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Chapter 32


The field Medicae was very dark. For fear of attracting enemy artillery, none of the bright electrical lights were running. Every firing port and slit was covered by a sliding, metal blast shield. Larger ports were covered by similar mechanisms. Only candles and low-burning lamp packs, strung up on the rockcrete columns throughout the wards, illuminated the wounded.

Cots were arrayed in long rows. Black slates hung on the rungs at the bottom of each bed; the occupant's name, rank, unit, and medical situation were written in chalk. Many appeared a lumps under brown and white blankets, trying to sleep through the pain. Others, too injured to find a comfortable position, sat upright. Bandages laced across their faces or around their arms. Some were missing hands, arms, and legs. Some didn't have their faces covered and lho-sticks hung limply from their scarred limps. Quite a number simply stared at the dark walls. Aside from the occasional cough, pitiful moan, pained groan, choked snore, and the murmurings between Medicae staff, it was very silent.

Outside, Basilisk cannons thundered. Marsh Silas felt the vibrations in the rockcrete walls. Soot covered his face and bags hung under his empty violet eyes. His head hung over Lieutenant Hyram's cot. They were in a ward separate from enlisted men; the volume of causalities was still high but at least there was more privacy. Each officer was afforded a folding screen on either side of his bed.

Hyram was asleep. He was shirtless and the right side of his chest was covered in bandages. According to the surgeon, they had to rebuild much of his chest via bionics. The right side of breast consisted of a metal plate which was fused to his flesh. Marsh Silas heard him screaming from the pain during the surgery. Aside from the rebuilding, they had to remove the fragments from the explosive round which struck him as well as the pieces of his Flak Armor which were dragged into his flesh. Part of his upper lung required treatment as well. After he was deposited in the cot, the surgeon who operated on him did not guarantee his recovery or his survival.

Marsh leaned forward a little bit and clasped his gloved hands together.

"My Emperor, I ask of Thee who grants life and taketh it away, spare this man. He has done good and will continue to spread Your light in the darkest depths of these battlefields. In his stead punish me, for it is for my sins that he has been wounded. I asketh Thee, my Creator, my Guidance…" his lips began to quiver. Tears coursed down his cheeks. Unable to bear it, he leaned forward and rested his cheek on Hyram's chest. His ear was right over his heart. He could feel and hear the steady but weak heartbeat. "…please don't take him. He's my good friend."

His hands broke and he covered his eyes. "Let him not suffer for mine-own failures. Let him live. He's my dear friend." He broke down and started to cry again. "Please…please…"

A hand fell on his back.

"My love." Marsh Silas looked up at Carstensen, who was ashen-faced. Her orange locks had grown longer in the days since the surgery. "Isenhour calls upon you."

"I'm not going on another of his missions," Marsh Silas said. "I'm not leaving Seathan."

"I will look after him. It will take but a moment. See what the man has to say, walk to clear your head, get something to eat, and then return." Before Marsh could continue his protest, Carstensen took him by the cheek. "You are no good to him if you are haggard and hungry. Go. I will fetch you when he wakes."

When, she said, not if. By the Emperor, Marsh Silas thought, what a woman. Her faith was so steadfast she would not even entertain the possibility of losing their friend. What strength, what courage. How he admired her—how he loved her. Such fortitude seemed otherworldly and how he wished to possess even a shred of it.

Relenting, he stood up and nodded. Carstensen smiled, kissed him on his cheek, and took his seat.

Passing through the dimly lit wards and throngs of staff and Sisters Hospitaller, Marsh pushed through the entrance. He didn't realize how badly it stunk of rot and death in there. The cold night air was delicious to breathe. It was crisp and clear, revitalizing him somewhat. For a few moments, he stood in the snow merely drawing breath and expelling it, making little white clouds.

"I like nights like these."

Marsh Silas turned around to see Isenhour leaning against the wall of the Medicae. He pushed himself off with his foot and strolled up beside him. "No moon. No stars. It's a perfect night to go scouting."

He held the lapels of his overcoat in a satisfied manner. Marsh Silas, tired and sore, was a bit bent over and small. When he didn't respond, Isenhour looked at him. "To be a Scout Sergeant is to enter another kind of life. It's a kind of madness, willing to go out alone and at great risk. Aye, it's a thrill in a strange kind o' way. But there's more to it than that. You have to be willing to gaze at the enemy, witness his horrors, and carry them with you. For how long, who can say? But that is part of our sacrifice. To get close to the dreadful, the terrifying, for it serves our fellow man."

