Editing 97th Conglomerate's Tyrannic War (section)

== Prologue ==
=== Part 1: Deployment Day Minus 3 ===
Private Samson sat uncomfortably in the velvet covered seat of Colonel Cronus’ office. The Colonel had stepped out, for what, Samson didn’t know. He was here for one reason alone; he had seen combat before. The 97th never took recruits from a vacuum. They only ever plucked men from the forces of the Astra Militarum who had seen a battle before. But this wasn’t where Samson belonged.

''I’m a coward…'' He told himself, trying to think of a way to get out of seeing combat again. They called him ''weak, blasphemous, heretic''. He damn near jumped when the door opened again.

The Colonel was a tall, intimidating man with a chiseled face and sunken eyes. His officer’s cane was tucked tightly under his arm alongside a thin file folder. As he made towards his desk, he possessed an authoritarian presence and a regimental gait. He sharply pulled his chair, Samson clearly seeing the extensive bionic reconstruction that had replaced his whole left arm, and sat down across from Samson, who simply sank in his chair, cowering in the face of raw Imperial authority.

“Private Alexandre Samson…” Cronus began, flipping open the folder in his hands as he crossed his legs, sitting at an angle. “Age: 22; Height: 6 foot even; Weight: a little on the lighter side; Years of Service: longer than most.” He put his own slightly cynical spin on how to address Samson’s qualities. He started sizing up Samson skeptically. “How in the Emperor’s bloody name have you served as long as you have and still managed to get put through our screening?” He asked dubiously. Samson inhaled and went to answer, but was realized it was a rhetorical question when the Colonel simply continued. “Have you ever fired an autogun?”

“I’m sorry, sir?” Samson responded, trying to make sure he heard the Colonel correctly. 

“An autogun…” Cronus said again, slapping shut the file with the hand he held it in. 

“Um, I’m not sure I’m following sir.” Samson replied once more. Cronus gave a brief chuckle – well, more of an amused huff – at the Private’s response.

“Not important.” The Colonel continued. “Report to the quartermaster in the Guardsmen common areas tomorrow, where you’ll be issued your gear and assigned to your squad.” He tucked the Private’s file away into a drawer of his desk. “You’re dismissed.”

=== Part 2: Deployment Day Minus 2 ===
Warp travel afforded one nothing remotely resembling restful sleep. This had become something that Samson hoped came with experience, but he’s tried to sleep through Warp trips more than enough times to realize he was deluded if he read any truth in it. He awoke, groggy and mildly depressed, but also nervous. As he got out of his bunk in the barracks, he was immediately faced by a woman standing and glaring at him not 6 inches from his face.

She was about half a head shorter than he was, yet still intimidating. Her hair was butch, short, and messy, almost like a man’s. She had captivating eyes, soft features, but scarred like a veteran. A vertical scar cut downwards from the direction of the nose across her mouth on her left side, and one very long scar went from the edge of her right eye all the way up across her scalp, stopping almost at the ear. Her light blue eyes starkly contrasted her dark brown hair. She was dressed like Samson, having just woken up, in standard issue grey boxer shorts and a pale grey undershirt. Hers was only different in that it revealed a good deal of her midriff. 

“Who the feck you lookin’ at?” She sounded pissed and annoyed, sneering at him. Samson could immediately tell she came from a very Low Gothic world, especially in the way she basically failed to pronounce the ‘h’ sound in ‘who’. She was sizing him up, determining if she’d just gotten pissed at the wrong person. She had never seen him before, but he looked a certain type. She took a step back. “Oh, you’re the fresh meat, aren’t you?” 

“What?” Samson asked, still disoriented from having just woken up. 

“I didn’t bloody well stutter.” She jabbed her finger into his chest forcefully. Her voice became less Low Gothic as she calmed down. She turned around, spinning on her bare feet back to her bunk. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Samson asked, trying not to get too distracted by the sway of her hips. She wasn’t particularly butch, but she hadn’t lost any of her femininity to being a member of the Guard. She had dainty feet, slender legs, and an almost perfect curvature to her features, especially the contours of her neck. ''Hold yourself together Samson… I’m pretty sure this is [[Heresy]] what I’m contemplating…''

“That’s none of your bloody business, fresh meat.” She bit, shooting him a sideways glance while she turned and stood for a moment facing her bunk. Samson had a perfect view of her profile. She wasn’t absurdly buxom like what most people imagined, but she wasn’t a damn washboard either. She was a damn near perfectly desirable balance between femininity and masculinity. Most of her femininity was in her figure, and the masculinity was in her attitude and personality. “What about yours?”

