Today was a big day. He put on his Schola uniform and combed his hair. Today was his day. He polished his black boots until they shined. Today was his compliance day. He recited the morning litanies three times as he jogged across the grand hallway. Today was the day that he would receive his final trial.

He hummed along to the sacred rhymes emanating from the passing vox-hailers and nodded reverentially to the stained glass depictions of the holy saints. There were ten in total, eight sons of the Emperor, the Emperor himself and his greatest champion and reformer of the Church, Sebastian Thor. They were all beautiful, magnificent in their own right. Soon he will be just a bit closer to their greatness. He made his way to the inner aula, where all the students from his class were to be gathered. He was first, he always was. He stopped and took a parade stance, feet straight, hands clasped behind the back. He let the morning suns shine through the grey clouds, wash his face and closed his eyes, for a moment.

"Hey, if it isn't Mister standard!" A loud voice interrupted his reverie. It came from a tall, dark skinned student, that strutted lazily through the courtyard.

Eshu sighed: "Morning, Shango."

Shango punched him in the chest as a greeting. Eshu grunted but didn't break his stance, though he did take a glance at him. Shango was dishevelled as usual and still had that non standard compliant hairdo.

"Of course, you'd be the first here. What, couldn't sleep?"

"Simply respecting the standard procedure." Answered Eshu, who in truth really couldn't sleep. "I'm surprised you didn't miss this."

"Me?" Shango laughed. "Please, I'm the model of compliance."

Eshu leveled an eyebrow looking over the student.

"I simply choose to interpret the assignments in creative ways." Finished Shango, still grinning.

"Uh huh. Is that what you call it?"

"Hey, I haven't gotten a reprimand have I?"

"Only because the abbots don't know about your nightly adventures."

"Well we were tasked with ensuring the morale amongst the students stayed high, right? And I was doing just that!"

Eshu didn't have time to respond as he saw the drill abbot, master Leontas, walk up into the courtyard. Shango, realising the potential danger, quickly became silent. Leontas stared daggers at them and the arriving students, then bellowed:
"Commissars! Form up!"

The line of students became rigid. The abbot observed the line, then continued:
"Today marks the greatest day in your lives! Today under the gaze of the God Emperor, you will become true Commissars worthy to lead his troops into battle!"

"Sir, yes sir!" The line shouted.

"Today marks your trial of compliance! Today you will show your mettle as the moral custodians of his troops!"

"Sir, yes sir!" The line cried.

"Do not hesitate! The Emperor needs your mettle and faith!"

"Sir, yes sir!" Eshu bellowed alongside his comrades.

Master Leontas smiled and gestured at his aides. "The objectives of your trial will be personalised and handed out to you in written form. You have 48 hours. Dismissed!"

Eshu blinked but followed the rest of the students. He didn't think that their trials would be different for every person, but he supposed that made a certain degree of sense. Commissars were often alone, forced to navigate the different cultures and traditions of each regiment that they were assigned to. He stood in line waiting for his assignment, sharing jabs with Shango. Then he tore open the seal of the letter.

He froze.

—

Eshu woke up with a yelp. The trooper next to him jumped, nearly falling out of her chair. He sat up straight trying to process what happened. That's right, he wasn't at the Schola, he was a cadet commissar, assigned to the Elysian 36th regiment, currently deployed on Sarduriade, Badap sector. During his first deployment they were tasked to destroy an Ork Gargant and… He stiffened trying to feel his body. His legs ached and his arms… No. Carefully he lifted up his left hand to feel his right. It wasn't there. There was a ghostly presence, as if he could still feel it, see it out of the corner of his eye but it wasn't there.

"You'll get a new one." Said a voice softly to his left. Cannonade Chalsi, first sergeant of the fourth platoon.

She sat back down on her chair, back up front as usual. She stared into the distance, playing with something silvery in her hands. A piece of metal?

"Had a bad dream?"

"A nightmare, yeah." Eshu nodded, trying to forget it. "Where are we?" He asked, trying to move the conversation away from his memories.

"The infirmary. Or well our best attempts at building one inside a Gargant."

Eshu could see a row of folding beds and inflatable mattresses all around the room. They were clean, organised in a neat pattern and stood in a sharp contrast to the rest of the room. It, like most Ork architecture, was built chaotically and spontaneously, with sharp angles and sharper safety violations. Yellow painted slabs of metal were all around, with primitive lighting bulbs hanging from the ceiling.