Isenhour reached into a haversack hanging from his opposite shoulder. He produced an underslung grenade launcher, one that could be mounted on the rail of M36 variants. "This is for you. A good tool for scattering the enemy and making a getaway."

Marsh hesitantly took it, turned the device over in his hands, and then stuffed it into his kit-bag.

"A gift for saving your life or conciliation for getting my friend hurt?"

"A reward, for choosing to meet the horror face-to-face for the lives of others. Many a Guardsman and Space Marine shall live now that the enemy can no longer summon his instruments." When Marsh Silas didn't say anything, Isenhour slid his hands into his pockets and looked off at falling artillery shells in the far distance, no more than mere, brief flashes of white. "I care not what you think o' me. I doubt my word has little weight with you, either. But it has been said."

It wasn't forgiveness nor was it praise, merely an understanding from one soldier to another. Marsh hadn't sought it specifically from him and having received it, he found it didn't much difference. But, in a way, he did appreciate it, so he offered a curt nod.

"A lot o' good it did," he remarked. "Seems like much of what I've done has come up short. I put my efforts into a task and it doesn't seem to matter. If I just kept my trap shut and left the Space Marines well enough alone, we wouldn't o' been wrapped into some crazy mission. Hell, I try to make up for my mistakes and you nearly died too. Whether or not I succeed or fail, seems like someone else has to pay for it."

Isenhour didn't say anything for a little while. Marsh hadn't meant to open up and he felt the air between them was more tense than before. He was not so much unnerved as he was tired and put-out. But the Scout Sergeant eventually lit a lho-stick, the burning ending briefly illuminating his face, and released a casual breath.

"Not everything's about you. Even the Emperor cannot hold sway with all things. Life itself has a power, does it not? Who is to say Hyram would have or wouldn't have been shot because of you, who is to say I would or wouldn't have died at the hands of the Heretek, and who is to say whether or not your silence would or would not of kept us from being roped into that mission?"

He took a long drag on his lho-stick and walked slightly in front of the platoon sergeant. "And if you're trying to make things right with yourself, I don't think that's something you can solve with but one battle. That is battle which lasts forever. Ain't a matter o' winning; it's a matter of how you fight it."

He turned around and trundled towards the defense works. "Fight on, Marsh Silas," he said over his shoulder. Just before Isenhour disappeared into the shadowed trenches surrounding the Medicae, Marsh took a step forward.

"I say, Isenhour." This made the Scout Sergeant stop and turn around. "Try not to get yourself killed if ye venture out tonight."

He heard Isenhour scoff.

"I'll see you in the morn, Staff Sergeant."

The Scout Sergeant disappeared. Marsh Silas lingered a little while longer, but upon hearing his empty stomach growl, he decided to go join Bloody Platoon in their trench and find something to eat.

Aside from the thundering batteries all over the Imperial battlelines, it was mostly quiet. He could smell cooking fires, their smoke rising from the ventilation pipes of various blockhouses or the bunkers which studded the various trenches. Even the scent of lho-sticks being smoked in their multitudes throughout the trenches was carrying on the wind. Acrid powder and the sting of fuel hung in the air. Occasionally, he passed troopers wearing cloaks and mantles over their overcoats. Some were from the home regiments while others were Shock Troopers. A few Whiteshields passed by laden with supplies, no doubt fulfilling a menial detail by their instructor. Guardsmen from some of the tithed regiments were also around but Marsh didn't pay them much mind.

Retracing his steps to Bloody Platoon's bivouac, he entered the communication in an interior line about eight hundred meters from the frontline. This was secondary position manned by personnel who'd been fighting for the past few days. With fresh regiments having just arrived, they could pull back and rest in a location that would allow them to enter the parapet in case of a major action.

Passing through the threshold, he found a series of wooden bunks stuffed with ratty mattress and field blankets. The men and women of Bloody Platoon were cast about, some sitting on stools at the long tables in the center or piled into the bunks. Some stood by the stove at the far end, drinking recaf and heating their hands by the open flame. When they noticed him, everyone stood up.

"Does the Lieutenant live?" asked Babcock, emerging from a bunk with his lamp pack burning.

Marsh Silas did not want to lie but he did not want them to worry incessantly either. They were still partially mobilized and needed to maintain a state of readiness. So, he nodded as he passed through the crowd.

"The man draws breath, but still he sleeps," Marsh said.

"Then no change," Honeycutt grumbled. When some of the men looked at him worriedly, the medic cleared his throat and straightened out on his bunk. "He should pull through soon, though no one can be certain if can return to action within the next few weeks."