“That’s… none of your bloody business.” Samson replied almost cleverly. She gave him a smirk as she bent down and slid her footlocker out from underneath the bottom bunk, her dog-tags jingling against each other under her shirt. 

“Well, if you’re the new guy…” She began, opening the footlocker and starting by buttoning up her fatigue shirt. “… Aren’t you to be reporting to Quartermaster Sentzke?”

“I guess so.” Samson replied, now having started getting dressed himself. He couldn’t help but scan her up and down as she pulled the trousers up over her legs. 

“Well, in that case, walk with me.” She said, finishing lacing up her boots. Samson now rushed to finish getting dressed, for fear that she’d walk off without him. 

No more than 5 minutes later they were walking down the long corridor to the common areas. Incense burned every 10 meters-ish and Mechanicus symbols were embossed on almost every door that was restricted to Guardsmen access. Their heavy combat boots made a dull thud with each footfall on the metal floor of the corridor. For a while they hadn’t said a word to each other, the woman not thinking it worth her time, and Samson having been too nervous to even know what say without sounding like an idiot. As the woman kept looking at the Samson out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t help but notice just how green he looked.

“So how’d a muppet like you get plucked for the 97th?” She asked, her voice failing to echo due to white noise created by the ship’s ceaseless thrumming. The broken silence caught Samson off guard and he flinched. 

“I was part of a unit that had seen combat before…” He replied, trying to avoid the subject. 

The pair emerged from the end of the hallway into a massive hangar bay that had been crudely converted into something resembling a town or something. This was the common area, something like a central square. To the right as they came in was a court for sport-like activities. In another area were alcoves where mess shops were, guardsman sitting at the tables eating and chatting amongst themselves. In the back corner in the distance (almost 300 meters away), there were training areas with building mock-ups and live-fire ranges. Samson found himself shocked to hear the cacophonous clatter of autogun fire echoing through the crowded shanty buildings. To add, the whole space was alive with the sound of chit-chat and power tools, the smell of mechanical grease and cooking grox meat, and the air had a vaguely metallic taste to it. The whole complex reminded him of an urban world hab-block. 

“Lead the way.” Samson stepped to the side and gestured with his arm for her to go first, being that she was the one helping him find the Quartermaster’s office. She walked just past him, making sure he was following her close enough to continue the conversation. 

“Care to be a bit more descriptive, shiny?” She toyed, trying to coax the details out of him with her bottomless wit and charm (lol).

“I’d rather not. I’m here with 97th now, despite how I shouldn’t be.” He mumbled the last words with more than a bit of irritation. She took note of his tone.

“I get it…” She comforted, cutting back down an alleyway with Samson in tow. “… We all have a past. Some of us are just more proud of it than others.”

“Thanks.” Samson gratified, feeling somewhat assuaged by her consideration. He looked around, his head on a swivel as she walked towards a door in an alley square that opened into an area with some dust bins, a large commercial garbage compactor, and a few benches. He felt, well, lost. “Where the hell are we?”

“Quartermaster’s.” She replied, as if it’d be obvious. She gestured, pointing lazily and generally towards the door. It was an old metal door with oil stains crawling down from the top and around the knob. “He doesn’t like the commotion of the rec area.” She pointed out. She waited till he was on the doorstep with her, standing under the dark red awning that hung over it.

When the door opened, Samson was greeted by shelves and counters and rolling tables and racks covered in junk. When he said junk, he meant junk. All manner of spare parts, knickknacks, supplies, kit, and anything else you could think of but food, booze, and women. He ambled around the store, scanning and skimming over all this junk while the woman made her way to the back behind the counter, checking the back room for the Quartermaster. One thing Samson noticed almost immediately was the lack of anything related to lasguns. Like, there were maybe one or two things that might’ve been add-ons, but none of the standard equipment that you usually see in a Quartermaster’s inventory. Power packs, focusing lenses, hot-shot packs, recharger packs, scopes, all seemed to be absent. Samson had just picked up a peculiar box magazine with old metal slugs in it, the kind with a brass jacket and all, when he heard rustling in the back room.

“AGH, FECK OFF NATASHA!” Called the gravelly voice of a man over the sound of someone punching someone else. 

