John was not a Guardsman, he was barely a man after all that happened. He sat on a rock, listening to the boring speech. He was about to protest the words of the speaker regarding medals until he realized that the horrible abhumans were excluded. He sighed with relief. No horrible pseudo-xeno should be remembered in the saving of his planet. No inferior beast of those sorts. He remembered with glee some of his heavy stubber "misfire" upon them, after all, a heavy stubber was an unreliable weapon after all, it's not like he killed the abhumans on purpose, oh no! Of course, the sacrifice of a few ogryns or felinids was worth the heavy firepower produced with it. The best part was, if anyone tried to bother him about it he could just run off, and start singing hymns with his brothers!

Oh, yes... his brothers. He turned to look at them. Some did not even have a firearm, heroically running at the Orks with kitchen utensils. These people saw their world in flames, they saw what was going on, and so they joined the Frateris Militia, just like him. Men and women from all walks of life, poor, or affluent like him. Yet they all shared many things between them now. They were all fanatics, but rightfully so. Any amount of times their devotion let them survive wounds that normal Guardsmen fell from, even the tall, experienced Cadians. Yet there was something else about them.... The Cadians, the Kriegsmen, all of the other regiments, they did the job they [i]had[/i] to do. They were in the Guard, and they had to fight. Yet the Militia was different, they did the job they [i]did not[/i] have to do. They volunteered for their deaths, they joined because someone should, they would not stand for what was happening. The Guardsmen may be heroes without numbers, but the Frateris Militia are the heroes with no face, no memory nor monuments to them. People ordinary, doing the right thing. They could have stayed in the refugee camp, they could have waited happily for the storm to die down, and return to their old work. Being so closely related to the governor, John could have lived a life of relative luxury on some ship for the past twenty years. But he survived on squig (admittedly a delicacy) and shit. 

He stared at himself. He looked down on his gloved hands; they were shaking. It could be because he had to compensate for the recoil of his massive heavy stubber the whole time, but he felt it was for another reason. He knew deep in his heart, this was a new kind of change. He knew that life would never be the same. Oh yes, he could return to his old life, do his best work shuffling papers in the undying Lord's name... or could he? He was covered in any amount of scars, he had a bloody demolition charge on his back to commit suicide with. Would he make a good clerk, secretary, or accountant as before? Would his newfound physique make a difference? What about these hands, to rough to hold a pen now, only a grip and a trigger? 

He did not know what to do. Perhaps he could go along with his brothers, with their insane dances and chants, defecate and defame upon the corpses of their dead enemies? No, for now he sat on his rock, a hulk of a man breaking down in front of everybody, tears going down in realisation of what was going on. He was unique in not celebrating. Perhaps he would get reprimand, but it seemed nobody had even noticed him.