"So, it is you and the Carstensen the Cadian who will lead us now," Walmsley Major said. Smiling, he shrugged nonchalantly, clearly trying to find some humor in all this so as to alleviate the woes of the platoon. "Won't be much different than when the Lieutenant first showed up, then."

Some of the Shock Troopers chuckled. Even Marsh Silas smiled as someone gave him an open ration; plain biscuits, reconstituted vegetables, and some meat chunks. He heated on the stove and waited for a fresh brew of recaf.

As the warmth of the fire overtook him, he remembered those early days on Army's Meadow. Hyram was so timid, bookish, and unsure of himself. The man may have had blonde hair and violet eyes like so many Cadians, but that didn't mean he looked the part in uniform. Everything about him was baggy and disorderly. All the contention he and the men held at the junior officer's appointment now seemed a faraway, sweet memory.

At that moment, he wished he and his comrades were back at Army's Meadow. He missed the meadows and the crashing surf that rang in his ears when he exited the bunker each morn. It was going on two solar months since they'd been there, first occupied by their furlough and now this damnable siege. Battle was something Cadians lived through but this one certainly lost its charms. Tomorrow, hopefully, they'd break the enemy's back and force them off this sacred soil.

When his meal was ready, he ventured over to the table and squeezed in between Clivvy and Rowley. Both of the blonde-haired youths were hunched over the table, examining some of the recent decorations members of Bloody Platoon earned for the raid on the spire. All the squad leaders earned Serjeanty Medals, awards bestowed to members of the noncommissioned officer caste who proved themselves worthy leaders in the battlefield. Enlisted men walked away with Militarum Valor and Commendation Medals, Cadian Gallantry Stars, Medals of Valor, and Heroic Achievement Medals.

Of course, everyone was mystified by Gunnery Sergeant Dita Wulff's award. The hall keeper who rejoined the Shock Troops managed to crack a Heretic Astarte's Power Armor with a Krak Grenade. When the Traitor still lived, she drew her Militarum Power Sword and ran it through the breach in his armor. This saved not only several Guardsmen but two White Consuls Scout Marines who were with them. For this action, she was issued the Silver Sabatine, a gallantry medal which bore the name of their Chapter Homeworld.

These decorations were not awarded in person, for the Space Marines remained on the frontlines, so special couriers deposited the medal with a personal message inscribed for her. Wulff had not shared it with anyone, moved to tears by the remarks the White Consuls made. They had also sent an enclosed, parchment envelope with something inside it, but Marsh Silas couldn't open it. He had a distinct notion of what was inside and didn't have the heart to open it yet. He kept it an interior pocket of his kit-bag, ever strung across his right shoulder.

"Do you think we'll ever earn the honor of an Astartes badge?" Rowley asked excitedly, holding the medal up to light of the lamp pack. Wulff was sitting across from them, beaming with pride.

"Fight well in their presence and surely you will," she assured them. "Wouldn't you agree, Marsh Silas?"

"O' course," he said, plucking the medal from the young one's hand and examining it himself. It was circular silver medal detailed with a visage of the White Consuls' homeworld. It hung from a golden clasp adored to ribbon composed of two blue and silver columns. After a moment, he handed it back to Wulff and then smirked at the Whiteshields. "When you've grown into proper Shock Troopers, that is."

"Aw, Staff Sergeant…"

"We want to fight now."

"We want ribbon racks as big as yours!" Tattersall put in, sitting next to Wulff, who was nearly a head taller than the young man. She put an arm around the Whiteshield and jostled him.

"Now, now, young man, police that winging," she lectured. "This is a time for rest and we would not want to spoil it. If we got into an improper scrap, what would good Lieutenant Hyram think of us, hm?"

The Whiteshields, disappointed by obedient, nodded and rested their elbows on the table. It was very quiet in the dugout, with each Shock Trooper lost in their own mind, gazing at the boarded walls or down at their boots. Lho-sticks, burning between their fingers, were not smoked. Full cups of recaf, steaming in their hands, were never raised. Tin trays packed with rations went untouched.

Marsh Silas pushed his own tray forward and sat up a little bit. A curious smile spread, then.

"You know, young n's," he began, "Hyram used to be very green. When he first came to Cadia, he thought he made a grave mistake. A glorified clerk comin' to take part in our fights, why, he might have signed his own execution orders. He could've writ his mama and papa for a special transfer to some cozy assignment in a Kasr or on another planet in the sector. But on he stayed."