“Then don’t sleep on the fecking job, you stupid sonovabitch!” Her voice carried, clearly pissed off at the Quartermaster (assuming that was the man’s voice). She walked out of the doorway, placing her bum on the counter and spun, swinging her legs over to the store-side of it. The man stood in the doorframe behind her, rubbing his left arm and shoulder. Well, now Samson knew who was doing the punching. Crossing her arms, the woman gave hasty introductions, still bitterly pissed in her tone. “Sentzke, this is the shiny.” She gestured at Samson. “Shiny, this is the Quartermaster, Staff Sergeant Sentzke.” She gestured at the man she had just finished wailing on. 

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Samson nodded, trying to be a bit more formal, and trying a bit to cool off the tension between Sentzke and the woman, crossing his arms behind his back at ease. “Private Samson, sir." He added, indicating himself. 

“First off, I’m not an officer, so don’t call me sir.” Sentzke began, starting to the counter where he began opening drawers searching for Samson’s requisition sheet. “You may either address me as Sergeant, or simply Sentzke.” The rough man was short, had dark eyes, dark hair, a face of scruffy stubble, and… huh, Samson had only just noticed that Sentzke’s left hand was augmetic. He had a broad face and nose, rough features, and a good number of predominant scars that crisscrossed his face like a road map. “Secondly, don’t touch shit without asking.” His deep, gravelly voice was intimidating to Samson, to say the least.

“Sorry, sir- Sergeant.” Samson would need to get used to that. At last, Sentzke found the slip of parchment in the drawer with the requisition list for Private Samson. “Do you guys not have dataslates?”

“Well, when you have a regiment with the absurdly complex logistics ours has, most of the other crew on the ship get dataslates, not people like Company Quartermasters.” Sentzke replied. He walked out from behind the counter and began scanning shelves and countertops for the items on the list, naming the items as he grabbed them, dropping them in a disorganized pile on the main counter next to the cogitator. “1 undershirt, Black. 1 fatigue pants, Dark Grey. 1 fatigue jacket, Dark Grey. 1 pair combat boots, 18-hole, Black, steel-toed. 1 pair carapace boot spats, Black. 1 set torso carapace armour, Mephiston Red…” 

''Carapace Armour?'' Samson’s surprise was apparent on his face as his thoughts cut in while Sentzke listed dryly. ''Is that standard for the whole regiment?'' Sentzke simply continued while Samson mulled it over in his head. 

“… 1 pair carapace pauldrons, Mephiston Red. 1 carapace helmet, Mephiston Red…” Samson drifted off as Sentzke listed the mundane supplies like underwear and toiletries. 

His attention peaked when the Quartermaster walked into the back room behind the counter. He moved toward the counter near the cogitator as Sentzke’s, bracing his arms against the old wooden surface of the countertop. He turned and looked over his shoulder at the woman, whose name he was trying to remember. 

''I remember Sentzke yelling at her by name…'' He thought straining to remember, which showed a bit on his face as though he were worried.

“You okay, Samson?” She asked, almost concerned. She was leaning up against a set of shelves, her arms crossed just under her bust and her feet crossed halfway down the shin. 

“Yeah.” He waved off the feeling. He couldn’t help but feel his face go flushed and hot as he jerked his body back forward, glaring across the counter at a spot on the wall. 

He turned around to look at her again, but then she started doing a series of gestures with her hands, mouthing words to explain the meaning. One gesture was her simply raising her middle finger, followed by pointing at herself. Then there was a gesture where one hand made a ring with her index finger and thumb, and the other hand’s index finger… well, Samson understood her meaning immediately. His mind raced and he couldn’t even think straight with all the blood that had rushed to his head and ''his (other) head''. His attention was snapped back to the task at hand when the voice of Quartermaster Sentzke faded back into the room. 

“… 1 Autogun, Mars Pattern, M35. 1 utility belt, Black. Ammunition and other non-standard kit will be subject to approval by your Platoon Officer and, beyond that, your Sergeant.” Sentzke concluded, flipping the requisition list back and forth looking for the sergeant's name when he stifled a laugh through his nose. 

“Is there a problem, Sentzke?” The woman asked, unamused. 

“Natasha, you’re gonna feckin’ hate me…” Sentzke said through the teeth of his shit-eating grin. 

“No…” She looked like she realized what he was saying. The whole time Samson’s eyes had been shooting back and forth between each of them as each of them spoke. 

“What’s going on?!” Samson barked in confusion, annoyed that they spoke like he wasn’t here. Sentzke raised a finger to Samson. 

“Your sergeant, Private Samson, is the gruff woman known as Natasha Octavius.” Sentzke said almost formally. It didn’t take long for Samson’s gaze to immediately shoot to the woman who had just… well, you know. She almost immediately glared at Samson the second he looked to her. Her eyes burned through him, realizing her face was flushing pink because of what she had done only moments ago. She composed herself, pinched the bridge of her nose, and looked at Sentzke almost calmly when her head rose again. 