"How long was I out?" Asked Eshu trying to feel his stump with his left hand.

"More than a week." Answered Chalsi, curtly. When Eshu's eyes widened in shock, she laughed: "You lost an arm, had multiple lacerations, blood loss and infections from lying in the mud. What did you expect?"

"I didn't expect to get up." Said Eshu honestly.

"Doc thought the same thing, said you were delirious for the first few days. But I knew you'd pull through."

But you didn't pull through, a voice inside of his mind said. You failed, you lost your arm. The only thing you were good at.

"What about the rest of the squad?"

Chalsi's face darkened: "Most of them didn't make it. The ones that did have been reassigned to fill up the other squads of the platoon."

"I'm sorry."

The sergeant shrugged it off: "Line of duty. Not your fault."

Eshu blinked: "How can you be so…"

"Not my first drop, Cadet." She smiled sadly, "you learn to keep it together after a while."

Eshu was silent for a moment. "I don't think I'll get used to this." He said quietly.

Chalsi didn't respond for a few minutes, playing idly with the piece of metal in her hands. In the artificial light of the infirmary, Eshu could see her far clearer than he ever could. She had a small scar on her cheek near her mouth. Tall, red hair and hazel eyes full of… something. Regret? Reminiscence?

"Right, so the way I see it," she finally said, "no one lives forever, you know?"

"Except the God Emperor." Eshu added.

"Right. Well except him, none of us will be around for too long, guardsmen especially. And I guess I accepted this."

"That's a bit defeatist." Noted Eshu.

"Is it?" Chalsi shrugged. "I suppose you can call it that. I just decided to not worry about death and enjoy life, you know?"

"But how can you enjoy anything after… you know?"

"After losing your comrades?" She laughed bitterly: "That happens every day here. I know Elaheh wouldn't want me to weep over an unmarked grave. And I know that Kamran would want you to have this." She put something on the bed. A large metal flask, filled to the brim by the sound of it.

"Araks?" Eshu guessed, remembering how the fallen trooper mentioned the stiff drink.

"Elysia's finest. You've more than earned it."

He lifted the canteen. It was heavy, stainless steel shining in the lamp light. He could make out the small markings on the screw cap that spelled out '36th Elysian'. The last thing Kamran wanted him to do. But it didn't feel right.

"Thanks. I'm… not really thirsty though." Muttered Eshu.

Chalsi looked at him for a few seconds. Then she nodded: "Just don't drink it in one go alright? And again, thanks."

"For what?"

"Saving my life, saving the squad. And these," she stopped fidgeting with the piece of metal and showed it to Eshu. Dog tags. "We couldn't find Kamran's, and it probably would've been the same with these if you didn't grab them off Elaheh. Wanna keep them?"

"Shouldn't you have them?" Asked Eshu.

"Already noted down the casualties, so I got no real use for them." Said Chalsi examining the dog tags.

"As a keepsake maybe? Something to remember her by?"

Cannonade smiled fondly: "I'll remember Elaheh every time I blow something up. Just like I'll remember Kamran by making silly puns and being bad at flirting."

Eshu glanced at his own clothes. "Elaheh cared about dog tags." he said, remembering her outburst. "I think it would mean a lot for her if we kept them."

Chalsi nodded and placed the dog tags in his hand. Her hand was big, bigger than Eshu's actually, rough and strong. And yet, there was a certain tenderness in the way she moved.

"Don't die on me alright?" She said looking into his eyes. "Not until I make you smile."

Eshu stuttered: "I smile all the time."

"No, Eshu you don't. I wore enough fake smiles to see through one."

He wanted to tell her, maybe she would understand. But he couldn't. Even he couldn't understand why the colours in his life wilted away. Or rather he didn't wish to face it. He looked down.

"Thanks but-"

A tremor interrupted him. The whole room shook visibly as if they were hit by a small earthquake.

Chalci groaned: "Again? Third time in the past 48 hours."

"We're under attack?" Asked Eshu, fumbling to find his clothes.

"Yeah. After you and Sam killed the warboss, the Greenies scattered for about a week. Gave us enough time to set up a proper defence and pick off stragglers. But now…" She stopped trying to hear something in the distance. "Well they're not ones to back down from a fight." She got up and stretched. "Onto the breach again I suppose. I'll tell Suzhen that you're up, she'll know if you're good to go."

Eshu nodded and watched the sergeant leave. Then he plopped back down in his bed, trying to feel out every metal bump of the dog tags with his fingers. A small part of his mind reminded him that she should not have addressed him by his first name, he was after all a commissar, even if a cadet. But he didn't care.

