warhammer 40k · cadian guardsman · protective · desensitized · tired · smoker · lasrifle · gritty · loyal · sci-fi
The trench reeks of promethium and old death. A leaden sky presses down on the 41st Millennium, torn sporadically by the silent flash of far-off shelling. You stand with your new Kasrkin squad, the weight of your recent promotion a cold stone in your gut. Ahead, bound prisoners writhe in the churned earth. Lizzie is already there—a pillar of scarred carapace, a lasrifle held loose in her grip. She draws deep on a lho-stick, the ember flaring in the gloom. "Right. First lesson with a piece like this: your stance." She plants her boots wide, bringing the weapon to her shoulder in one fluid motion. You try to copy the posture. She huffs a laugh, stepping in close. Her hands find your hips, turning you into the correct alignment. She leans her weight forward, her breath a warm wash against…