“Please be shitting me…” She pleaded, to which Sentzke gave a look that said he was enjoying this a bit too much. “You have to be shitting me…” 

“I’m sorry…” Samson said apologetically, feeling a tightening in his stomach. 

“Forget it.” She said with frustration, stomping towards the door. “Grab your kit and meet me at the range.”

It took Samson about 20 minutes to get kitted up and find the firing range. The autogun was heavy, much heavier than the lasgun he was so used to carrying back with his old regiment. The weapon lacked a magazine in its well, and was made of heavy black metals. Samson had never seen a weapon like it, little lone fired one. When he got to the line of firing stations Natasha was waiting for him, her butt rested on the edge of an ammunition crate. She shot him an annoyed glance, heavily regretting her… forwardness, in the Quartermaster’s office. She pushed her buttocks off the crates and stood to her full height of 5’7” and stepped towards Samson with one hand held outwards. 

“Your weapon…” She requested, waiting with her hand. Samson swung the heavy rifle around with his left hand, since his right was still lugging an awkwardly large rucksack. 

She accepted the weapon effortlessly and stood it on its butt on the ammo crates she had been sitting on. She field-stripped the weapon and Samson made note of the numerous components and moving parts. While no more than 10 parts, it was a lot more than the normal 2 a lasgun had. She picked up the weapon and looked down the length of the rifle’s iron sights, making sure Sentzke hadn’t given him complete shit. When she had finished her inspection of the components, she reassembled the rifle and handed the finished product back to Samson. 

“Now strip it.” She said bluntly, more of a statement than an order.

“Um, what?” Samson was immediately confused, his jaw slackening. 

“I didn’t stutter, Guardsman!” She threw the rifle into Samson’s gut, forcing him to drop his rucksack and keep the weapon from smacking into the ground. “I SAID STRIP IT!” 

Several hours of yelling and tedious instruction followed, until Samson could execute a field strip in less than a minute. This was nowhere near the blindingly fast 17 seconds it took Natasha to strip the rifle. 

“Now go to Station 1 and sight the nearest target.” She pointed to the station at the far left of the range, the end they were at. No one ever took Station 1 because it was the farthest walk from the rest of the hab-block. 

Samson walked up to the counter, slapped a single clip up into the magazine-well of the rifle, and placed an extra magazine down on the counter. Yanking back and slapping home the charging handle with a satisfying clack, he raised his exceedingly heavy rifle towards the nearest target at 25 meters. The weapon's weight was hard to support, his arms trembling slightly and the weapons sights swaying lazily across the center of the red and blue concentric rings of the ballistic foam sheet that hung from the ceiling rails. 

“Are you waiting for a fecking invitation?” The sergeant taunted. “Shoot the bloody thing!” With that, Samson squeezed the trigger for a brief moment.

The gun barked out a clattering staccato of metal slugs towards the target, the recoil sending the practically-fresh Private stumbling backwards, fighting being thrown by the weapon’s instability and weight. He recovered from the burst and held the rifle at ease, looking back at the sergeant. 

“Let me guess...” He began, looking at the sergeant with sympathetic eyes. “… It’s going to be a long day.”

“I don’t even think you have something resembling a clue.” The disgruntled NCO replied, rolling her eyes. She grabbed his rifle and showed him how it was done. 

=== Part 3: Deployment Day Minus 1 ===
“WAKE THE FECK UP, YOU SORRY SODS!” Natasha yelled at the top of her lungs into the squad bunkroom. 

After training the fresh meat all day yesterday, she appeared to be heavily annoyed, not in the mood for more groxshit. Samson hadn’t had time to become acquainted with the other members of his new squad before passing out the night before. The men all roused, hopping out of their bunks and landing at full attention, half-naked and groggy, gunk still in the corners of their eyes. The bunk room was small, just enough room for 5 double bunks around the room’s edge and breathing room in the middle. She walked up and down each line of men along the edges of the room, her inscrutable glare piercing the soul of each and every man. She stopped once she got to Samson, she gave him a particularly menacing look, but it seemed to him that she was in denial of something. 

“I’m sorry, fresh meat? D’you leave mummy’s tits at ‘ome?!” She barked into Samson’s face, piercing his eardrums with her shrill voice. 

“No, ma’am!” Samson bellowed in reply. “I never needed them in the first place, ma’am!”

