Had an idea, needed to write it down...

He opened his eyes and knew immediately that something was wrong. He looked around and saw that he was in his room at home. His old bookcase, the window above his bed, the closet, the door to the hallway which led downstairs. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked down at his hands. He was back home, yet he felt uncomfortable in these familiar surroundings. He got up and dressed then went downstairs. His mother was in the kitchen and greeted him in her usual, warm way. He met his sister in the living room, reading a book. She looked up at him and treated him to one of her shy smiles. In the dining room he found his father, smoking his old pipe.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“Dad, something’s not right…”
His father stood up, looked closely at his son. His face visibly displayed his concern.
“What’s wrong, son? What’s the matter?”
“I’m not sure I belong here, Dad.”
He looked into his father’s eyes and saw a deep sorrow there. He looked to his left and his sister was standing there, hands clasped demurely before her. His mother stood to his right, carefully wiping her hands in her apron. There was a mirror on one wall of the room and he saw himself in it. The reflection was a young man, not dressed in the clothes he had put on, but dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Guard. He looked back to his father and understood. He understood and reached his arms out to his family, hugging them all close, reassured by their love. His father had died 10 years ago, while serving in the Guard. His mother had died 7 years ago, giving birth to her daughter. His sister had died during an Ork raid last year. That had been the time he was old enough to follow in his father’s footsteps and enlist. When he opened his eyes, he did not see his family, but the glory of the God-Emperor…

* * *

The corpsman shook his head. He’d tried his best to save the young Guardsman, but it hadn’t been enough. He covered the soldier and moved on to the next casualty.

Heheh. Nice. I like it a lot. Not everyone has this kind of genius inspiration.

Indago carefully raised his helmeted head over the lip of the fresh crater. In the valley below, he could barely make out the silhouettes of the Razorback and its squad. The perpetually overcast skies reduced unaugmented visibility to a scant few meters. Switching to thermal, he could see the residual heat from the distant Whirlwind's missile system. Night vision worked better when he sought out the opposing infantry. Looking over to his squad leader, he noted the signal to move further left along with two other squad members. A sheltered ledge there would provide an adequate overwatch position. Drawing them in he thought. He considered the plan for a moment as he moved. Perhaps they don't know how many they got with that last salvo. One dead, two wounded. The squad was down to seven effectives. At full strength they might've stood a chance, but against supporting armor, artillery and lacking the advantage of surprise, victory was a slim possibility. He risked another glance at the approaching Marines. They were cautious, remaining within the effective radius of their Razorback's Heavy Bolter. He couldn't make out any distinguishing features or honours on their armor, couldn't gauge their experience level.
Once he three Scouts had reached their new position, Sargasso, one of Indago's squadmates indicated the two armored vehicles to Tinnian, armed with the missile launcher. Tinnian shrugged and both Scouts looked at Indago. He considered the situation for a moment and pointed at the Whirlwind, held up one finger and then pointed at the Razorback, holding up two fingers. Tinnian nodded then hefted the launcher to his shoulder. With a squeeze of the trigger, the krak missile leapt from the tube, arcing over into the Whirlwind. As it slammed into the vehicle, Tinnian relaoded his weapon, preparing for the Razorback. He had just gotten the missile loaded as their position was raked by heavy bolter fire. Indago wrapped an arm around Tinnian, dragging him down while Sargasso dropped to his knees, his helmet shattered, his head a ruined mess, bits of his skull and brain matter staining the rock behind him. Indago pulled on the body, positioning it between him and Tinnian for additional protection. He made sure that he could reach Sargasso's ammo.
Another burst ripped more chunks of rock from around their position. There was a pause in the fire, and the next time he heard the heavy weapon unload, it followed a sporadic burst of lighter calibre bolters. The two Scouts risked a look and saw the rest of their squadmates engaging the Marines and they could see that another Scout, face down, had been victim of the heavy bolter. Needing no prompting, Tinnian sent another missile downrange, the warhead impacting the right rear of the APC. Smoke and fire poured from the machine as it ground to a stop. A second missile neutralized the turret as it began to swing into line with the two Scouts again.
The Scouts suffered two more wounded before the 'exercise complete' signal came over their helmet comms. A Land Raider approached while the Space Marines tended to their wounded. Captain Seto and some support personnel disembarked, The sergeant in charge of the Razorback-mounted squad meeting him at the bottom of the assault ramp. He gave his report as the accompanying Apothecary moved towards the casualty collection point and the Techmarine detailed his Servitors to the damaged APC.
"They accounted themselves well, sir. Three dead, four wounded. The cadre lost three drones. The Razorback needs its tracks replaced, and some repairs to the turret. However, the ammo feed system for the Whirlwind locked up, which prevented further fire support. The damage looked superficial, sir. It shouldn't have been a problem."
"Have the Techmarines check into that feed system," Seto said to the Techmarine. He returned his attention to the sergeant. "So their marksmanship and courage is proven. What about their ingenuity? Your thoughts, sergeant?"
"Not terribly creative, sir. I saw right through their plan."
"You're a veteran, Cestus."
"Yessir, but they should have assumed the worst."
"They will learn through experience, as you have."
"Yessir."
Indago and the other Scouts were drawn up in formation, minus their members who were being checked over by the Apothecary. All this for an exercise he reflected. It had already been made clear to him and to all the ther aspirants that the threats that faced humanity were many, varied and terrible to behold. All of the Scouts were made aware that the purpose of the 'live-fire' exercises were to steel them against-
"Your bolter," Seto said as he snatched the weapon out of Indago's hands. "hasn't been fired. Why?"
"I had no clear shots, sir."
"The squad was spread out below you. You had the height advantage."
"Yessir. "
"And...?"
"Sir?"
"You were about to explain yourself, defend your actions. Am I wrong?"
"No, sir. I held my fire because the Razoback had our position zeroed. I didn't have a clear shot without taking a hit. And the rest of our team only needed us to draw that heavy bolter fire so they could engage the other squad."
"And that's why Solomon sent the missile launcher away," Seto said, nodding. He didn't seem to notice Tinnian stiffen at the words. "You had this figured out from hand signals?"
"No sir. It seemed right. We were outclassed. The only way to get any number of us out of the situation alive required a sacrifice."
"Pessimistic."
"Maybe, sir. But at least some of us would have been able to continue the fight."
"You don't feel any resentment?"
"No, sir. With the enemies arrayed against the Imperium, my feelings are a luxury I, my Clan, my Chapter, can ill afford."
"You really believe that," Seto asked incredulously.
"Feelings are an affectation of the flesh, sir. The flesh is weak."
Seto crossed his arms over his chest plate and nodded. In a moment his aide, Sergeant Faustus of the Assault Division, appeared by his side. Seto spoke to him audibly, for Indago's benefit, though Indago knew that the Captain could have held a private converstion with Faustus without words being spoken.
"The Ordo Xeno has requested a tithe for their Kill Teams. The Chapter was contacted and the Elders have solicited volunteers. I believe this one would do well as a representative of our Clan and the Chapter as a whole."
"I've seen the footage and spoke to Cestus. I agree with your assessment, sir."
Seto turned to Indago and looked him up and down.
"The Kill Teams regularly use power armor," he said to Indago. "I am aware that you are familiar with their proper usage."
"Yessir."
"Then see the artificers when we get back. The Inquisition sees to the equipment requirements of the Teams, but I am doubtful of the quality of their inventory."

