-and beat a hasty retreat to his own bunk. Reaching his bunk, Jvarn grabbed a towel and was able to wipe off some of the blood on him before the black coated Commissar entered the troop-bay.

'Group! Ten-HUT!' shouted one of the Guardsmen. Thuds echoed as heels came together, the Guardsmen stopping whatever they were doing to stand stock straight with eyes fixed on a location directly in front of them. Satisfied, the Commissar began to slowly march down the troop-bay, his hands clasped behind his back and his shoes making dull thuds against the deck. He went down the rows of troopers, looking them over. Jvarn noted with amusement that the Commissar's eyes seemed to linger longer on the female troopers.

When he reached Jvarn, he came to a halt and seemed to study the blood still seeping from Jvarn's mouth.

'What in the Emperor's name? Trooper, explain yourself!' he shouted, turning and getting right in front of Jvarn.

'Tripped, Commissar, sir!' Jvarn shouted back, some of his blood splashing onto the Commissar's face. If the disciplinary officer felt it, he gave no indication as to such.

'On what trooper?'

'My pants, Commissar, sir!' The look of surprise lasted only a second. If Jvarn had blinked, he would have missed it. While it was there though; no other memory the trooper had could match the hilarity of the look.

'Your pants, trooper?'

'Yes, Commissar, sir!'

'Do you need help dressing yourself trooper?' the Commissar questioned after a short pause and a couple confused blinks.

'Only if you're volunteering, Commissar, sir!' Jvarn shouted at the top of his lungs. Coughs erupted around the troop-bay as other troopers barely contained their laughter. Anger was quick to replace the confusion on the Commissar's face.

'Do you think you're funny trooper?'

'No, Commissar, sir!'

'Down! A hundred push-ups right now!' the Commissar yelled, drawing his bolt pistol while pointing at the deck with his free hand. Getting down, Jvarn let a smile grace his face when he was sure the tight-coated prick wouldn't see it. After three push-ups, Jvarn felt the impression of boots on his back and felt the extra three hundred pounds that accompanied those impressions. Easily, Jvarn continued with his punishment, disguising chuckles as distressed coughs.

'Venites! I have been chosen to inform you of your assignment! A planet by the name of Cailtan has requested assistance from the glorious Imperial war-machine! They are currently under attack by a repulsive Chaos army and face certain destruction without our interference! Imperial Command has seen fit to give you all the great honor of defending Cailtan! You are the Imperial Guard! You are the Veno VI Sixth Regiment! You are Drop-Troops! For Holy Terra! For the Emperor!'

'Puskai Veno! Puskai Imperiar!' cried the assembled Guardsmen, including Jvarn. The shouts were in the Sixth's native language and literally translated to: 'Thrive Veno! Thrive Emperor!'. Nodding, the Commissar stepped off of Jvarn and strode out of the troop-bay, leaving the Guardsmen where they stood. Once he was gone, Lunk got to his feet as laughter rolled over the assembled troopers. The ones close to Jvarn walked over and gave him pats on the back while muttering things resembling 'Good one' or 'Nice'.

Shrugging off the praises, Jvarn grabbed his dark blue uniform jacket and slid it onto his lithe frame. After buttoning it up, he grabbed his white beret off his cot and set it on his head with a sense of reverence. His eyes unconsciously glanced down to the end of the troop-bay where he saw fellow Venite troopers wearing black fatigues instead of the normal dark blue. They were the Sixth's elite, the 'go to' troops. Their specialty? Deep, stealth strikes against hostile forces. Where the Sixth might fail, they were expected to succeed. All of them knew their worth. All of them acted like complete arses.

Jvarn has never wanted anything more than to join them. To fight with them was the highest honor that could be bestowed upon a trooper of the Sixth. To be equipped with a Grav-Chute and tossed out the back of a dropship?

Who wouldn't want that privilege, Jvarn thought as he put on his black flak vest. His equipment webbing, filled with charge packs, lamp packs, rations, and his knife went on over his flak vest while a disassembled entrenching tool was positioned on his right thigh. A pad went over his right knee before he clipped a pauldron over his left shoulder. Slipping on gloves, Jvarn grabbed his las-rifle and a charge pack from his bag.

On the way out of the troop-bay, Jvarn bumped into someone. Looking, he saw Hayt in his full battledress, carrying his flamer as easily as Jvarn carried his las-rifle. The pack on his back gave off the smell of promethium but Jvarn's nose has long grown accustomed to it. With las-rifle slung-with stock folded-under his right arm, Jvarn was free to pound Hayt's offered fist.

'You ready for this Jvarn?' Hayt asked as the two entered the hallway and began to march to the hanger bay where their dropship waited.

'As long you point that flame-hurler downrange, I'm always ready,' Jvarn replied heartily, earning a laugh from Hayt as a response. The two were from the same squad, led by Sergeant Fion. They were also inseparable and prone to scenes such as had occurred earlier in the troop-bay. 'Training' they called it. 'Stupid' everyone else called it. On more than once occasion, Jvarn has been accredited with saving Hayt's life. Of course, the same could be said for Hayt, using his flamer to save Jvarn's hide-and cook it a little-during battle.

'Hey! Fok heads!'

The two troopers turned to see a female trooper jogging to them. She didn't have a las-rifle. Instead, she had a long-las in a protective case across her back. In replacement of her only close-quarters defense, she had a las-pistol holstered on her hip. She was quick to catch up to Jvarn and Hayt, bumping Hayt's offered fist before using her fist to punch Jvarn in his unarmored shoulder.

'Ow,' muttered Jvarn, rubbing his shoulder, 'Why?'

'Because you're a fok head is why. Some day the Commissar is going to have had enough with your games and just shoot you,' she explained with a scowl.

'Aw,' cooed Hayt. It was largely off putting due to the large flamer in his meaty hands, 'I think Kilm's starting to care for you Lunk.'

Kilm's eyes narrowed, 'Don't forget flame-boy; one shot to the back and boom,' she hissed, closing and opening one hand to signify the explosion.

Before Hayt or Lunk could reply, an aggressive, familiar voice charged down the hall, 'Why are you walking? Hustle troopers! This isn't a gakking sewing circle! Move! Move!'

'Speaking of fok heads,' Lunk whispered as he, Kilm, and Hayt broke into a jog with the rest of the regiment. A swift back-hand to the arm from Kilm reminded him of her earlier statement. 'Right,' he grumbled, 'obedient.'

Another back-hand. Lunk hissed as he could feel the bruise beginning to form. He found himself wishing to be planetside already, just to be away from the female sniper and her moods. Of course, he thought as he passed by the still yelling Commissar, first I have to get on the dropship.