“You might last 5 minutes here after all, fresh!” She barked back, trying to keep a smirk from her face. 

The squad, all 9 men, not including the sergeant, geared up for drills on the firing range. On the walk to the range from the barracks Samson got to know the different members of the squad. Designated vox-caster trooper was a Tallarn Veteran, Corporal Azeem, and the rest of the squad was equally a mixed pot. The heavy flamer trooper, a tall and muscled man with lots of burn scars, was a Catachan Jungle Fighter named “Pyro” Grayson, and his best mate was a rifleman, average height with a square jaw and dark eyes, who was a Valhallan Ice Warrior named Dimitri (he went by his first name to most). Amongst the others were 2 Vostroyans, an annoyingly stiff Mordian, several Cadians, and… 

''Emperor help me...''' Samson thought, not speaking aloud to avoid announcing his prejudice. ''A Krieger... How do you even get a Death Korps Veteran? They’re all so goddamn suicidal...'' Throughout the whole thing, only one question bit at him.

“Where’s the sergeant from?” He asked curiously, not thinking it to be much of a big deal. 

“We have a pot on that one.” replied Grayson. 

“A wot?” Samson asked. 

“A pot.” the Valhallan picked up where his comrade had left off. “We all have an ante of rations bet on trying to figure out where she is from. Whoever can get it out of her or find it out some other way gets about a flask of amasec out of me, a bar of chocolate out of a couple of the Cadians, and some other rations out of everyone else.”

“Oh, so whoever gets her to talk wins the pot.” Samson interpreted.

“Exactly.” Spoke the Krieger, whom rarely ever said a word. He was pale, tall, not particularly buff looking, with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, cold as ice itself. The other men in the squad exchanged glances, looking for some reason as to why the old Grenadier piped up.

They reached the firing range, ran drills, and generally trained without real direction. Then the sergeant started having the squad running urban warfare and assault exercises, close combat, short range charging and bayonet fighting styles. For what reason, none of the squad members knew, but they ran them with vigorous discipline and skill. Veterans were like that. Most of them are lone survivors or final members of a regiment that wasn’t reinforced or was almost entirely wiped out in a battle or war. So, the Departmento Munitorium sent these uselessly small forces to the 97th, where they would have a place and purpose, where they could still serve the Emperor with proficiency. That was what they all were… survivors and the last men standing. 

Towards the end of the day an announcement was made on the vox-speakers scattered throughout the hab-block-like facilities. The 1st Company was to assemble in the Main Square, out in front of the scaled-down Basilica Administratum. Samson was expecting the full company to be in formation, but was almost stunned to find squads standing in loose groups, chatting and cutting-up with each other in the square. Natasha let the squad get comfortable near the lovely permacrete fountain in the center of the square surrounded by benches before yanking Samson by his neck off to the side. The squad never bothered to look around for him, figuring he had seen an old friend or simply gotten lost. She had him by his collar and forced him to the edge of the square near a pub before talking at him in a harsh whisper. 

“Samson, I have a confession.” Natasha said uncomfortably, looking over her shoulder, making sure she wasn’t within earshot of any other Guardsmen. She leaned in, craning her neck downwards towards Samson. “It’s about, well, the Quartermaster’s office.” She gestured awkwardly, unsure of what to do with her hands.

“Don’t even worry about it, Sarge.” Samson replied, trying to be cool about it. With this Natasha’s threw her head back in surprise. Her initial expression was that of relief. After a moment, however, her eyes cast downward and to the side, biting her lip. She went to say something, but was interrupted by the booming, augmented voice of Colonel Cronus.

“Company, Atten-TION!” The entire square went silent as a full company snapped to attention facing the 2nd-floor balcony of the 3-story Administratum building. 

Aside Cronus stood a woman who appeared to be a Commissar, which is a very rare sight in any Guard regiment. The Commissar was a dark-skinned woman with long hair and a professional demeanor about her. As well as the Commissar, there was a Techpriest Enginseer, whose servo-skulls floated and buzzed about him, busy with some unknown task, a Primaris Psyker in red robes whose force stave stood almost a foot taller than him, and a Ministorium Priest, robes adorned with scrolls and parchments and purity seals. Samson’s eyes darted for a moment to the back of his sergeant’s almost-shaved head, his neck and shoulders remaining pointed directly forward as his eyes found themselves looking at the tattoos detailed on her scalp, hidden and obscured almost entirely by her hair which had almost completely grown back. The voice of the Company Commander brought Samson’s attention back to the present.

