[40k] Reflections On The 41st Millenium [1-post Minific]
Posted: 2006-05-30 12:38am
This is my first attempt at 40k fiction from a 40k neophyte. This is my first attempt at fiction at all, come to think. I hope I captured the feeling I was going for.
The title is sort of irrelated, I know, but I liked it. Anyhow, it sort of sucks because I'm really not good at this thing, but I felt like I just had to write it, because I had the idea and it was there.
Oh, right. Last thing. Pay attention to the Italics. I didn't want to use a color scheme, but I'm afraid Italics Only makes it rather unclear if you don't pay attention.
==========================
You never really forget the horrors. Some of them just don't fade over time, my mind realized, even as my body was elsewhere, doing something different.
So mechanical, so precise. Pivot, aim, fire. Pivot, aim, fire. Fire. Fire. Reload. I don't know why I bothered. Flinging a pebble against the hurricane is useless, I realized, and despaired. Yet I kept firing. It had been drilled into my brain by word, deed, and occaisional beatings.
It's suprising how fast the mind works under pressure. They say before you die that you relive your entire life in those last moments before the end so that the Emperor may see you for what you truly are before Judgement. I do not know if this is true, but I do know that you do relive those moments-
I saw war. The explosion of a shell- friendly, enemy? Did it matter?- killing dozens of foes and comrades alike. The angry noise of an orkish gun's bolt flying by my head, removing someone elses'. I ducked, and turned around. I wasn't sure, but I think I recognized who it was. I'm disturbed that I now don't remember his name-
Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire.
-I remembered scared, tired looking men armed with their lances. The 19th Hussari Lancers, our Rough Riders. New faces each time after a battle. We never saw the same ones twice. Eventually the Rough Riders just ran out, and we saw no more of them-
Had they gone through these moments too? We never talked about things like that. Nobody ever wanted to mention the Rough Riders, Engels and I included-
-"Come on, you bastard! Come on!" Engels wasn't even trying to shoot anymore- you couldn't hit a thing like this. He clutched his trench knife like it were a talisman against evil. The androgynous Eldar warrior was on him in seconds, strange sword already drawn. I still don't know how he survived, only that in the next second he was unscathed and the horridly fast creature was dead. A lucky bit of shrapnel or bolt in the right place at the right time? Engels said it was his knife, that it was a lucky knife his father had given him-
Engels was dead in the mud, twenty yards away. His chest had a hole the size of a fist in it, a ragged, bleeding mess blown through his torso. His knife lay dropped by his side. Was it lucky that he had died before the charge, not knowing fear at all?
I realized that my vision of my life was what must have been. It was all I had known for nearly twenty years, all that life was. No pain, no suffering, no happiness. In the end it came down to right now.
The sound of the enemy grew closer- a bestial, resounding noise, ghoulishly cheerful in final victory. The pounding of hundreds of feet upon the ground seemed to almost vibrate with tension.
I vaguely recognized shapes beside me, out of the corner of my eyes. People. Comrades. Some of them still shooting, uselessly firing. One woman was out of ammunition. She pulled the trigger relentlessly, never noticing, just firing all the same. What else could you do? Another man was hunched over, his gun abandoned, weeping inside the trench. The Commisar would have shot him, but he was not here. Nobody essential had been left behind. More memory-
It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. They were like miniature Gods, cutting a swath through the Xenos as they went. No longer Gold and White, they were drenched blue with the blood of the enemies of the Emperor, chainswords drawn.
"And we shall know no Fear! Harbringers!"
"For the Emperor!" they cried, and fell upon the enemy even as we fell back.
I still heard the shout in my dreams, occaisionally. It wasn't until 10 years later that I had learned who they were from a declassified history- the Imperial Harbringers, 4th Company. We lost that battle, despite what the history said. Sometimes I wondered what ever happened to them.-
A different cry came over the fields that day.
"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!"
I pulled the trigger. Click. The last cell. The Primer said that this was the time to fix Bayonets. I already had that done.
Unconciously, I began repeating it in my head. Over and over. Then I said it aloud, just once. One last time.
"For-"
A monstrous mass of green flesh and muscle flew into the trench, slicing someone nearly in half as it landed. The blood hung impossibly still in the air as time seemed to freeze. The thing was right next to me. It turned, towards me, raising a weapon that was impossibly huge. I dove, threw myself towards it.