"A curious thing to me," Clivvy said. "If a frightened man sees a way out, why would he not take it?"

Marsh's warm smile grew wistful as his glimmering violet eyes fell on the table.

"Because he saw a fight worth fighting here," he said quietly. "And so he stays, because he knows it's right. Not just for the Emperor and for cause, but for him in here," he tapped his breastplate. Looking up at all the faces around him, he nodded resolutely. "We should be so proud, and honored, to serve with such a man."

"Here, here."

All turned to see Commissar Ghent standing in the entrance to the dugout. Without the moonlight to outline him, he was more of a shadow tinged with the edges of light emanating from their lamps. He transitioned from Officio Prefectus black and crimson to khaki and olive drab, as many of the Commissars were now that they were spending prolonged time in the field. Even his mantle was a snowy white to help blend in with the environment.

He didn't step in and after a moment, he raised his hand. His finger pointed at Marsh Silas. "Come with me, Senior Staff Sergeant."

"Yes, sir."

Marsh walked out into the night air, his head bare to the cold. He followed the Commissar down the trench a short way before they stopped in well on the right side. It was big enough for about four men to stand shoulder to shoulder, six if they were chest to chest. Ghent resumed a dictatorial posture, raising his chin so he could look down his nose at Marsh and folding his hands behind his back. Marsh Silas stood at parade rest, his legs out and his arms folded behind him.

"What's the word of Hyram?" was the first thing he asked. "Whatever vaguery you told them, spare me."

"He is resting, but the Medicae surgeons do not know if he will ever wake again."

"You are left in command until his recovery. In the event of his death, you will pass over to another infantry officer."

"I know," Marsh said bitterly, looking down at his boots. He didn't want to hear this. These were grim facts he was already well aware of and Ghent's reminder was doing nothing for his mood.

"I think it's time we spoke of a field commission."

Marsh's gaze snapped up. Ghent's face was more visible now that the Staff Sergeant's eyes had readjusted to the dark. His violet eyes were serious and pale. "Bloody Platoon needs a leader. You require advancement. In the event of Hyram's passing, a field commission will allow you to retain command of the platoon without transfer. The necessity of a commanding officer will outweigh the prevalence for a training program or a transfer. In time, I am certain the Cadian High Command will not heed the necessity of transferring an officer out of his unit. I won't insult you by saying the Munitorum's paperwork is often lost."

Marsh's hands balled into fists, the leather of his gloves squeezing tightly. He began to tremble.

"How dare you, sir?" he growled through gritted teeth. "You come to speak to me of promotions using…using my friend's death as an excuse?"

He expected a deflection. Some manner of excuse regarding the good of the platoon and the necessity of maintaining strong, decentralized leadership among the ranks. A typically line of Commissariat babble that could hardly convince even the most gullible Whiteshield.

"You cannot remain an NCO forever, Silas," Ghent said quietly. "It is time you considered your future. You were born in the lower nobility of the officer caste and it is time you rise to it."

Marsh groaned in frustration, running one hand down his face. He wasn't sure what to say. Before he could, Ghent stepped closer and let his arms rest by his sides. "You were cheated by your family. When Dayton was murdered, you were stripped of everything. Your rights, inheritance, entitlements. It is time we have made corrections."

"Why, in the name of the bloody Throne, do you even care about that!?"

"Keep your voice down."

"No! What is all this about? What do you seek to gain from all this? You just want to replace Hyram, don't you?"

"Do you think I want to see the man die?" Ghent snapped, causing his brow to furrow and his lips to part, revealing his clenched teeth. He recovered a moment later. "That man was an empty uniform once and now he is a fine officer due in no small part of your efforts. You see in him great things. Well, in you I see…"

Ghent looked into the trench, refusing to meet Marsh's furious gaze. "You think Barlocke was the first one to see potential in you?"

Marsh Silas's anger subsided and shifted to discomfort. Slowly, he lowered his fists and let his arms hang by his side. Turning his head to the wall of the well, he reached across and started rubbing his elbow nervously.

It was Ghent who finally broke the silence between them. "It doesn't sit right, son, I know it. But a soldier's life is filled with many a difficult, unpleasant decision. We both know that. Yet, there are duties greater than the ones we create and perceive for ourselves. A duty to the Emperor, to this Imperium, and to comrade warriors."

He drew nearer, finally looking at Marsh. The platoon sergeant could barely make eye contact. Ghent put a hand on his shoulder plate and patted it gently. "I know you want a great many things. I know you wish to take Carstensen for a wife. I know she has been seeking fertility treatments at the Kasr Sonnen Medicaes. And I know too that you want to make some good in the Astra Militarum and the Imperium, to fulfill the dream Barlocke shared with you."