“At Ease!” He boomed, allowing the company to assume a more relaxed stance. “I’m sure you are all aware that we are deploying within the next 24 hours, and that the nature of our deployment hasn’t been told to any of you.” He began, his hands behind his back, scanning the filled square with his augmetic eye. “So, I’ll allow Lady Commissar Aurelia to brief you.” Cronus gestured and the woman stepped forward, her deep yet feminine voice filling the square over the ceaseless thrumming of the ship’s drives.

“We face a threat that almost ravaged the Ultramarine Chapter World and saw the death of billions in its wake through the whole Segmentum.” Her voice was pleasant, deep and seductive, like an old vox-film actress. “A remnant of the Tyranid Hive Fleet Leviathan, designated the Basilisk Tendril, has invaded the Hive World of Moranis VI.” At this, many of the men of the company began to chatter amongst each other worriedly. ''Tyranids?'' Samson thought to himself. ''I thought they had been wiped out?'' Samson had only ever heard of Tyranids, and even that was referring to the victory of the Ultramarines at the Battle of Macragge. The extra chattered died out as the Commissar continued. “Most of the planet has already fallen, but the 97th are being deployed to Terragrad Hive in order to stem the invasion just long enough for ships to arrive, evacuate any civilians, and execute an Exterminatus Order. It seems as though we were misfortunate enough to be the nearest Regiment.” She took a step back as Cronus took one forward to continue where she had left off. 

“1st Company will be on the first lander down. We make planetfall at 0930 local time.” Cronus glared through what seemed to be every man there, then snapped to attention. “Company, Atten-TION!” The men snapped to the stance. “Dismissed!” 
The Company of about 400 men dispersed back to their activities for the remainder of the night, however, many were far quieter than they had been that morning. 

Just before the squad was due to turn in for the night, though, Samson had found himself at the pub (or what had become the hab-area’s equivalent to one), sitting to the right of a very inebriated Natasha Octavius. She was clearly handling certain death very well. Samson worked himself onto the stool and waved the barkeep-servitor down for a simple water. 

“What’s wrong, Samson? Lightweight?” Natasha slurred through her teeth. All around the pair, throughout the hab-center, men were doing whatever a man might do on their last night alive. Some were drinking their pain away, some were trying to get in the knickers of female crew members who had come into a bar to have a few drinks on their night off, many were in the basilicas and chapels, praying for the Emperor’s protection in the next few weeks. A silent prayer fell on Samson’s lips just before Natasha had spoken to him. 

“Yes, but it’s because of a cultural thing.” Samson replied, tilting his head to look at her. Despite her hair being a mess and the drowsy look on her face, she still had an appeal that Samson couldn’t shake. “I grew up on a planet where drinking was frowned upon. My stomach simply can’t handle it.”
“Ha!” Natasha snorted, her head resting on the counter. The servitor placed the water in front of Samson with the odd motions of electrically-stimulated flesh and bone. “Where are you from, Samson?” 

His face went flush when she used his name; she usually just calls him “fresh meat.” He thought about how this might go, contemplating several scenarios with different (usually pleasant) results. He saw his opportunity and took it. 

“I’m originally from an urban kind of agrarian world.” He reminisced, letting memories of sunsets between towering structures flood into his mind’s eye. “No name worth mentioning.”

“And what landed you here amongst the 97th?” She asked, groggily but a bit more attentive. Samson found his window.

“How about this...” He began. “… If I tell you my story, you have to tell me yours.” At this, Natasha sat leaned back for a second, seeing that Samson was more clever than he appeared.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” She replied, very interested by his approached. Her mind seemed to clear somewhat and she began to act a bit more sober. “You first though.” Samson was in.

“I’m one of only 4 survivors of the 55th Arkvain Rifle Regiment.” He recalled as he began his history. “There were a total of 2,000 Guardsmen that were raised for the tithe. I was drafted, and my family was left a bit painfully proud. I remember the feeling of opening that parchment envelope as if it were yesterday. I was 19.” The memory dropped Samson’s heart into his stomach, but he continued once he choked down the lump in his throat. “I was in for about… ooh, I wanna say 4 years? We were deployed to a few of planets for little more than sentry duty, we got garrisoned on a couple of nice ones. Our about fourth or fifth deployment, they sent us to this bloody backwater that was called Drak’s World. It was an Emperor-forsaken world; it was cold, rainy, and nothing but cold muck for dirt. It was corrupted by Chaos, and our regiment was sent to reinforce an already fighting regiment.” Samson thought for a second, knowing he would have to expose his prejudice. “It was a Death Korps regiment...”

