"I'll never be able to get used to that man's voice..." Marcus muttered to himself as he shook his head. He stood alongside the last remaining members of the 344th which composed of nothing more than four Guardsmen, a Commissar, and a half-broken Chimera APC with their banner mounted on it. The officers began handing out medals soon after the Lord General Militant had finished their speech.

Understandably, they all received the Triple Skull after the massacre throughout the munitions sections and the very trenches they were standing in. Until now, Marcus could not understand how he survived, especially after their front lines were broken so many times and he and the ranged infantry he stood with were exposed to the hulking masses of Orks bearing down upon their regiment, or at least what had remained of them at that point. They had to regroup their forces in conjunction with the other assaulting regiments before making a final push through their objective. In the end, they cleared out the enemy, but Marcus and the other survivors stood surrounded by the bodies of their fallen comrades, mangled and eviscerated by the Orks. He was just thankful his rebreather filtered out the rot and shit that usually followed death.

Now that the battle had passed them by already, the gravity of their regiment's near-annihilation finally hit Marcus, and he could not bring himself to make light of the situation as he usually would. He'd known a lot of those men and women a long time, and while you could block out the screams and cries for help in the midst of a battle in order to focus, remembering what might've been their last words when you look back at it is a painful thing. In the end, he and the remaining survivors simply stood around each other quietly as medals were pinned onto them. Even their Commissar seemed like he was in a trance. Marcus could understand; if the morale of their regiment were simply kept up, they would've been able to maintain the offensive without suffering this many casualties. But he didn't blame the Commissar, no amount of shouting, executing, or even leading by example could induce the men to stave off their fear against such overwhelming odds.

By the end of the ceremony, the 344th were among the decimated regiments that were ordered to head to the Departmento Munitorum. After they gathered their gear, they loaded up onto their busted Chimera to drive off slowly to the headquarters, letting some weary-looking Guardsmen hitch a ride with them. They spent the ride chatting with the other regiments, exchanging their survival stories. It helped remove some of their stress and guilt as they realized that their experiences and losses were not so different from many others.

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By the time they had unloaded from the Chimera (which they figured they would not be riding again unless someone authorized its repairs) the night had already fallen. The vehicle didn't let them get there any faster, but it at least let them get there without getting too tired. Bertolt, their driver, noted that "If we bring this ol' girl into another fight, she's not coming out of it. Hell she probably won't even get there without some serious repairs". Marcus nodded. "I guess that's about the end of our luxury transport service, eh?" Marcus said. "Heh, yep. Lasted half a day and we didn't make a single profit" Bertolt replied. Their Commissar went off with some of the other officers after passing out their ration and alcohol certifications while the Guardsmen stuck together to enjoy their increased rations.

Dace, one of their Flamer-users started a bonfire with conventional means, while Hardin propped their regiment's banner against their shelter. They started eating sausages and drinking the night away. "A toast to the dead whom the higher-ups can't be assed to remember!" Marcus shouted. "Cheers!" The other three Guardsmen shouted. While they tried to drown their sorrows in flavored meat and alcohol, they noticed what seemed like a wounded Guardsman stumble past their camp, wearing all-manner of scars and burn marks. "Is she alright? She looks like she could fall over into a bonfire any second now." Hardin said. "I couldn't tell if she was wounded or drunk." Bertolt mentioned. 

After their alcohol-laced brains considered whether they should intervene or keep drinking, Marcus rose up "Alright, lads. I'll get her back to her regiment." he said. "Come on Marcus, do you really think she'd fuck you with your clothes and armor in that state?" Dace said. "Does everything need to be about sex when it comes to you, Dace?" Marcus replied. Dace shrugged. "Not always, but I wouldn't mind a warmer bed in this weather." The Flamer-user replied. Marcus waved him off. "Go start a fire in your bed then, I'm going to see where that shambling lady went off to." He said.

He followed in the direction he last saw her shambling towards, he left his helmet back at their tent so by now he could smell the promethium emanating form a nearby camp. The scarred lady he saw earlier was standing there, stuttering a few words in front of the Cadian regiment roasting one of the Ork's Squigs on a Flamer-fueled fire, which caused  him to temporarily forget his original purpose

"By the Emperor, you actually got one of those things whole?!" Marcus exclaimed loudly, as the Squigs his regiment encountered were generally used for suicide runs and exploded into tiny, irrecoverable bits. "You Cadians really are something else! I've always wondered what they tasted like." He said as he approached their bonfire as he pulled out some of his certifications. "I've got some alcohol rations to spare. Trade you some for a handful?" He asked the Cadians as he held up his certification cards.