Wide-eyed, Marsh could not help but recoil. Ghent was speaking softly, almost proudly, and that was more unnerving than his previous tone. Even though his lips remained taut, he spoke as if he was smiling.

Seeing the platoon sergeant's shock, Ghent raised his chin dutifully. "I am the Regimental Commissar. It is my duty to know what the 1333rd's troops are up to, for the health of their morale and faith. And it is my duty to enfranchise and inspire them so as to be better servants in the name of the Emperor."

When Marsh Silas didn't speak, Ghent released a heavy breath. "There is no convincing you now, it seems. I do no want to mandate it. But if Hyram passes on, this commission shall be yours. Understood?"

Marsh didn't bother responding. There was no choice in the matter, anyway.

Ghent reached into his coat pocket and produced a slip of parchment which he promptly handed to the platoon sergeant. "In two days' time, the 1333rd shall move back to the front alongside the 45th Altridge Regiment. You will provide support along the left flank of the advance, with the Astartes in the center. Carry on, Staff Sergeant."

"Commissar," Marsh said without taking his eyes off the orders. "Why'd you always make me push longer than the other Whiteshields? In the mud, the snow, and the rain? Why was always the first one out and the last one to come in?"

Ghent's mouth twitched into what could pass for a smile. But it was fleeting, gone even before Marsh Silas could blink.

"You shall discover so one day," he said. "And one day soon, I should think."

And like Isenhour, Ghent disappeared into the dark web of trenches which laced throughout the valley. Marsh was left standing on his lonesome, the wind tugging at his loose blonde locks and flapping the parchment in his grasp.

He was supposed to return to the dugout but he knew he would be unable to. His legs carried him out of the trenchworks and over the interior lines all the way back to the field Medicae. The journey, not a short one through the massive Imperial encampment, by any means, was not a blur. Marsh Silas was not in a daze or a stupor, though his mind did wander. It was more so a brief lapse in his vision. One moment, he was standing in the trench and in the next he was showing the Medicae sentry his identification papers.

Permitted access, he returned to that place of darkness with its stenches of blood and rotten flesh. Soon, he found the officer's ward. There was Carstensen, sitting on Hyram's wounded side. She was whispering something in his ear even though he was still asleep. Without speaking to his love, he went to the other side, sat, and slid his hand into Hyram's.

"Brother-mine," he whispered. "We return to the front soon. I would have you there instead of lingering in this bed. Please, wake soon. I…am afraid. Once, I was contented with my station in the Emperor's divine light. But Barlocke opened my eyes and helped me understand my destiny lies far above. Yet I cannot do it alone. To go on with you, or Lilias, or any of our comrades, is unthinkable. And I fear that some tragedy will befall us if I take command without your blessing."

He let go of Hyram's hand and once more leaned down to press his face over his chest. The beating was still there, muted, but steady. Tears did not slide down his cheeks this time, even though he wished they would. To hear his own sniffling would have been better than Hyram's silence or the pitiful noises of the Medicae.

A hand grasped some of his thick locks and he released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Carstensen, that wonderful woman, knew there were no words that could soothe him at this moment. The offer of her touch was more than enough to provide some solace for this weary and downtrodden affair.

The fingers laced to the back of his head and scratched a little.

"Brother-mine."

Marsh raised his head and found himself face-to-face with an exhausted by smiling Hyram. The Lieutenant's violet eyes were half-open but his grin was the broadest it had ever been, raising his long, bushy sideburns. Even the brownish scar which arced up from his jawline to his eye lost all its grimness.

Marsh gasped in relief, nearly choking on a sob. It took every ounce of energy not to fling himself upon his friend in tender embrace. Hyram patted the platoon sergeant's bearded cheek. "Blessings are bestowed only by the Emperor, my friend. Although, if it is my lowly approval you seek, then you shall have it. You have temporary command of Bloody Platoon. Doubt not yourself, for in you I place my faith and trust, dearest friend."

Hyram smirked a bit more and let his hand dropped. With a sigh, he turned his gaze to the ceiling. "But please…try not to invade the Eye of Terror or some fool thing?"

"We'll postpone the assault for now, sir," Marsh replied. "But we'll raise plenty of hell in your absence."

"Make sure Drummer Boy shows you the code book for the Vox network. Lilias?" Hyram turned his head slowly, mindful of chest and shoulder. "You'll need to take up the slack of some of Marsh's duties. That means keeping the men supplied, work details…you know how his routines."