"-The Emperor!"
The title is sort of irrelated, I know, but I liked it. Anyhow, it sort of sucks because I'm really not good at this thing, but I felt like I just had to write it, because I had the idea and it was there.
Oh, right. Last thing. Pay attention to the Italics. I didn't want to use a color scheme, but I'm afraid Italics Only makes it rather unclear if you don't pay attention.
==========================
You never really forget the horrors. Some of them just don't fade over time, my mind realized, even as my body was elsewhere, doing something different.
So mechanical, so precise. Pivot, aim, fire. Pivot, aim, fire. Fire. Fire. Reload. I don't know why I bothered. Flinging a pebble against the hurricane is useless, I realized, and despaired. Yet I kept firing. It had been drilled into my brain by word, deed, and occaisional beatings.
It's suprising how fast the mind works under pressure. They say before you die that you relive your entire life in those last moments before the end so that the Emperor may see you for what you truly are before Judgement. I do not know if this is true, but I do know that you do relive those moments-
I saw war. The explosion of a shell- friendly, enemy? Did it matter?- killing dozens of foes and comrades alike. The angry noise of an orkish gun's bolt flying by my head, removing someone elses'. I ducked, and turned around. I wasn't sure, but I think I recognized who it was. I'm disturbed that I now don't remember his name-
Aim. Fire. Aim. Fire.
-I remembered scared, tired looking men armed with their lances. The 19th Hussari Lancers, our Rough Riders. New faces each time after a battle. We never saw the same ones twice. Eventually the Rough Riders just ran out, and we saw no more of them-
Had they gone through these moments too? We never talked about things like that. Nobody ever wanted to mention the Rough Riders, Engels and I included-
-"Come on, you bastard! Come on!" Engels wasn't even trying to shoot anymore- you couldn't hit a thing like this. He clutched his trench knife like it were a talisman against evil. The androgynous Eldar warrior was on him in seconds, strange sword already drawn. I still don't know how he survived, only that in the next second he was unscathed and the horridly fast creature was dead. A lucky bit of shrapnel or bolt in the right place at the right time? Engels said it was his knife, that it was a lucky knife his father had given him-
Engels was dead in the mud, twenty yards away. His chest had a hole the size of a fist in it, a ragged, bleeding mess blown through his torso. His knife lay dropped by his side. Was it lucky that he had died before the charge, not knowing fear at all?
I realized that my vision of my life was what must have been. It was all I had known for nearly twenty years, all that life was. No pain, no suffering, no happiness. In the end it came down to right now.
The sound of the enemy grew closer- a bestial, resounding noise, ghoulishly cheerful in final victory. The pounding of hundreds of feet upon the ground seemed to almost vibrate with tension.
I vaguely recognized shapes beside me, out of the corner of my eyes. People. Comrades. Some of them still shooting, uselessly firing. One woman was out of ammunition. She pulled the trigger relentlessly, never noticing, just firing all the same. What else could you do? Another man was hunched over, his gun abandoned, weeping inside the trench. The Commisar would have shot him, but he was not here. Nobody essential had been left behind. More memory-
It was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. They were like miniature Gods, cutting a swath through the Xenos as they went. No longer Gold and White, they were drenched blue with the blood of the enemies of the Emperor, chainswords drawn.
"And we shall know no Fear! Harbringers!"
"For the Emperor!" they cried, and fell upon the enemy even as we fell back.
I still heard the shout in my dreams, occaisionally. It wasn't until 10 years later that I had learned who they were from a declassified history- the Imperial Harbringers, 4th Company. We lost that battle, despite what the history said. Sometimes I wondered what ever happened to them.-
A different cry came over the fields that day.
"WAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!"
I pulled the trigger. Click. The last cell. The Primer said that this was the time to fix Bayonets. I already had that done.
Unconciously, I began repeating it in my head. Over and over. Then I said it aloud, just once. One last time.
"For-"
A monstrous mass of green flesh and muscle flew into the trench, slicing someone nearly in half as it landed. The blood hung impossibly still in the air as time seemed to freeze. The thing was right next to me. It turned, towards me, raising a weapon that was impossibly huge. I dove, threw myself towards it.
"-The Emperor!"