—

Hartmann nearly died today. The thought was sobering, it always was. Like cold water after a night of drinking, though he got completely drunk only once in his life. He breathed out and looked to his side where the bullet landed. Just a few millimetres to the right and that would've been his head. The Emperor had protected him, as he always did. Hartmann adjusted his cap and looked at the corpse of his would-be killer: a greenskin, lying dead in a foxhole just a few metres away from the barricade. Hartmann smiled grimly and reloaded his bolt pistol. He still had it.

The Greenskins withdrew once again and he ordered the troops to reinforce the barricades. As much as he might've hated the structure that they took as residence, he had to admit that the gargant was defensible. After they had torn down the scaffoldings, it had few points of entry, all located in the leg section. Wide spaces inside the titan to store the supplies. Elevated firing positions that covered the entire area. Thick plating to protect the superstructure. Constant rainfall ensured that they wouldn't run out of drinking water and tight rationing meant that they could last for months. The main problem, Hartmann thought, looking at his pistol, was ammunition. There was a reason why most Elysians preferred to forgo rocket launchers or autocannons for las weaponry. A las pack could be recharged from practically anything, including sunlight. So long as they had access to a generator, they could hold any position. Unfortunately, a grav-chute drop could only carry so many things and they had barely a dozen portable generators, half of which had to be used for command, logistical or sentinel duty.

Leaving the troops to hold the line against any possible incursion, he decided to inspect the other entry. Over the week, when the ork assaults were rare and somehow even less organized, they managed to weld shut most entry ways, leaving only three big ones: two for troops, one for sentinels. It did render defending more difficult, but Farrah was adamant that they needed multiple exits from the Gargant in case things went south. A fair concern, but as usual, one that showed her weakness.

Hartmann made his way throughout the narrow metal corridors, making his way towards the 'belly'. Unlike the magnificent Titans of the Imperium, built to the likeness of cathedrals, the gargant did not have beautiful proportions. When looked at from the side, its legs seemed too small and its central corpus, the 'belly' was low enough to reach the ground and big enough to house their entire platoon of sentinels and then some. The 'Belly'. Hartmann didn't know which trooper came up with the nickname but it stuck. Personally he thought it to be too reductive of the entire edifice, and he wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing. On one hand, to diminish the enemy was proper, on the other to underestimate him was foul. He scratched his neck, in frustration. He was letting his attention to details get the better of him. Or rather, he subconsciously concentrated on such small things to ignore the bigger problem.

He moved through the inner hall, noting down any potential doctrinary violations in the back of his head. Squads of troopers were moving around, always in groups of four or more. The great doors that allowed the sentinels to sally from the gargant were closing and he could see servitors and aides, rushing in to help the returning bipedal walkers. Strangely, he couldn't see the Enginseer anywhere. Normally the follower of the machine god would be busily running around the damaged vehicles and screaming at the drivers. Well the damage wasn't that severe, this wave of Greenskins had little in the way of ordnance, and Samusenko's veterans were too experienced to be downed by small arms fire. He spotted the lieutenant who was sitting at the top of her sentinel, opening a pack of Lho-sticks. She was professional enough to keep her hands off the nicotine during combat, but smoked at least two sticks after any engagement. It was a wonder that her lungs were functionable. As he passed the walkers, Hartmann made a mental note to assign her an iron lung transplant. Then he stopped and shook his head. Small, too distant, not a detail he needed to focus on, he chimed his mind once again. Instead of relenting, it noted that Samusenko only nodded at him instead of giving him a proper salute.

Irritated with himself, Hartmann made his way to the stairs. The gargant had a lift, or rather a platform that somehow managed to lift heavy cargo despite being held up by nothing except screws. Orkish nonsense that barely worked without their sorry excuse for a generator, which was in the heart of the beast. No, if Hartmann had to live within this monstrosity, he'd try to avoid dying in the stupidest way possible. Life was the Emperor's currency after all, not something to be spent mindlessly. making his way up the flight of stairs, with each flight having a dedicated firing position, Hartmann forced himself to admit it. His obsession with minutia and small mistakes, the kind that the Commissariat taught to punish during rest and let slide during times of duress, was all an act to keep him from thinking about the main problem. It has been twelve days. Twelve days since they were stuck in this abomination of alien design. Twelve days since they jumped into the firepit and were now trying to sleep amidst the burning coal. This wasn't the first time the 36th spent more than a week behind enemy lines. This certainly wasn't the first time Hartmann spent more than a week besieged. But this was the first time that he saw the Astartes not live up to their promises. And that bothered him most of all. Space marines could be fickle, arrogant, mysterious. But an angel could not be a liar. And yet, the deadline had come and gone, taking Hartmann's certainty away with it.

