DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT HOLD ANY RIGHTS RELATED TO GAMES WORKSHOP, WARHAMMER 40'000 OR ANY RELATED WORKS.
Amid hordes of crewmembers and various personnel, Sergeant Remus of the Ultramarines made his way with heavy footfalls. His armor whirred and sighed with every movement of its' mechanical assistance, and the ceramite-clad boots gave a loud thump with every step. He had long grown accustomed to the awe he inspired among the mortals around him... No, to call them mere mortals would be an insult, for was he not also human once upon a time?
For those rare and few within the Imperium of Man allowed to undergo the transformation into the Emperor's finest, the angels of death, it was easy to forget that even a space marine may die... And even then, there were those who yet served. Eventually, the sergeant reached a secluded portion of the hangar in which he walked. Here, techmarines and members of the Mechanicus served their duty, tending to the heavier machinery of the battle barge upon which they travelled. A few steps later... And brother-sergeant Remus stopped.
Ahead of him, clad in tons upon tons of ceramite and steel, thrice-blessed... And once fallen, stood one of his chapter's greatest treasures. With hydraulic limbs and the power of a thousand men, and more, this was the Dreadnought. Vaguely box-shaped, with a thin slit on the front, Remus knew that the one interred into this tomb neither felt the wind nor touch anymore.
A corpse of a former space marine, too wounded to fight, had millenia ago been interred into this sarcophagus of life-sustaining fluids and hooked up to the machine with a myriad of cables...
"Even in death, I yet serve..." Remus mumbled under his breath, before looking around to find anyone to help him with his task. With a mild distaste, he saw the telltale red of a tech-priest, and ushered him... Her... It, over. With green glass orbs for eyes, and mechanical tendrils, the priest was clearly not much of a human anymore... Something that Remus was aware would serve as a compliment to the being.
"I implore that you begin the reawakening process, tech-priest. There is an upcoming battle, and I require my brother." He pointed out, and watched as the priest left to pursue whatever he needed to fulfill the command. Minutes passed as Remus watched the dreadnought be put through the process of awakening... The process of reanimating that which should have been allowed a restful death, long ago...
Silence.
A dreamless silence, followed by ceaseless mist in his mind. He did not feel, he did not see, he did not hear... He did not live.
And yet, soon he did feel something, he felt the electrical currents of his armor's reactor hooked into the sarcophagus, he saw the gothic scripture in his mind, registering the system boot-up... And then he heard his auspex systems register the sounds around him. He was on a ship, that much was clear. Through one of the sensors, he saw a figure of blue, the white omega painted upon one of his shoulderplates.
The corpse within the dreadnought took a mental breath, before bringing his long since atrophied voice to bear...
WHO DARES AWAKEN MY SLUMBER!?
The words boomed throughout the hangar bay, and everyone, from the lowliest serf to the highest officer present, ceased their activities. The support beams holding the very ship together shook by the exclamation... And Remus felt his lips twitch into the lightest of smirks.
"I dare, brother... I would ask that you aid in battle once more. What say you?" He asked, and felt the barest hints of fear as he watched the dreadnought regain control of his limbs. His left arm was tipped by four hydraulic power claws, easily capable of throwing tanks, or crushing them into scraps. His right, an assault cannon capable of mowing down almost any enemy. There have been incidents when, upon forceful reawakening, the dreadnought had not yet let go of his battlerage... But Remus was relieved to see that today was not such a case.
I WILL BRING DEATH UNTO THE ENEMY. WHERE MY BROTHERS WALK, SO TOO DO I!
The ancient spoke with the same volume, before slowly turning his chassis so he could shuffle forwards. The way he moved would perhaps look rather silly to some, with short stubby legs and a top-heavy chassis. But such lumbering steps carried the kind of power that few could stand up to...
Walking down the ramp leading out of the drop pods' staging area, the dreanought and sergeant made their way to the dropships, preparing once again to bring death to the foe of the Imperium. With the dreadnought clamped in magnetically to the hull, Remus walked inside to join his brothers, securing his gear one last time before speaking up.
"... We fight for Macragge."
Silence.