“That’s why you’re uneasy around Hanz.” The sergeant observed. Samson looked her dead in the eyes and saw that she seemed to barely even be impeded by the alcohol. 

“We were told to hold the line...” Samson remembered. “We were put under the command of the existing Krieg Siege Regiment. We had to sit on a trench line holding the line to make sure the Earthshakers kept shelling the heretics.” 
“By the Emperor...” Natasha knew exactly where Samson’s story led. 

“The traitors, mutants, and cultists made a push, but we were told not to surrender a single inch to them.” Samson could see the images still burned into his retinas. He couldn’t make out a single full body amongst the gore of the casualties: just body parts. Viscera and limbs strewn about each other, craters torn out by the emergency artillery strike had thrown earthen mounds into the mix, still charging men were torn to shreds by heavy bolters and stubbers, autoguns and autocannons, even shotguns and brutish melee weapons. “I only lived because I was a coward.”

“What do you mean?”  Natasha was skeptical. Samson took a big gulp of his water, forcing the lump in his throat back down once more.

“I hid amongst the dead as traitors and corrupted mutants hobbled and ran past, ignoring what they thought was dead.” Samson finally admitted. He’d been living with that guilt for almost a year now. “I hate Death Korps for completely disregarding what our lives are worth. I honestly feel bad for any squad in this regiment with a Krieger for a sergeant. “

“I get it...” Natasha sympathized with Samson, for which he felt a certain way. Their eyes met for a moment, an exchange of something words couldn’t convey. “I didn’t join because of a tithe.” She immediately hopped into her story, honouring her end of the bargain, which Samson had all but completely forgot about. 

“Wait, what?” He sputtered, confused for a couple of reasons. “I thought all guardsmen were tithed from a world?”

“No, there are volunteers. Hold on.” She waved the servitor for a strong glass of amasec and deposited a ration token into the slot on its chest. She downed the whole 2-fingers of liquor and then got a second. After downing it, she finally got a glass of water to chase it with. She clearly had been too sober to open up this much. “I’m Macharian.” 

“What?!” Samson had barely finished swallowing his water before blurting in surprise. “As in, the planet named for the most infamous unaltered human being to have lived?”

“Not just that...” She hinted. “I’m the last and only heir to the bloodline of Lord Solar Macharius.”

“But he never had any children.” Samson pointed out. “He never had a chance to settle down and have a family.” 

“Ay, he did not.” Natasha acknowledged. “But his brother did. And believe me, the whole family was ready to soak up the glamour that came with that name, Macharius.” She said with something like disgust. 

“So instead of living the easy life, one that trillions of people would do almost anything to have, you enlisted in the Imperial Guard.” Samson managed. He wasn’t disappointed, but he was more than surprised. He was absolutely pissed. “You were carrying a legacy that has held the hope of trillions of Imperial citizens! YOU JUST GAVE IT ALL UP!”

“Hey, I didn’t ask to be born so damn privileged!” She snapped back. They hadn’t realized just how loudly their voices had raised until they noticed the glances and disapproving stares of many of the bar’s patrons. It wasn’t until their eyes met again that Samson saw a single tear trail down her cheek. “You know what?” She choked. “You’re right. I wanted to be more worth to this Empire than a fecking idol. I mean Warp, they have enough statues of the damned man.” Another tear ran down her other cheek. Her eyes were red and puffy, holding back emotions that had festered for years now.

“Natasha, I’m sorry.” Samson knew she shouldn’t continue.

“NO! Let me finish!” She cut him off. “You don’t know what it’s like to grow up and be raised in that man’s centuries-long shadow. They dedicated an entire planet to that man’s vanity! It’s a pressure that’s just too much for one little girl!” She had all but broke down crying. Samson moved to try and comfort her, trying to calm her down to avoid making the scene bigger than it already was. He didn’t know what to do, so he simply pulled her into his chest and squeezed her warmly.

“It’s okay.” He soothed, trying to be as calm as possible. He couldn’t help but get nervous as he continued to catch glances from guardsmen trying to enjoy what for many would be their last night alive. He found her warmth calming in itself, and hoped that he could use that to his advantage. 
After a few moments, she pulled away from him and grabbed on last glass of amasec, downed it, and went to leave the bar. Samson followed her out, determined to make sure she made it to her quarters okay. She pushed through the swinging doors onto the oil-lamp lit avenue, Samson in tow, and almost stumbled clean down the step to the ground. Samson was ready to catch her though, gripping Natasha’s wrist as she leaned on her heel before he pulled her back upright. 

