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Boom!
The ground trembled, sending ripples through the trenches as if the planet itself recoiled from the oncoming force. A radiation sandstorm loomed on the horizon, a monstrous wall of dust and lightning stretching across the sky, swallowing the land in its relentless advance. It was still a hundred kilometers away, but its presence was already felt in the bones of every soldier who dared to stand against the storm and the war that came with it.
Hawk, crouched in the damp, metallic-smelling trench, felt the tremor beneath his boots. He had heard of storms like this—storms that could flay the skin from a man's bones, that turned machinery into rusted husks within minutes. He had never seen one in person, and now that he had, he wished he never had to.
His homeworld had no such horrors. But this world—this Emperor-forsaken rock—had plenty.
This was the second planet of the Obolis system.
An earth-like planet, home to vast hive cities burrowed deep underground. The Imperial colonists had learned quickly that the only way to survive was to hide beneath the surface. The Obolis system, a binary star system, bathed its planets in relentless radiation, stripping them of life and leaving nothing but barren wastelands.
Survival demanded adaptation. The colonists had hollowed out an entire mountain range, constructing a sprawling airport within its depths and covering its peaks with solar collectors to power the subterranean hive. It was a fortress by necessity, its defenses woven into the stone itself, a bastion against both the elements and the war that followed humanity wherever it settled.
Until Hawk and his regiment arrived, the orks had failed to take it.
He hadn't expected his first deployment in the Militia Army to be against orks. He had barely grasped his new reality before being thrust into battle. They had fought. They had won. Again and again, they had beaten back the green tide. But the orks never stopped coming. If the war above—raging in the void—didn't end soon, neither would this endless cycle of slaughter.
Hawk was part of the Natal 65th Regiment, fresh recruits sent to reinforce the line. The Primarch needed bodies—trained, disciplined, and unyielding. Veterans had been scattered among the ranks, leading squads, instilling the raw recruits with the hardened edge of experience. This was Hawk's first real battle.
Fear had clamped around his chest like a vice. Even now, with the battle momentarily over, adrenaline still burned in his veins, refusing to let go.
"Those green skins are really disgusting," Castine muttered beside him.
Hawk turned. Castine, wrapped in the same heavy double-layered protective uniform as the rest of them, looked as flushed and weary as he felt. Her young face, still full of life despite the horrors they had seen, was damp with sweat. The Emperor's war required sacrifice from all—man and woman alike. The 68th Regiment, an all-female corps, fought alongside them. The separation of genders in combat units was meant to maintain discipline, but here, in the trenches, they bled the same.
"What enemy of the Emperor isn't disgusting?" Hawk quipped, forcing a smirk.
Castine laughed, a sound too light for a battlefield yet welcome nonetheless. "It's over," she said, brushing dirt from her uniform. "Let's go get some drinks."
Hawke chuckled. "No reason to turn down a drink with a beautiful soldier."
Castine started to reply, but the piercing wail of a siren cut through the air.
The storm had arrived—not of dust, but of war.
Wind and smoke howled as orks appeared over the ridge, their crude, grotesque war machines belching exhaust and flame. The air filled with their guttural war cries—WAAAGH! WAAAGH!—a deafening chorus of madness and destruction.
"Here they come!" The officer's voice rang out, amplified by the servo-skulls overhead. His black boots planted firmly, he brandished his laspistol, rallying the troops.
The ground shook as artillery thundered from behind the line. Medusa missiles streaked through the sky, heavy cannons roared, and lascannons burned the air red-hot. The frontline erupted in flame as ordnance slammed into the ork charge. Hulking war rigs overturned in fireballs, bodies of the greenskins scattered in the explosions, limbs and viscera painting the battlefield.
Castine whooped. "Die, aliens! Burn in the Emperor's light!"
The soldiers echoed her battle cry, their voices filled with bloodlust and triumph.
But the orks were not so easily broken.
From the smoke and fire, they emerged—charred, battered, but unfazed. They bellowed in rage, brandishing their crude, oversized weapons, hurling themselves into the fray.
Their makeshift artillery, cobbled together from rusted scraps, fired blindly. Shells exploded across the trenches, sending waves of dust and shrapnel into the air. Hawk barely had time to react before an explosion near him sent him sprawling, dirt and blood coating his uniform.
His ears rang. His head pounded.
"Stand up! Aim! They're coming!"
The squadron leader's voice cut through the chaos. Hawke forced himself upright, shaking the dust from his eyes. He grabbed his lasgun, slamming a fresh power cell into place, adjusting the output. Training kicked in. Focus. Aim. Fire.
The orks charged. Hawke fired. Ruby-colored beams streaked through the air, slicing through green flesh. The trenches became a symphony of gunfire and death.
Then came the scream.
"By the Emperor, are they insane?!"
Hawk turned, heart hammering. His comrade was staring upward. He followed their gaze—and froze.
Gretchin, small and vicious, plummeted from the sky, clutching massive shells in their arms. They were using themselves as bombs.
Many exploded mid-air, torn apart by defensive fire. But some landed.
Hawk twisted as one hit the trench, detonating on impact. Chaos erupted. Screams. Blood. Smoke. The defense line crumbled as the orks surged forward, their muscle-bound warriors firing wildly, smashing through the human ranks.
Then, a desperate cry—
"Hawk!"
Castine.
He spun, searching. His heart pounded in his throat.
Orks surrounded her, their grotesque faces twisted in glee. She fought, lasgun blazing, bayonet slashing. But there were too many. They swarmed her, hacking, tearing.
Hawk lunged forward, but an ork warrior loomed before him, raising a cleaver.
A streak of blue and white crashed into the beast.
"For the Emperor!"
A Primaris Space Marine, clad in the armor of Ultramar, drove his power sword through the ork's chest, kicked the corpse aside, and charged into the fray.
More Astartes stormed in, their weapons carving a path through the xenos.
Hawke scrambled toward Castine.
Too late.
She lay in the trench, her uniform soaked in blood, her body torn by crude blades. Around her lay the corpses of those she had slain. Her hands, once warm, now limp.
Hawk sank to his knees. "No… Castine."
She was a considerate girl, able to get along with anyone and everyone, sunny and positive.
She had been brave. Loyal. A soldier of the Emperor. She had wanted to fight. To serve. To live.
She had just invited him for a drink.
Now, she was gone.
"Get up, soldier."
The squadron leader's voice was firm. "Join the counter-charge. Don't mourn. She fulfilled her oath."
Hawk clenched his fists. Grief burned. Anger seared.
He stood, lasgun in hand.
"For the Emperor," he whispered, and charged into the storm.