On a dusty, sandblasted backwater planet tucked deep into the Ultima Segmentum, Lelith Hesperax lay flat on her back in the shade of an aging decrepit tower. It was jutting out of the ground at an odd angle, the braided metal cables that kept it upright having been corroded beyond repair, and yet the humans lived in that filth for generations. It was bad enough that an Aeldari maiden world had been infested by Mon'keigh—even moreso that they dared to desecrate it further by erecting such crude structures on its surface. Even being unable to move a muscle and forced to stare at the grotesque building in what she believed to be her final moments wasn't the worst thing to happened this day. Before Lelith went gallivanting off with the prophet of the Ynnari, she was the greatest treasure of Commoragh—a natural-born killer celebrated for her beauty and skill. She had aspirations. She had a goal. Sure, she wanted to be rid of the threat of the Chaos God Slaanesh—known to her people as She-Who-Thirsts—like the rest of her kind, but what of duelling the greatest of Her champions, Lucius the Eternal, and giving the Eternal City the most spectacular performance it had ever seen?

It only made the irony of being brought down by a runaway autocarriage full of the disgusting processed milk product that the Imperials called 'cheese' all the more bitter as fingers of darkness clawed at her vision.

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There were many things that Lelith thought might await her on the other side, should she find herself passing away from her Ynnari comrades. Awakening to soul-shivering screams, the stench of death, and a terrifying, gaping maw were to be expected, but being manhandled by a Mon'keigh in a gaudy uniform and more tassels than taste was the complete opposite of that. 'Maybe I had survived after all...' she thought to herself, gingerly bringing a hand to her face and hoping that Yvraine hadn't witnessed her blunder. She winced in pain as her gloved hand came away wet with blood. The first thing she noticed was that her body felt leaden and sluggish as she sat upright, trying to shake the fog from her head. Try as she did, it wasn't enough to feel anywhere close to normal—instead, she felt oddly slow…and stupid.

Rather than let herself be captured, she picked up the nearest blade and ran as fast as she could, pushing the shouting buffoon aside in the process. In response, the other Mon'keigh began to give chase en-masse. With escape the only thing on her mind, she was completely caught by surprise when she fell into a trench and came face-to-face with a cultist—a follower of Slaanesh at that. Clad in nothing but a black leather corset and a loincloth dyed in a sickening shade of fuchsia, he charged at her frothing at the mouth like a maddened dog.

Lelith favoured wearing as little as possible to goad her enemies into attacking, but was scarcely unarmed. Even her hair, interlaced with wicked barbs, was a lethal weapon. With that in mind, she spun around expecting to ensnare and eviscerate him without having to lift a finger. It only sent him stumbling back, having gotten a face full of silky red hair.

Without much time to think, she scrambled to grab the knife that had fallen with her and swiftly punched up into the cultist's chin. The wretched thing fell to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Having dealt with the immediate obstacle, she started running once more, but found her path blocked by another, then another, then another. Then to her horror, she saw that the Mon'keigh were catching up.

What came next was a blur. Lelith struggled fighting against three where she would have effortlessly cut down ten or more. Where she would have had a knife against a cultist gunner's throat, she barely took two steps before having to dive behind a plasteel crate for cover. At the end of it all, the great champion came before a mirror, battered, bruised, and completely exhausted. 'This shouldn't have been much more than a warm-up,' she gasped, clinging onto the edges of the vanity with the last of her strength. 'I've fought more than this without a single scratch.'

Slowly, Lelith looked up. Rather than slender pointed ears, a head of flowing crimson locks without a hair out of place, and alabaster skin with taut, defined features—all barely concealed by her trademark wychsuit—what looked back at her was an unimpressive, dopey-looking face framed by a faded green helmet and an unflattering baggy uniform which would have been the colour of baby puke was it not caked in filth and blood. Some of it was her own. She reached up to touch her face, desperately hoping that it was an illusion. When she pinched a purple bruise on her cheek, a twinge of lancing pain erased all doubt. The reaction of someone who had been an apex predator brought down to the status of prey was a natural one—she screamed.

