Editing Commissar Techpriestess love story (section)

=== Chapter 25 ===
Morning came without event, the pair going through their morning rituals, before making their way to the barely populated mess. A skeleton compliment of troops were left at the base, as well as the standard Mechanicum staff, so the line was short, the food still basic but hearty. A guardsman walked into the mess, carrying a box,
“Mail call,” He yelled, and everyone in the mess looked up. The guardsman called names, guardsmen and Mechanicum moving alike to collect their mail.
“Radigan, Caelistis,” He called, “Persephone, Octavia,” The pair stood, and made their way over to the mailman. He handed them their letters, before calling out the next set of names.
“Letters, how quaint,” Caelistis mused as she took her seat once more, tearing the envelope open with a mechadendrite. Her eyes scanned the brief note from Tiberius, smirking at his cheeky comments, and imploring her to enjoy herself while he was gone. Elsa was more than happy to oblige her, she thought to herself, folding the letter and tucking it into a pocket on her work apron. Octavia gently prised the flap on her envelope open, unfolding the parchment within. Rogal’s simple handwriting filled the page, telling her of his day, of the ride through the night, and the other small details that seemed so important to him at the time. She smiled, the warmth in her belly spreading from the love and affection the letter was filled with. He missed her terribly, she could tell, something in the slightly whimsical nature of the letter spoke of the longing he had for her. She sighed, folding the letter and placing it back in its envelope, which was then slipped into her cloak.
“Well, best be off, there’s work to be done, war never changes, no matter how far behind the lines you are,” Caelistis said, standing from her empty tray. Octavia nodded, following the tall priestess from the mess.

This was Octavia’s life for the next week or so, wake up, mess hall and mail call, morning shift, lunch with her mechanics team, afternoon shift, dinner with Caelistis, and then sitting around their apartment, drinking and tinkering with whatever took their fancy. Every night before she fell asleep, the brunette priestess would read all the letters her commissar had sent, wrapped in his massive coat. She would giggle at the story of the orkish infiltrator who tried to sneak in, hidden in an empty oil drum, only to bump into the tank Rogal spent his off hours lounging in. He apologised for getting xeno’s blood in the treads, but explained it was the easiest way to kill the foul beast. She would swoon slightly, her cognitor preventing another swoon.emt crash, at his simple farm boy compliments, how he used the simple things in life to describe her, her beauty, how much she meant to him. This all changed however, the day after he told her that the final push was on.
The massive commissar sat in the turret of the Leman Russ Exterminator, checking the ammo feed for his pintle mounted storm bolter one last time. This was it, the final push was on. The guardsmen’s line fully encircled the ruined warship, trenches and bunkers bristling with weapons. The plan was simple; Orks loved to fight, so they would draw them out from the ship with artillery and a false charge. The Charge would halt before the minefield, thinning the ork lines, before the two forces would slam together in brutal close range fighting. Rogal sighed, many good men would die, but the Imperium would live on, stronger for their sacrifice. The combat engineers would push forward under fire, laying mines and caltrops where they could, and generally causing as much havoc as suicidally brave men with high explosives can.