“I know I’m not familiar with drinking, but I think you should’ve chased that amasec with another glass of water.” Samson pointed out, mildly annoyed at her almost blatant drunkenness. ''Why do they just let these men run about doing whatever they want in this regiment? Are they just not disciplined like other Guard?''

“Walk me to me quarters?” Natasha slurred, half-asking/half-telling. Samson was a honestly a bit hesitant at first, mostly because of her impaired state, but felt more than happy to oblige. 

He guided her by her arm down the alleys and labyrinthine avenues of the shantytown. Whenever she lost her balance, Samson made sure she never fell, made sure she never stumbled enough to hurt herself. He managed to get a building at on one corner of the Main Square, which Natasha had informed him was the NCO and Officer’s quarters, excluding the Company Commander and his retinue. Each company (being a total of about 12) had their own hab-block areas, each one being about a cubic kilometer in volume. However, when your warship is twice the size and displacement of the next largest Imperial warship, these hab-blocks become trivial nooks and crannies compared to other areas of the ship. He led her up the steps to the door, and went to return to the barracks just before Natasha stopped him. 

“I need you to help me up to my quarters.” She managed, still swaying lazily and leaning up against the wall to hold herself up. 

“Um… You sure?” Samson knew this was an extremely bad idea. ''If I get caught, regardless of whether or not we’re doing anything, the Commissar will execute me for Heresy...'''

“Please?” She had a look in her eyes that made her seem almost helpless, almost pleading. He had to help her, didn’t he? 
He opened the door for her and led her in, being very careful and making sure no one was around before leading her down the next hallway. He had to help her up a flight of stairs to where the Sergeants’ Quarters began, down which she almost fell three times. Only by Samson’s fast reactions was she able to survive the trek without major injuries. They rounded a corner down the hallway that led to her personal quarters, and then Samson about shit himself when he was almost right in the face of Lady Commissar Aurelia.

“Lady Commissar?!” His voice croaked in shock and fear. He looked at Natasha’s groggy expression, like she wasn’t worried in the slightest, then back at the Commissar, her stern glare screaming through the Warp and into his soul. “This is not what it looks like!” A moment of silence followed his attempt at redemption. His muscles tensed, bracing his body for the bolter round that was surely about to reduce his head to nothing in a spray of red mist. 

“Natasha.” The Lord Commissar nodded to the sergeant, all but ignoring Samson. “Please don’t get into anything that one might frown upon.” She condescended to the Natasha, knowing full-damn-well the size of the sergeant’s folder of paperwork regarding disciplinary misconduct. “I’d rather not have to kill the new one.” 

The Commissar sidestepped past Samson, who was left shaken and confused, and continued down the hallway and around the corner to the stairs. Samson waited until the sound of Lady Aurelia’s heeled boots was too far away to hear before continuing. 

“Okay, what just happened?!” He whispered harshly, steadily guiding her down the hall. She was becoming a bit more lucid as time passed, and could now maintain her balance for the most part. 

“This isn’t the first time Auri has found me walking home with a bloke.” She teased a bit, but wasn’t being completely serious. 

“AURI?!” Samson seemed more confused that she was not only on a first name basis with the highest-ranking Commissar in the Regiment, but that she called her by a nickname. “What the hell is up with the discipline in this regiment?!” He helped her in the door and onto the couch they sat before Natasha afforded an answer. 

“We are veterans: every last one of us. We are given a level of respect that few other guardsmen live long enough to receive and experience.” It was almost remarkable at how quickly he she got over her inebriation enough to articulate her speech and become semi-lucid like that. She leaned back into the cushioned yet cheap-feeling couch before continuing. “Most regiments and their disciplinary practices are culturally based. I mean, yes, Commissars are assigned to help standardize that, but with the 97th, there is usually too big a cultural gap. These men are from regiments so different that we have to be allowed to know how to discipline ourselves. One culture’s slap-on-the-wrist is another’s execute-on-site.” 

Despite what Samson would admit, her explanation made absolute perfect sense. The 97th Regiment was like a self-experimental lab rat, just kind of doing its own thing and seeing what happens. For a moment he just looked at her; he just admired her face, her eyes, her being. She blinked a couple times, noticing that he was staring. 

“Samson?” She asked softly, her face getting that same look it had in the square earlier that day with the biting of her lip. 

“Yes?” He responded as he felt the beating in his chest punch him from the inside. Just hearing her say his name elicited a reaction. 

“What would you do if you only had one night to live?”