This post has been edited by Captain Seato on May 4 2005, 07:22 PM

I like it thus far, Seato... it seems rather interesting, and even more so because it relates the backstory of one of our esteemed characters here. I'd like to see it finished.

It does look good. But you should, you know..... use paragraphs!

Also, I wasn't 100% sure it was a training exercise until almost the end. Then again, I guess that's how it was supposed to be!

Another problem I had is I wasn't sure about what the oposing forces were. Who was in what side, I mean.

Unfinished, rider of the winds! 'Tis a work in progress, as the current lexicon goes... I thought I was putting the sections into paragraphs, Drakkar. *sigh* Stupid message board format...

And yes, it is intended as background fluff for an RP character (perhaps a stepping stone for other members, to inspire their own, original ideas, to fire up their own imaginations- in a different thread of course!), but also to showcase my own thoughts on how the indominatable Iron Hands conduct training. Some militaries use dud ammo or some form of MILES gear, I believe my favorite Chapter of Marines goes all out, despite the cost (3 dead? The flesh is weak! Weak I tell you!!), based off of their GW fluff. I wanted to extrapolate. However, such thoughts are, for me, fleeting. Thus, I can't (or won't?) guarantee additions, revisions or further editions on any reliable schedule. Also why I can't bring myself to try my hand at GMing.

"Captain?"

He was staring across the hastily constructed fortifications. No good. Their enemy wouldn't be stopped. The best he and his men could hope for was to slow them down. His men opened fire as soon as the enemy were spotted. They came on in a rush, the blood that staining them blending into the crimson hue of their armor. He could not tell if their warcry was really that loud or if it was the sound of their chain axes. Likely, it was a combination of both.