"Yes, sir."

Hyram looked back up at the ceiling.

"I suspect they'll be moving you back to the front, now." Before Marsh Silas could even confirm the Lieutenant's theory, the officer shook his head sadly. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. "I would not lie here while my friends fight on. Tis a dreadful thing. How can a man call himself a soldier if he stays behind?"

Marsh cupped his friend's hand in his.

"It is a mere wound. You will come back to us soon. There is no shame in a wound. Every Cadian ought to have a bad one like that once in a while. We all need scars just like we need charge packs and decent rations."

Hyram nodded as the tears fell down his temples, leaving little trails along his dust face. Marsh Silas reached forward and wiped them away with the side of his knuckle. This made his comrade smile warmly. After a little while, he nodded and looked back up.

"Very well. That's enough, you two. Get out of here and back to the men. Take care of them, won't you? And cause no trouble."

"Yes, sir."

Marsh stood up, saluted smartly, and departed. Over his shoulder, he heard Hyram say something to Carstensen. When he was a few paces away, he lingered by a column. Carstensen leaned over Hyram, her ear near his lips. When she drew away, she nodded, saluted, and followed. Instead of waiting for him, she passed by him and Marsh had to quicken his pace.

She did not seem perturbed or agitated but she was neither gleeful. It wasn't until they exited the Medicae that Marsh Silas finally felt courageous enough to speak. "What did the man tell you?"

"Nothing of import, my love," she said, casting her emerald-azure gaze at him with a smile. "Just a few parting words from father to daughter."

Before Marsh could retort, Carstensen slipped her arm around his. "You forgot your hat, darling."

"I'm not on duty, I ain't required to cover my head."

"I was thinking of the chill."

"Aren't you a sweet thing?"

"I pray he was coming with us. We are all stronger together. But we shall carry the day."

"I should hope we will finish them quickly. They are on the backfoot, no less. Do you think will let us return to Kasr Sonnen for a respite? I'd like to visit the cathedral and offer up my thanks to the Emperor."

"If we fight well enough in these coming days, I should imagine so. And then, we can all go home, together."


Words: 5,092 | Pages: 12 | Font: Garamond | Font Size: 12 | Line Spacing: 1.5

Author's Note: Maybe I should have let the wonder of Hyram's condition wait a couple more chapters, but I figured the wait for this chapter was enough and frankly I don't like dangling that stuff over reader's heads. It seems unnecessary.

This was a weird chapter. I've been happy with both stories so far but this chapter seems...off. It was shorter to compensate for the longer length of the last chapter, and really it was just a series of conversations that took place in a roundabout way. It's not bad but perhaps boring. One could indicate that this is a calm before the storm type of chapter by the language at the end of the chapter, but it just feels lacking in comparison.

Sorry that it's at the end of the week. It's been a crazy few days for me (good crazy, though) so I haven't been focused enough to work. I've still got lots of editing to do in prep for the first story appearing on DA with illustrations and original formatting, but I'll try to get the next chapter done a little earlier.

Comment Responses:

C0opperhead5: I like your point about the medals. I'll briefly explain my point with them. One, they are low-impact, lore-friendly way to expand my interpretation of Cadia and other Imperial factions. Medals, by their names alone, have different meanings and different stories to tell, and I think it's important to give them some time as they're alluded to be important to Cadia's militarized culture. Two, they actually serve a story/development purpose that unfortunately can't say here because it'll be SPOILERS and no one wants those. But the award of those medals is really important, I assure you! Either way though, I understand what you mean and for the next few chapters at least, I'm dialing it back so we can focus more on events than reactions.

Spatialyeti8: LOL basically. Marsh Silas is at heart, a character-drama series, but I've found it very easy to insert some humor from time to time. After all, Marsh and Bloody Platoon are a gaggle of put-upon misfits at heart, so I like treating them that way.

TheCarlosInferno: Best I can do is a maybe. Things are changing in my life, not to get too personal, and I'm Alone might not be on the priority list for a while.

Guest: Hopefully they will, but more than likely that'll have to wait, or more than likely Marsh will just get lost in the byzantine nightmare that is the Administratum's structure. Also yes, Thule was so cool, but alas, 40K likes to do horrible things to its cool characters.

Chase-A: Thank you! Oh man, it's so cool that there are some real-life parallels to Isenhour. I wanted him to be gruff, dark, unknowable, and sagely. He'll definitely be a character to stay!