[@DeadDrop][@Euphonium][@FrostedCaramel][@Oak7ree][@Drunken Conquistador][@CaptainBritton][@tech][@Katthaj]


[hr][Centre][b]Dugatov City Outskirts - 0615 HRS[/b][/centre][hr]


The Sergeant allowed a coolness to wash over him, or as cool as one could be when faced with ones possible demise, a standard battle-practice of his people and one that had saved more than a few of them in times gone by. At the same time he quietly surveyed the battlefield, filtering out the percussive [b]booms[/b] and recoils of the nearby Imperial armour, bringing to the fore all that he could remember about the 'Crons from both his own experience and from what he had been told by others.

"Killburn! Smith!" He bellowed through the continuing downpour, opening a micro-comm bead to their helmets just to be sure, "get that auto-cannon to the front and right of the squad. Open up as soon as you're done." His almond eyes did not need to look at them to know that his order would be followed to the letter - this squad was green, but even basic training would have instilled in them a sense of on-the-minute timing.

One hand went up to his helmet and was followed shortly by a quick nod to himself, his comm-bead opening to the entire squad as the whole Imperial formation shifted around them.

"Two lines, kneel and stand. Present your arms and get a good line on those bucket-heads."

All this time the Necrons had not stopped moving - and there would be little time for more than one or two volleys - so the line moved swiftly, causing the Sergeants chest to swell with pride, before all was ready and the call to begin firing went up.

"First rank...fire!"

"Rear rank...fire!"

"First rank...fire!"

"Rear rank...fire!"

It was a battle order as old as time itself, heard on a billion billion fields of war across the Milky Way, beams of focused energy leaping forth to sheer through skeletal limbs and puncture glowing green eye-sockets with equal impunity; the barrage lasted for several minutes, bringing down far fewer of the enemy than Bashil would have liked truth be told.

"[b]Enough.[/b]"

The fire sizzled down to nothing and now a new order was given, one that would decide the fate of this battle.

Already tendrils of green Gauss were wrapping themselves about screaming Guardsmen, flaying their very atoms apart and leaving nearly aught behind, Bashil drawing his curved knife from its sheath with a cry.

"Affix, bayonets!"

This would be a do-or-die charge, spearheaded by battle tanks and the Guards armoured might, out here on the plains the Fourth Squad (and the Vosmarth Regulars would either prove themselves or perish.