An eternal, echoing silence. The auspex feeds and various sensors told Garen that he was standing on a planet, discharging the assault cannon with a rarely matched fury, cutting apart any enemy in his path. But for him, personally... That was all but muted. Nothing reached the man within the armour. No light, no heat, no cold, not even the smells or taste that his bionically enhanced senses could pick up. For him, the entire world consisted of blackness and an endless void. He had been trained to adapt, and he did so without question... But that didn't make it easy.
Perhaps if he were truly dead, Garen could have come to terms with the state he was in. But he could feel, even now, the cables connected to his spine, the fluid he was submerged in. He could sense it all... But not interact with it. Even in the midst of battle, he found himself introspective, wondering about the true nature of dreadnoughts.
'Even in death, I still serve...' He thought, his mind focused only on his brothers fighting by his side. His brothers who could see, smell, hear, taste and even touch the world around them, in ways that Garen could not.
And so, despite his indomitable strength, his weapons, his invulnerability, the Venerable Garen felt weak. It was the same feeling one got when their guard was down, or they knew something or someone powerful was near... A feeling that reminded them of how truly frail they were, should the worst happen. But for Garen, this feeling was always there. If an ork came running towards him, he could mow it down and keep fighting with impunity. But said ork could plant a grenade on his leg, impeding his movement. There were blind spots in his view, that could immobilize him.
Were Garen to fall upon the battlefield, there would be a drop in morale for his brethren. But for him, nobody could come and simply pat him on the back and pick him up again. Were the tides to turn unfavorable, he would simply be a husk of metal, left to a second death... A true one.
For the first time in decades, the Venerable Garen felt weary and doubtful. Not of the Imperium, or the Emperor... But of his own capabilities. His self-imposed thoughts lasted for months, centuries even, though time was truly impossible to tell, trapped as he was. Not even his fellow marines noticed, and thus, he was able to wallow in his internal agony.
Or at least, he had hoped nobody would notice.
One day, during one of the many lulls between battles, Garen saw through the sensors how the sergeant, Remus, turned to him. "Are you well, brother?"
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" Garen asked, as silently as his loudspeaker would let him. Were he to offer a single point of complaint towards the inventors of the dreadnought chassis... It would likely be that his voice never went below 'deafen-the-unprepared' volume. "You have been quiet these last few weeks."
The dreadnought grunted, thinking. Perhaps he should explain how he felt to Remus? Or would he simply try and deny it, assuring Garen that he was ready for the next battle? "I WILL BE FINE. DO NOT WORRY, BROTHER." He grumbled, looking down at the smaller man. The sergeant, as ever, seemed unperturbed. In fact, he gave his superior a cheeky smile, and Garen decided to push his luck, just a little. "ALTHOUGH. I HAVE BEEN THINKING, OF LATE. YOU ARE STILL FLESH AND BLOOD, YOUR EYES ARE CLEAR... YOU SEE THE WORLD, WHAT IT IS LIKE. THIS PLANET THAT WE ARE ON... WHAT DOES IT SMELL LIKE?"
"What does it smell like? Uh... It smells like a jungle, brother. Damp, musty. As though something is always hiding nearby... Getting sentimental, are we?" He answered with the same cheeky grin. Of course, it was reserved for the armored colossus in front of him. And they were both aware that there were neither insubordination or disrespect between them.
"AND THE SKY, WHAT COLOR IS IT?" The dreadnought asked, his servos whirring as the chassis pointed upwards at an angle. Remus raised an eyebrow, but humored him. "It is blue, brother. An oxygen-nitrogen blend with water vapors making up white clouds. Though with a tinge of promethium added in, courtesy of the Imperium."
"INDEED. I REMEMBER THAT. I LOVE THE SMELL OF PROMETHIUM IN THE MORNING." Garen spoke, his warbling voice clearly taking on a wistful tone. And so, it went, with the dreadnought asking about small details in the environment, his sensors unable to register them. Slowly, he began to feel better, able to picture the world outside... All thanks to his brothers, who would tell him everything they could see, smell or hear.
This carried on until it became time to go to battle again. As Garen was dropped onto the theatre of war, conveniently crushing a group of orks, his mind was clear... His duty, unwavering.
SUFFER NOT THE FILTHY XENOS TO LIVE, BROTHERS!
Spooling up his assault cannon once more, tearing into the greenskin horde, Garen came to a conclusion... There was nothing wrong with him after all. Just an old man, grumbling about the past.