* * *
"Captain?"

The enemy was upon them, swinging their dread weapons in wide arcs, taking arms, legs, heads. The Imperial Guard issue flak armor was not proof against the enemy's bolt pistols. Their leader waded through his men, their lasbolts brushed aside in his charge. He raised his sword in a feeble attmept to block the chain-axe rushing downwards...

* * *
"Captain?"

He stared numbly at the ragged, bleeding stump of his arm, hacked away by the descending axe. The Khornate leader drew his arm back leisurely, his helmet displaying the sadistic grin that was surely on his face underneath. Although he had lost his sword, he was not yet disarmed. Not yet done resisting. Seemingly in slow motion, he raised his plasma pistol. He had already set it on the highest setting, had been holding the charge. As his men screamed in pain and agony, he raised his plasma pistol. The safeties had been overidden. As his men fought and died around him, he raised his plasma pistol. The coils blazed. The skin of his hand was cracked and smoking from the heat. He could smell his flesh burning.

Somehow, he was able to place the pistol up against the Khornate leader's face.

He pulled the trigger...

* * *
"Captain?"
Seto returned from his reverie. The Chapter serf facing him wore his anxiety plainly on his face. Captain Seto knew that the serf couldn't read his own expression through the contours of his helm. His internal records showed that the man had been standing there for almost two minutes, though he had only asked for his Captain's attention once. Seto pushed the disturbing details aside.
Then he remembered why the man was standing before him.
"Report."
"Sir, the Inquisitorial shuttle has confirmed Marine Indago boarding their light cruiser. He's on his way, sir."
"Dismissed," Seto said.
As he left, the Chapter serf wondered idly to himself. Why was he looking at his hands like that?

The shuttle's accommodations were familiarly spartan to Indago. He was able to allow himself some sense of ease, being able to simply muse about the inner workings of the shuttle. It was a small craft, for executive personnel transfer duties. Seating for a dozen passengers and stowage space for their gear. He didn't like the seat cushions, but it was a minor thing. Indago kept his helmet on, and sealed. Letting himself relax didn't mean he needed to forego simple safety precautions, even if whatever might breach the hull of the small shuttle could just be enough to vaporize him in an instant.
"Clearing the atmosphere," the Inquisitorial pilot reported. Indago thought about how unneccessary it was, but kept his peace. The Inquisition is not the Clan, he thought, as he stripped and cleared his bolter without looking at it; the better to get a feel for the newly issued power armor.

The seats were arranged in two rows along either side of the cabin, running the short length of the craft. Between each seat was an armrest, below and above each was the storage spaces. Occuppying four of the seats opposite Indago were Inquisitorial Stormtroopers, their helmets and rebreathers sealed, completely obscuring their faces. Indago knew they were uncomfortable in close contact with an Iron Hand, he could tell from their subtle shifting once he had boarded. Their sergeant however, had welcomed him aboard, notified the pilot, then promptly fell asleep a few seats up from Indago.

The Stormtroopers could not possibly tell that Indago was stripping and assembling his bolter by feel alone. The cerulean lenses did an effective job of obscuring his eyes, besides giving the appearance of timeless vigilance. As he completed the fourth assembly of his weapon and began stripping it down again, Indago contemplated his bionic left arm and how it came to be a part of him...

* * *

Captain Seto monitored the the constant vox-traffic as it veritably poured through his armor's communications system.
++Tango-sierra-one-one, sierra-deuce-two-one. Enemy units at 346468, approaching 346467.++
++Copy that, sierra-deuce-two-one.++
++Whiskey-deuce-zero-one, Tango-sierra-one-one. Fire mission, grid coordinates, 346468, Castellan barrage.++
++Roger that, tango-sierra-one-one. Rounds out.++
++Tango-sierra-one-one, sierra-deuce-two-one. Enemy units have encountered FASCAM and are detouring to 346478.++
++Charlie-two, tango-sierra-three-one. Engaging enemy units at 346478.++
++Charlie-two, sierra-deuce-one-one. Enemy units at 346458. They're engaging in force.++
Expand view, Seto thought. In nearly an instant, his viewpoint changed from his immediate surroundings to an overhead view of grid squares 346458 to 346478 by 346457 to 346477. The transition felt like some sort of out-of-body experience. Instead of the Marines he had seen around him, his unit now appeared as a white, rectangular icon, marked with archaic symbols designating an Assault squad with a simple star to represent that he was attached to it.
His detachment appeared to him in a similar fashion, with aligned units in blue, enemy units in red and topographical data in green.

This post has been edited by Captain Seato on Jun 3 2005, 12:47 AM