Editing 97th Conglomerate's Tyrannic War (section)

=== Digging Our Own Graves ===

==== 0834 Hours – Local Time ====

Samson didn’t recognize anyone. He knew their faces, and their names, but these weren’t the same men he’d landed with. They looked dead inside. Some had thousand-yard-stares, some stared at nothing, and others were focusing on a single point on the ground. Grayson had lost that jocularity he had to him; Azeem, his ever-sympathetic expression. Hanz had changed little. Being in the Death Korps made one familiar with pointless, violent death in its many gruesome forms.

“Samson, melta-cutter.” The mechanic called, snapping Samson’s attention back to the here-and-now. The guardsman walked to the bench along the wall of the makeshift garage and hefted a large tool off the top of it. His movement was finally freed up in just fatigues and his flak vest. He lugged the equipment over to ''Target Practice'' and lifted it as high as he could up to the tank driver on top of the tank’s turret, who then handed it to the mechanic who was squatted on top of the left track. “Now lift the track up to me.” 

Samson walked around to the front of the left track and lifted the heavy steel links up as close to the other end of the chain as he could manage. He held it against the gears and leaned on it with his weight as the mechanic lowered the short, glowing jet of super-heated promethium from the nozzle of the melta-cutter and began welding the ends of the track together. 

Samson almost shuddered when Natasha walked into the garage. She had a look in her eyes the day before, but when Samson tried to talk to her she shunned him repeatedly. Now she walked straight towards him. 

“Samson… we need to talk.” She said plainly, standing right in front of him with a look of intensity. The mechanic stopped welding for a second, curious as to what was going on. A momentary glare from Natasha set him back to his work behind Samson. 

“Well that makes a change.” Samson he muttered more to himself than his squad leader, still bothered by her behavior the day before. Without skipping a beat he was met by a swift, open-palmed slap across his cheek from her. When he looked at her he realized he had upset her. Her eyes were red and watery, the blue in her eyes becoming deeper and more brilliantly sad with each miniscule moment he left the statement before apologizing. “I’m sorry.”

She turned around and almost stormed out of the garage, but Samson caught up to her and grabbed her by her arm.

“Don’t– just don’t touch me!” She gestured in frustration. Samson took a step back from her and let her compose herself. She stood there for a moment with her arms crossed, doing the lip-biting thing she did when she was talking to Samson. Then she took him by surprise. 

Before Samson even had time to react – in fact, to even register she had moved – Natasha had pulled his head down to hers as she stood on her toes and locked their lips together. For a moment, Samson was practically wide-eyed with fear, but then he simply went with it. He closed his eyes and matched her enthusiasm.

He knew that people would ask questions, but he didn’t care. He knew people would disapprove, but he didn’t care. He knew this went against almost everything he had been taught about being a Guardsman, but he didn’t care. After the meeting lingered for 4, maybe 5 seconds, Samson pulled away from her slowly, holding her arms to her side. He could still taste her.

“What was that?” He finally asked after almost a minute of simply staring into each other’s eyes. She cast her gaze to the ground, her face reading regret. “What’s wrong?” 

“We… we’re going to lose this planet.” She managed, trying not to think too much about her and Samson and their situation. Her eyes were still red and her voice caught in her throat.

“What do you mean?” He asked, confused at what she meant. ''Lose this planet?'' 

“We…” She looked for the words. She figured cynical and blunt was the way to go after milling it over. She took a deep breath and choked down that lump in her throat. “… We have 27 days to deal with the bugs, or the fleet is going slap this planet with an asteroid.”

Samson was speechless. He didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know what to think. His mind become awash with emotions that flooded from the edges of his mind. 

''Is she saying'' Exterminatus''? Has it already gotten that bad?'' Samson thought to himself. He was terrified, angry, devastated, pissed, and about 20 other emotions. ''What about Natasha? What if we get left here? What about us?''

“Okay…” Samson simply replied. He tried to push everything to the back of his mind. Too many memories would flood into his nightmares if he let loose. 

“Is that all you can say?” She replied, distressed at his lack of reaction. 

“What more do you want me to say?” Samson replied, somewhat annoyed. He started listing the things he felt. “Do you want me to hold you and tell you it’ll be alright? Do want me to tell you we are already digging our own graves? Do want to say we’re dead anyway and kill ourselves? What do you want from me?!” His outburst had earned the shooting glares of passing PDF and Guardsmen walking past the pair.

“Don’t talk like that.” She tried to calm him. 

They were interrupted by a menacing figure appearing behind Samson. Natasha craned her neck to see around him will he turned and looked over his shoulder. Before them was a man in a red trench coat, old and worn from years of use. Samson’s eyes followed up to the man’s gas mask. It covered his entire face and the majority of it was a bone white skull motif, as if he were death itself. Finally, he wore an old helmet atop his head, fastened with old leather straps. When the amplified voice spoke through the vox-grille, the pair immediately recognized its owner.

