The last firing order had not come in from the vox in roughly half an hour, and the echo from the other guns in the regiment had stopped at roughly the same time. In order to replace the smell of diesel fumes with something a bit more palatable, such as gunpowder and cannon smoke, Mordecai had clambered out of the driver compartment of his Basilisk and onto the firing deck of the conjoined Earthshaker cannon. He wasn't concerned about missing any essential orders, having long ago learned how to patch the vox-feed into his personal micro-comm. Instead he took the lull in orders as an opportunity to 'shoot the shit', as it were, relaxing in the high sun with his crewmates.

Officially the gunner and loader, Privates Henry Vael and Felton Kent were easily Mordecai's closest comrades and only true friends. As Mordecai hefted himself onto the firing deck, one arm wrapped around the railing bar, one leg dangling over the edge and the other propped up on the metal platform, the two gave him a casual salute with their first two fingers.

"So Mordo, any news from the brass?"

"No word on anything yet, but I ain't complaining. More time to kick back and take it easy. You dealing, Kent?"

Felton nodded, shuffling up a deck of playing cards before dealing out proper hands for a game of Suicide Kings. The lads didn't have much in the way of actual substance to gamble with, they tended to share most everything anyway, so their games were more a way to pass the time and occupy their hands while talking. Roughly two hours of this passed, Mordecai and his crewmates having slipped back inside the crew compartment of the Basilisk to shade themselves from the beating sun overhead. Having grown bored with the endless hands of Suicide Kings, the men had rigged together makeshift napping alcoves by stretching out across empty crates and containers, fatigue tops balled up as pillows. Mordecai's rest was broken when a call over the vox-comm startled him awake, his sudden alertness rousing the others.

"This is an open call to all members of the Cadian 232nd. The battle for Vernum City is officially over, with a resounding Imperial victory. All surviving members of the Imperial Guard are to report for the final victory speech and ceremony of commendations, effective immediately."

With this, Mordecai snapped his fingers twice in quick succession, rousing the lads to quickly take their places for moving inward towards the city. Mordecai hoped this ceremony would end with a much-needed break. While he liked the Basilisk, you can only spend so much time in a tin can without it becoming a hassle. The smell had started to get to him, too...

[hr]
As the General-Militant droned on with his speech, Mordecai found himself reciting the simple-yet-important mantra of [i]Don't let the knees lock...Don't let the knees lock...[/i], his focus leading to him almost completely drowning out the General with the tinnitus developed over years of working around the massive Earthshaker cannon and the roar of the Chimera chassis engine. Finally, the General finished, the only commendation given to the non-officers of the 232nd was a campaign ribbon representing service in the Vernum Crusade, pinned alongside similar "participation" ribbons from service in a smattering of minor campaigns Mordecai had found himself in since his appointment as a Whiteshield.

Just as quickly as they had been ushered in at the start of the ceremony, they were ushered out, Mordecai and the others of the 232nd sent to the Munitorum headquarters to account for their various vehicles and heavy munitions, before reporting to their assigned prefabricated barracks. Finally, a bit of real R&R at last...
[hr]
Shacking up with some of the other vehicle crews in the 232nd's barracks, Mordecai, Henry, and Felton quickly helped make the place as much of a home as they could. Ration packs were pooled together and divided out in a makeshift banquet, smuggled and stolen Amasec passed around in anything that could vaguely pass as a cup, and even the scent of lho-sticks hung heavy in the air, despite the best efforts of their users to exhale out the ventilation shafts and cracked-open windows.

Mordecai, as the closest thing passing for a "real" NCO in the bunk room-turned party hall, was careful not to overindulge on much of anything, lest some hasty explaining be required thanks to a surprise appearance by the Commissar. Luckily it wasn't a commissar that arrived, but one of the more recent Whiteshields to be bequeathed by the Emperor to the regiment, currently acting as the Major's courier, a role Mordecai was all too familiar with. The boy shuffled in and was met by the door to the bunks by Mordecai, who seemed a bit surprised to find the Major's errand-boy at his doorstep.

"Letter for you, sir! Straight from the Major 'imself! Addressed to a... 'Corpsal Tarn' I think it says."

"Right, thanks lad. Dismissed."

The Whiteshield popped off what could be called a salute as Mordecai unfolded and skimmed the brief letter. Seems the Major wants to speak with him personally about something. Rather surprising, given the last time they spoke was when they were both about ten-odd years younger. Hollering back to the party boys to keep their noses clean, but not [i]too[/i] clean, he stepped out the door and began the trek to the officers' bunks to have a chat with the man in charge. The moment he was out from blocking the doorway, the feast-turned-party quickly breached the gap and spilled out into the open-air space between hab-blocks. Mordecai shook his head and hollered out "Save something for me when I get back!"

The officers' quarters were far more calm than the hab-blocks holding the grunts and treadheads, and it was pretty easy for Mordecai to make his way to the Major, showing the letter to anyone questioning him being there. Snapping a salute and showing the letter to the door guard, he stepped into the makeshift office and quarters of the senior officer of the 232nd Cadian. The Major, he had a name but nearly everyone just called him the Major, was an older man, greying hair, a trimmed beard, and wrinkles and creases across his face. He shared a salute with Mordecai before gesturing to a second chair next to an end table currently serving as a desk. "Have a seat, son."

The Major popped the cork on on a fine bottle of liquor, finer than any Mordecai had seen this close, and poured around two fingers each into a pair of sipping glasses, handing one to Mordecai.

"Savor it, son. I didn't exactly call you in here for a jamboree."

"Sir? So this letter isn't exactly good news, then?"

"No, its not. This isn't exactly something you're supposed to know yet, even I don't have the full information...but you're being transferred."

"Transferred? Are me and the boys being attached to another regiment?"

"No. It's just you. I don't have all the details, but you're being pulled into some kinda mashup regiment once everyone starts being rounded-up for redeployment. I figured it best to tell you [i]before[/i] you got caught up in all the festivities that are bound to happen."

Mordecai turned red, then pale, then a sickly green. Quickly knocking back a large swig of the hard drink, a bit of the color returned to his face. He didn't know what to really think of the situation, but he knew it wouldn't be good. The Major gave him a pat on the back with a firm hand.

"Just keep your head up high, give it your best, and hold the Emperor in your heart." Sliding the fine drink bottle to Mordecai, he winked and said "Try to share a bit, yeah? I'm sure Vael and Kent'll miss ya."

Mordeciat gave a nod and a casual salute, tucking the bottle away for his trek back to the grunt barracks. When he made it back, he trawled through the partying masses, which had grown considerably during his time away. Eventually, he was able to round up Henry and Felton, and break the news to them. It was a pinpoint of solemn sorrow in a sea of raucous joy. The men took the fine liquor bottle from the major, poured three cups, and pressed the glasses together.

"To the 232nd, our best mates, and the Emperor!"

The men knocked their glasses back, let out a cheer as they embraced each other, and then waded out into the throng of fellow guardsmen, joining the celebration that seemed to grow every minute.