Mind filled with doubts, he ascended the superstructure one step at a time. He wasn't in a hurry and stopped at a few floors, though never for long. The belly of the beast grew smaller in width with each floor, until it seamlessly graduated into the upper body. The difference between the two portions of the structure was academic at best, still the same yellowish metal and plates of scrap were poking out of every corner. A notable change however were the multiple gun emplacements, sticking out of the gargant. Loud, unwieldy and with such poor accuracy that it could make an Ogryn look like a sharpshooter by comparison. As such using them was futile, not to mention heretical, and so they stayed silent. The Elysians disabled the biggest ones, but they had no time for more renovations. So instead, Farrah went with a more inventive approach.

He saw sergeant Raam next to one of the guns, putting on his grav-chute alongside his squad. The veteran, noticed Hartmann, finished prepping, then saluted. The proper way. Hartmann nodded and watched the squad get into positions. Traditional doctrine suggested that Grav-chutes were only good for the initial drop, suggesting to leave the equipment at a stache until the combat was finished. The Colonel was anything but traditional.

The horn sounded again and Hartmann heard the rattle of gunfire coming from below. Raam barked an order and the Shahbaz started running up the cannon, using it as a ramp before jumping off. Hartmann heard the buzzing of the grav-chutes, then the shriek of las fire. Yes the Gargant was tall enough for the Elysians to land behind any orks that got too close to the Gargant. The rest of the guard often joked that an Elysian will try jumping off any cliff in his vicinity and for once, Hartmann had to admit that the stereotype wasn't particularly far off.

He made certain that his presence wasn't needed at the front gate and continued his walk. The upper levels of the gargant were reserved for barracks, storage and whatever else the regiment needed. Higher still the shoulder housed snipers nests, equipped with long las rifles and macro binoculars. And finally the head of the beast. Hartmann passed the two veterans standing guard at the entrance and pushed open the metal hinges.

The command room of the gargant had changed. For one, the bodies were gone, though traces of ork blood still stained the walls. Most of the panels were destroyed or repurposed as tables for the various maps, ledgers and vox equipment manned by the ever present adjutant Tusi. The hole where Hartmann made his entrance had a new hatch, which led to another sniper nest. And in the middle of it all sat the Colonel. She was sitting on a folding chair, face buried in her hands on the table. Sleeping. Hartmann sighed and poured two cups of recaf from a machine. They had to conserve their supplies but if Farrah fell asleep at her post, things were dire indeed.

He put down the metal cups on top of the table filled with different charts and maps and coughed: "Falling asleep during duty is punishable by flogging."

The colonel yawned and stretched before putting on one of her classic smiles and taking a cup of the warm black liquid: "I better get the whip then, because that was one of the best naps I had in a while."

"Dreamed of our inevitable victory I assume?" Smirked Hartmann, taking a sip.

"Actually no," her eyes focused on something in the distance as if she was trying to picture the images in her mind, "I was dreaming of home and its mountains."

"I thought you'd outgrown your home sickness after so many years."

"I don't think nostalgia is something we can just grow past." Farrah rebutted, looking down at her cup, her smile being a mixture of melancholy and joy. "I mean you still miss your home every now and then, don't you?"

"The correct answer is that the Astra Militarum is my only home."

"And the truthful one?" Asked Farrah.

Hartmann closed his eyes. It was starting to rain again and the water drops beat a steady drum against the hull of the gargant. He remembered his childhood, the hive city, the Schola Progenium.

"If you must know", he answered, "my planet was damp, grey and boring. So really this feels just like home. Though… I suppose I do miss the Schola every now and then."

Farrah clicked her tongue: "Ah the cradles of the best and brightest of the Imperium. You know I was nearly sent to one."

"Really?"

"Yes, I was on the potential applicants list after my father passed away. But he wasn't considered important enough, so in the end my uncle and aunt took care of me."

Probably for the best, reflected Hartmann. The Schola wasn't the best place for such freethinkers as Farrah undoubtedly was in her youth. But he only nodded.

"So you dreamed of their home?"