He thumbed the safety on the storm bolter, as the word rippled across the voxnet.
“SAFETY’S OFF.”
Below him, the machine spirit of the tank awoke, “He-llo friend. Are WE going to kill SOME xenos, today?”
Dararius laughed, “That’s right girl, it’s xenos killing time.”
“I can’t WAIT. TarGET acquisition mode, active. Scanning…”
The turret swung lazily to the left, the massive twin barrels of the auto cannons sweeping across the front line. Rogal sat steady in his gimballed seat, the familiar thrill of combat beginning to fill him. All across the front line, guardsmen whispered nervously, a sense of excitement filled the air. The turret let out a soft beep as it finished its arc, swinging back towards the right. The commissar checked his chronometer, watching as the mechanical dial slowly clicked towards the hour.
“ALL UNITS,” Came the generals voice across the Voxnet, the dial at Rogal’s wrist clicking to the new hour, “OPEN FIRE.”
The turret swung to face the orkish lines, “WARNING, Dispensing imperial righteousness. Death to the enemies of man,” 
The machine spirit said happily, over the chattering bark of its autocannons firing. The ground shook as earth shaker shells slammed to the ground, the opening artillery salvo lighting up the orkish camp with huge explosions. The gargantuan artillery batteries began firing in sequence, a constant dull pounding, the drum beats of the imperial war machine. Rogal watched as the green tide began sweeping towards them, spilling from the belly of the downed warship. A noise began to make itself heard over the pounding of artillery fire, a bellowing, animalistic roar.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH,”
Massive green apes charged, oblivious to the death and carnage around them, sprinting forward with glee in their piggy eyes.
“Steady boys and girls,” Rogal said to those on his local voxnet, “Let them come a little closer,”
He checked his chronometer again, looking up at the oncoming green tide, and then back to the dial. Smiling grimly, he jammed his cap down harder on his head, and took up the controls to his pintle mounted weapon. The click of a voxnet change tapped in his ear,
“RIGHT, JUST AS WE PLANNED IT, COUNTER. CHARGE.”
With a roar, the imperial line surged forward, boots pounding hard earth, and cries of “FOR THE EMPEROR” filling the air. This challenge only served to enrage their foes, who bellowed louder, putting on a burst of speed. Rogal grinned, snapping off a few shots into the green tide, as beside him, guardsmen continued to run and yell. He saw the checkpoint, and the tank slammed on its breaks, the guardsmen around it dropping down into the prepared trenches. Had he brought his binoculars, he would have seen the look of confusion on orkish faces, as the first line of them hit the minefield. 
A ripple of explosions ringed the ship, as the charge continued, having built up too much momentum.
“Just as the General planned,” Rogal mused to himself, the autocannon beneath him twitching left and right, sending round after round into the green mass. The orks continued coming, despite the horrific casualties the guardsmen were inflicting, inching closer and closer to the imperial lines. Valkyries screamed overhead, hellfire missiles deploying from their undersides, lasers and bolter shells spitting from their guns. Still the ork’s came, stampeding over their dead toward the imperial lines. Their numbers had thinned, the green tide slowing now to a trickle, those who survived however, were a combination of the luckiest and the strongest orks on the planet. Another wing of Valkyries howled past, thinning the lines further, but not enough. The orks passed into lasgun range, and with a sound like static, the imperial line started strobing red. Rogal squeezed down on the trigger, the storm bolter bucking against its mount, the pleasing ping of empty casings drowned out in the cacophony of combat. The low ammo warning blinked atop the gun, Rogal slamming the old ammo box from its cradle, and grabbing a reload from the bay provided in the turret. He linked the old chain to the new box, before ramming it home in the cradle and resuming his fusillade. The green tide was reduced to a green river, albeit a river filled with rapids and orks, but a river none the less. The orkish line passed the minefield, and Rogal gave a silent prayer to the Emperor, he just wanted to go back to Octavia, alive.
The Generals voice filled the voxnet once more, “THIS IS IT, WE DRIVE THESE FILTHY XENOS FROM OUR WORLD ONCE AND FOR ALL. IN THE NAME OF THE EMPEROR AND THE IMPERIUM OF MAN, CHARGE.”

Guardsmen surged forward out of the trench, lasguns firing on full auto. Behind them, heavy weapons teams continued to fire, the chatter of autoguns and the dull thud of mortars a constant drone in the background. The tank beneath him rocked, Danarius, coughing as smoke filled the interior, “Sir, that’s a mobility kill,”
“Just S- so SO you know, WE DO-N’T hate you. WE HATE THE XENOS.” The machine spirit said calmly, despite the distortion in its voice. Rogal sighed, nothing was ever easy. He unclipped the storm bolter from its mount and hefted it with his good arm. His nearly recovered right grabbed the firing controls and he leapt down from the tank, his massive boots sending a cloud of dust out around him.
“MEN OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD,” He roared, “LET NONE SURVIVE,”
A squad reformed around him, and they charged forward, Rogal’s mighty storm bolter punching ragged holes in orkish chests. The gun clicked, empty, the commissar dropping it with an apology to the machine god, before drawing his pistol and sword. He snapped off a couple of shots, before ducking under a ragged machete, slicing clean through the green arm it was held in, the ork rewarded with a face and chest full of lasbolts and bayonets. A deafening roar pulled the commissars attention, charging towards him in slabs of crude armour, was a nob. The orkish elite roared some garbled gothic at him, its massive metal jaw muffling the sound, but Rogal got the gist “You, me, winner takes all.” Rogal roared back in acceptance, his long legs carrying him forward. A stray boltshell exploded beside him, shrapnel filling his leg, the commissar stumbling. The Ork took its chance, bringing its massive axe down, intent on bisecting the pointy hat wearing git. Rogal dropped to his knee, his injured leg screaming in protest, his pistol cast aside so he could use both hands to block the blow.
The Ork roared, its hulking green muscles bulging as it pressed down on the axe, lasbolts pinging from its armoured form. Rogal grunted, slowly being pushed back, the stench of orkish breath in his face. He prayed to the Emprah, to give him strength, to let him survive long enough to see Octavia again, maybe settle down, have some children, live out his days in relative peace, not die here to some foul xenos. He felt the wounds in his arm reopen, and he realised this was it. He gritted his teeth, the pain lancing up his arm, his vision going white at the edges.
“No,” He whispered,” Not like this,”
The ork grinned psychotically, driving the axe down further,
“NOT LIKE THIS,” Rogal roared, throwing his weight forward, almost losing his vision to the pain. He managed to throw the ork’s axe back. His wounded arm continued forward, as he scooped his laspistol from the ground. With a sickening sensation, the Orks axe hewed though the guard of his sword and into his forearm, tearing away the limb in a shower of blood. His vision fading, the Commissar drove his pistol into the howling green maw, and pulled the trigger. He heard the faint cries for a medic as he collapsed to the ground atop his vanquished foe. A tear streaked down a dust covered face, as his world faded, he saw Octavia, smiling at him, her brown ponytail swaying as she tilted her head, before she too faded to black.