Someone grabbed her roughly by the shoulder. Acting on reflex, Lelith spun around and her foot came up, but not high enough to reach the bolt pistol pointed at her. To anyone observing, it would have looked like she turned around and clumsily landed on her bottom.

'Laying hands on a Commissar is grounds for execution,' the man barked authoritatively, drilling into Lelith with his stern blue eyes. 'Then again, I should give you a medal for leading the charge. We took more ground in a day than we have in weeks thanks to your actions.' He leaned in. 'Maybe I'll do both.'

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In the aftermath of the battle, the Imperial Guard set to work cleaning up corpses and scouring any sign of Chaos taint away. Columns of black, acrid smoke rose into the sky as blessed promethium consumed the bodies of the dead. As for Lelith, she was quietly led away into one of the command tents by the Commissar.

The interior of the tent was modestly decorated. Inside the green, waterproof plas-fabric walls was a plasteel folding table. It was piled high with parchment and quills to serve as a desk for the officers and Commissars, of which none were particularly keen on paperwork. Several unmarked crates were stacked along the walls, some being scattered about the floor to be sorted later. A simple coatrack stood at attention on a corner of the dirt floor. Enough natural light streamed in from the outside through the clear plas sheets that acted as windows, but a lumen globe hung from the ceiling of the tent for use in the evening, switched on with a pull string.

'Sit,' the Commissar commanded, gesturing to an empty ammunition crate as he took off his greatcoat and cap. 'Now tell me your name and rank, Guardsman.'

Now that the Commissar had taken off his excessive ornamentation, he looked somewhat more approachable. He had a head of platinum blonde hair, gelled and styled in spikes. His blue eyes held a firm, piercing gaze. A wide, powerful chest supported his muscular arms and the Garm pattern bolt pistol—a symbol of the Commissariat's authority—was clutched tightly at his side. If he weren't a Mon'keigh, Lelith would have thought him rather handsome-looking. Unfortunately, he was a little too primitive for her tastes, and likely wasn't interested in fraternizing with his subordinates.

Lelith tried to reply, but her tongue had swollen in her mouth. 'Le…Le…' was all she was able to force out.

'Lily?' the Commissar asked. 'Is that right?'

The only thing Lelith responded with was a blank stare.

Sighing tiredly, the Commissar reached behind his back and pulled out a stack of documents. 'Well, "Lily,"' he said finally, 'since it seems like you hit your head in that trench back there, let me jog your memory. I'm Commissar Fenton, and you are a private in the Generian 100th Medium Infantry. We follow the legacy of the Generian 99th, who died to a man doing what guardsmen do best: holding the line.' he explained patiently. 'Does that ring any bells?'

Lelith shook her head.

'You don't talk much. For your sake, I hope that you're listening,' Commissar Fenton groaned. 'Go to the medicae tent and get your head checked out.'

Wanting to leave as soon as she was dismissed, she stood up and stepped towards the exit.

'Oh, and before you go, I'm obligated to give you this,' he says, turning Lelith around and pinning something to her uniform—a simple blue and yellow ribbon adorned with a brass aquila hanging from the bottom. 'It's the Eagle Ordinary. You were a few kills short of the Steel Aquila, but good job nonetheless.' With that, he gives Lelith a firm pat on the back and sends her away.

Confused from the exchange, Lelith staggered out of the command tent and stared at her own hands in disbelief, slowly digesting the information. Someone, somewhere was laughing at her, she was sure of it. When she peeled back the flaps of the medicae tent, she saw the cause of all her misfortune: cheese, and a disgusting amount of it.

'Hello there!' a bald man with a tanned, round, but thankfully clean-shaven face greeted cheerfully, spreading a gratuitous amount of the greasy yellow paste onto a cracker. It was clear that his main form of locomotion was scooting around on the wheels of his chair, and from the presence of a developing paunch, he didn't do much more than that. 'I'm just on my lunch break. Just wait over there and I'll be right with you.' He wiped his hands onto the off-white smock that he wore over top of his uniform, adding to the multitude of various stains on it. Grabbing a rag kept in his back pocket, he blotted the sweat on his dark, fat eyebrows.