“We are one of the most capable shock trooper regiments in the Astra Militarum.” Cronus spoke with pride. “I wouldn’t sell us out so easily, Private.” The commander then stepped around Samson to look at Natasha with his expressionless mask. She cast her eyes downwards, unable to meet her own reflection in those lenses. “I hope this does not complicate things, Sergeant Octavius.” His head gave a slight nod in Samson’s direction.

“No, sir.” The was a lie. “I would never let my feelings get the better of me.” Also a lie.

“I never said that, Natasha.” Cronus reminded her, as if he were about to dispense sage-like wisdom. “Remember, ''hate'' is a Guardsman’s greatest weapon.” The colonel gave a her a pat on the shoulder. “Come on, you’ve been promoted.”

“Sir?” The sergeant replied with confusion. 

“Your squad saw a lot of men killed, so you’re being upgraded to my new Command Squad.” Cronus replied with congratulations. Natasha’s eyes went wide, then she seemed to tremble a bit. 

“Are… you sure about this, sir?” Natasha asked, unsteadily at first, but then more consistently.

“Are you questioning my judgment, Guardsman?” Cronus inquired, cocking his head to the side.

“Sir, no sir!” She snapped to attention. This was an honour, and is normally preceded by Platoon Command first. Natasha tried to act brave, but she was absolutely terrified. 

“Tell the rest of your squad, report to the Command Bunker by 1130 hours.” Cronus finished before turning to leave. 

“Do we get to keep ''Target Practice'', sir?” She asked just before he broke line of sight. 

“Yes, Natasha. Yes you do.” The colonel concluded. Samson thought he could hear Cronus smirking under his mask.

==== 1130 Hours – Local Time ====

The squad that was left had reported to the Sector 3 Command Bunker, but as a whole they were split up, redistributed, and reassigned amongst the company. The only members that were actually assigned to the Command Squad were Hanz, Samson, Grayson, and Natasha. Grayson was given a Plasma Gun, which he wasn’t thrilled about; most guardsmen see it as a death sentence. Hanz became the medic, and Samson inherited his underslung grenade launcher. 

“This rifle here,” Hanz said reverently as he held the weapon out to Samson. “This is Sasha. She will serve you well if you treat her right.”

“She is under my protection.” Samson replied as he carefully took the rifle in his hands. “Are there any litanies she prefers.”

“The Litany of Accuracy helps the shots land with effectiveness.” He replied, giving the weapon one last look over. “The Litany of Rending ensures the grenade’s effectiveness.” 

“I thank you, Hanz.” Samson gratified, finally fully accepting the rifle. 

Sasha was heavy; much heavier than his normal weapon. Around her barrel were wrapped cloth and purity seals, one of the wax seals placed perfectly where Samson’s thumb gripped the weapon when he shouldered it. Battle-worn, foe-felled, combat-tested; this weapon was a worthy one, with a venerable Machine Spirit. 

“How do I look?” Natasha stepped out of the armoury wielding her autopistol and… a standard.

“What’s with the flag?” Hanz inquired skeptically.

“I’m the standard bearer.” She answered as-a-matter-of-fact-ly. The flagpole was almost a full meter shorter than most others, but affixed to the top was a short blade. 

“Is that a… power halberd?” Samson looked at the standard with a raised eyebrow, seeing it was both ceremonial and practical in function. 

“Yeah, the techs got creative when making this bad boy.” She bragged, swinging the weapon/flag around, giving it an approving look as she did. The look in her eyes gave Samson comfort.

==== 2234 Hours – Local Time ====

The bunk rooms were.. well, Samson was relieved at their size. They were much larger than the standard Platoon Barracks (being that those were really just bedrolls laid out at your post), and there were actual beds; mattresses and everything. Samson’s and Natasha’s bunks were right next to each other, so they simply chatted whilst they undressed.

“Hey, about yesterday…” Natasha managed uncomfortably. “… And this morning…”

“Natasha, it’s fine.” Samson didn’t want her to feel bad. He tried to keep her from feeling like she had been a bitch (which she had been, but that’s beside the point). 

“No, it isn’t.” She denied, a pang of guilt in her tone. “I should’ve told you, but I didn’t, and you probably felt ignored.”

“Well, better late than never.” Samson remarked under his breath.

Later that night, Samson laid with his eyes closed but his mind still going. He couldn’t sleep, the events of the day still running through his head. He had helped repair ''Target Practice'', he had assisted in the cremation of the squad’s casualties from first contact, he had learned of an Exterminatus order if the Tyranids were not removed from this world. 

Through all of this he just kept thinking about Natasha that morning. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice when she had slid into his bunk with him. She got under the blanket right in front of him and slid her rear back into him. He put his arm over her and she drew a sharp breath, startled to realize he was awake. He pulled her closer to him and drew the blanket back over them. Now they both felt they could put their minds at rest and sleep for a few hours.