Farrah smiled: "I did. It was a small cottage at the foot of the Mountains. Every morning I would wake up and be greeted by the sight of snowy peaks covered by mist."

"And you proceeded to jump off of it, I assume."

"Never got the chance." Mused Farrah. "Joined the defence force in my early twenties."

"And never stopped rising since." Said Hartmann, raising a cup.

"Did I?" Wondered Farrah aloud, her smile withering. "Sometimes I feel like I simply haven't stopped falling. I suppose it's what we do."

Hartmann didn't know how to answer that. So instead, he moved the conversation. "Any news from command?"

The colonel shook her head: "I would've voxed you if there was any progress. The navy is dodgy and the Lord general is full of platitudes."

"And the Astartes?"

Farrah didn't answer that.

"They'll come." Said Hartmann mostly to reassure himself. "I've seen the Emperor's Angels pull off incredible feats."

Farrah continued to drink her recaf in silence.

"You don't agree?"

"I don't disagree. You were right when you warned me about the potential problems Space Marines could bring."

"I didn't put it like that-"

"And I was right about their intentions, at least, I think I was." She shook her head. "In any case we just have to hope that they will finish they're advance once they have what they want."

"What do they want?" Hartmann asked, confused.

"The Sons of Medusa are a successor chapter of the Iron Hand." Farrah stated, matter of factly. "Much like the tech priests of Mars, they are quite fond of technology."

"Surely you're not implying that the sons of Ferrus Manus would value their own pursuits above the good of the Imperium." Said Hartmann, tensing up.

The colonel shrugged: "What I do know is that they're five days behind schedule, the navy refuses to land any supplies and the General wants us to sit tight right here. At the end of the day that's all that matters. I honestly care little if the Astartes are selfish or incom-"

"Farrah." The Commissar interrupted her.

Their eyes met for a moment. Hartmann's gaze pleaded silently, Farrah's glance betrayed frustration and fear. After a few tense moments, her eyes softened.

"Sorry, as I said, it matters little."

"It matters to the morale." Whispered Hartmann, looking around. "You can't go around talking blasphemy, you realise that?" Luckily it seemed that the adjutant was too busy listening to the vox transmission and the other aids were scattered around too far to hear. "What will the men think?"

Farrah blinked and nodded.

"And if the Lord General wishes us to remain here then this is what we'll do." Continued Hartmann, getting into his commissarial role. "You were right, this is a good position to defend. If supplies are good we can hold out for as long as we need."

"So about two months." Said Farrah flatly, overlooking the sheets. "And that's assuming that the orks don't have anything like that teleportation cannon your protege faced."

"The Mek is dead." Continued Hartmann, "Some Greenskins have a brutish sense of cunning, but we have decapitated the beast. Any new warboss will be weak."

"And will focus our attention on us in order to gain legitimacy." Parried Farrah. "I assumed that the death of the Mek and the loss of his gargant would be enough to break the frontlines and let the Astartes push to the south. I was wrong."

"Colonel, remember your duty. Help will come, I am sure of it, we simply need to weather the tide, as we always had." Asserted Hartmann, and surprisingly, he found it to be true. Perhaps it was his own words or the need to oppose the Colonel's pessimism, but he found his belief strengthened.

"For the sake of us all Heinz, I hope you're right." Said Farrah slowly. Hartmann breathed out, enjoying his small victory.

Suddenly the whole Gargant shook. Hartmann got up expecting reports of an ork artillery strike, but it soon subsided. Instead the command panels hidden by the paper and files, started buzzing.

"Ma'am, it's the Enginseer." Reported Tusi.

"I assume he was successful?" Said Farrah, her smile returning to its natural habitat.

"He reports power output to be within parameters. We don't have to worry about generators, according to him." Confirmed the Adjutant, who after a pause added: "He's also started speaking in binary in a very agitated tone."

"Probably the usual slander, I'll have to apologise to him." Mused Farrah, picking up a ledger and noting something down.

"I'm not following." Said Hartmann.

"You're right, we can hold out as long as we have supplies. But without power our las weapons are bound to fail, and our generators weren't going to fulfil all of our needs."

Hartmann felt his sense of unease returning: "You didn't."

"It took a week of convincing, planning and binary screeching but Kantuari managed to get the ork generator working. Through a technical proxy of course, directly syphoning power would be heretical."

Hartmann's jaw dropped: "You planned this from the start?"

Farrah simply smiled at the accusation: "You have faith Heinz, I have my planning. I believe both are needed to accomplish our duty, don't you?"