It was a few minutes later that the medic brought Lelith in. He offered her one of his crackers, shrugging and popping it into his own mouth when she refused. After having Lelith remove her helmet, he cleaned her wounds and wrapped her head with gauze. 'Now that I got a good look at you, you're the hero of the hour, aren't you?' he said with a grin. 'Stormed a Chaotic encampment with only a combat knife in your hand. That takes guts,' he laughs, grabbing his own. 'My name's Gromms by the way. Walter Gromms. How do you feel?'

'Tired,' she replied flatly, glaring at the overly friendly medicae.

'Yeah, I'd be too,' says Walter, 'or dead. I'd probably be dead if I tried that. You know, you have a pretty cute voi-'

Walter was knocked off his chair as he looked away. A knife tickled the underside of his chin. 'Finish that sentence and you would "probably be dead" the second you do,' hissed Lelith, slowly drawing her knife away from his throat.

The medic gulped, his Adam's apple nudging the blade. 'A-alright, I get it. Touchy subject,' he stammers out, sighing in relief as Lelith sheathed her weapon. 'I don't see anything wrong with you, so you're okay to go as long as you promise to stay hydrated and eat regular meals. Say hi to the others for me.'

Waving dismissively, Lelith slips away from the medicae tent only to run straight into someone else.

'Slow down there. You might hurt yourself,' a giant of a man boomed far too loudly, pressing Lelith into his thick barrel chest. She looked up at him, seeing a thick, wiry grey beard trimmed neatly around his neckline. The scars on his face marked him as a veteran, and his breath marked him as someone who knew to celebrate after a battle. Lelith squirmed in his grasp and he happily obliged, letting her go.

Another—still celebrating and completely red in the face—raises her bottle in greeting. 'Hullo there,' she slurs, reaching out to place a hand on Lelith's shoulder but missing by several feet. 'Don't mind Greg o'er thur. 'e's just a big ol' softie tha' likes huggin' people.' The woman twirls a few strands of her curly brown hair around her finger, giggling to herself. 'Isn't that right, Jane?'

A guardsman with a helmet several sizes too large peeks out from behind the drunken woman. 'That's right!' He stands ramrod straight, coming to attention. 'Due to our recent victory, Sergeant Gregory Patterson has deemed it an event worth celebrating! We are going to live forever!

'He didn't say that,' a fourth says meekly, adjusting his wire-framed glasses as he approaches the group. 'He just said we're not going to die today.'

'Ah, Louis. Perfect timing. We were just on our way to find out who was assigned to our squad!' Jane claps the man on his back, knocking Louis's glasses out of place. 'So who do we get?'

'Well, good news. The guardsman that's replacing Darjeeling, Emperor rest her soul, is none other than Guardsman Lily Drewman, commended for courageous actions under fire. That would be, well, you,' Louis says, gesturing to Lelith.

Being no stranger to praise, Lelith preened herself, flinching as she heard deep, hearty laugher echo out.

Picking everyone up at once the veteran sergeant wraps them all up in a bear hug. 'With Lily alongside us, I see the start of a glorious tale—and a long, fulfilling life in service to the Emperor!' he declares, hefting Lelith upon his shoulders.

Trapped in the man's bulky arms, twisted into uncomfortable position, mashed against several other Mon'keigh, and reeking of sweat, Lelith thought that it couldn't end soon enough.

AN:

It's currently Christmas, and I'm up late putting effort into this train wreck. Regardless of how your year is going, and what you think of this, I wish you all a merry Christmas, and hope the next year goes better for you than this one. Enjoy the holidays, and make merry.

Omake: A Cheesy Christmas Carol

Lelith got run over by a cheese wheel

Biking to her place in Commorragh

You can say there's no reincarnation

But as for me and Grandpa, we believe

She went off with the Ynnari

And we begged her not to go

But she wanted to bag Lucius

And she pranced off to dream 'bout her greatest show

When we found her the next morning

At the scene of the attack

She had cheese grease on her forehead

And it looked like tire tracks over her back