Dust, the fine red silt that shrouded much of Sehnsucht, coated everything in a gritty film. It stung within his nostrils, it clung to the rough fabric of his flak armor, and it grated into the skin beneath his surplus issue shemagh. It tasted like ash and a bitter metal. Each shattered window seemed to stare back at him, hollow eyes promising unseen dangers.
The ruins of Wiranhive stretched before them, a jagged graveyard of shattered ferrocrete under a sky the color of bruised plums. He clutched his lasrifle, the weight a cold, unfamiliar comfort. He was the new point man? The term still felt like a cruel jest, a promotion born not of merit but of being marginally less useless than the other recent inductees.
This wasn't a standard training exercise with servitor simulacra or static targets. This was a “live engagement scenario,” a euphemism that sent unsettling dread coiling in Theron’s gut. The so-called opposing force wasn’t some programmed threat; it was human. Specifically, it was a collection of lifers and death row inmates, “volunteered” from the depths of High Charity, the maximum-security penal colony that dived into the heart of Sehnsucht's barren landscape.
These weren’t soldiers. They were the dregs of Imperial society, the murderers, heretics, thieves beyond redemption. Stripped of their prison jumpsuits and fitted with crude, tamper-sensitive bomb collars that would automatically detonate at any sign of escape or even prolonged inactivity, they had been herded into the ruins of Wiranhive. Their weaponry consisted of modified lasrifles, their power cells deliberately neutered to deliver debilitating stings rather than lethal blasts. It was a measure intended to minimize Imperial casualties during the “training.”
The logic, as Sergeant Vonnelock had brutally explained it, was twofold; to provide a realistic, if ethically dubious, combat experience for green troops, and to offer the convicts a righteous sense of hope. A rumor circulated between the supply personnel that those damned men who “performed commendably” – meaning survived and “engaged” the trainees – might find their sentences commuted to service in a penal legion, a fate only marginally better than the one awaiting them in High Charity’s deeper levels.
For Theron, the distinction between a debilitating sting and a lethal blast felt academic. He was terrified of both. The silence of the ruins, broken only by the squad’s cautious movements, amplified his fear. Every shadow seemed to conceal a desperate, cornered animal with nothing to lose. He just wanted to make it through this. To prove he wasn’t a complete failure. To somehow survive this brutal initiation into the ranks of the Imperial Guard, a path he never chose but was now irrevocably bound to. The dust, the ruins, the very air of Wiranhive reeked of an anticipation that mirrored his own.
Private Theron's knees knocked together beneath his ill-fitting flak armor. He adjusted the straps of his webbing, the weight of his grenade bandolier digging into his shoulders. It felt bulky and restrictive, offering little comfort against the unknown threats lurking further into the ruins. He just wanted this exercise to be over, to fade back into the anonymity of the barracks. He was no soldier. He was just Theron, the conscript who’d always been better with numbers than with weapons, a fact the Imperial Guard had apparently overlooked. This was his duty, they’d said. Unavoidable. And right now, avoidance was the only thing on his mind.
The rhythmic clink of Sergeant Vonnelock’s gear ahead dragged Theron back into his surroundings. Besides this, the more muffled movements of the other squad members were the only sounds and the soft rustle of wind through broken walls. It wasn't the deafening roar of battle he’d imagined in his nightmares, but a creeping, almost bored quiet that felt far more menacing.
Private Theron's squad leader was a good ten paces away now, gesturing with a practiced ease towards a half-collapsed hab-block. The man was seemingly bereft of weakness, a massive scar bisecting his left brow, he was capped by boulder shoulders, and whose face seemed lined by permanently concealing an arrogant smirk.
“Alright, you crack shots, eyes peeled,” Vonnelock’s voice boomed without much regard for the acoustics of their environment, his warning laced with a dark humor the young private was far from appreciating. “Remember the briefing. These cornfed scum are desperate, but their toys are… well, let’s just say they won’t punch your card.”
The boy, Theron, swallowed hard, his gaze darting between the shattered windows and gaping doorways of the blasted buildings. They said the convicts’ lasrifles were weak, but desperation, he knew, could make even a blunt instrument deadly. They said their lasrifles were impotent, but fear was a far more potent weapon. He’d seen the holovids during his rushed training, the crazed eyes, the feral snarls. These weren’t soldiers; they were caged beasts with nothing left to lose. Convicts. Lifers. Off-world parishioners of death row. The thought alone made his palms slick with sweat, gripping a weapon he barely understood the safety switch for.
This wasn’t some sterilized training simulation they broadcasted back in one of Verlorenhive's entry processing centers. This was real. The dust was real, the ruins were real, and the threat, however diminished, was undeniably real.
He stumbled slightly, his boot catching on a loose piece of ferrocrete. “Uhm, Sergeant?” he called out, his voice barely a squeak. Vonnelock stopped, his shoulders sagging with exaggerated grief.
The perpetual smirk that usually played on his lips twisted into something artificially warmer as he turned, his one good eye fixing on Private Theron with unnerving intensity.
“Spit it out, fresh meat. See a ghost?” Vonnelock’s voice, rough as gravel sliding down a metal chute, sliced through the cramped street. The other squad members, a mixed bag of grim-faced veterans and equally green recruits, shifted uncomfortably, their gazes flicking between the private and their squad leader. No one wanted to be the one holding up the advance.
Theron wrung his hands, his gaze fixed on the dark maw of the hab-block Vonnelock was about to enter. He swallowed hard again, the dryness in his mouth making it difficult to speak. “I was just… wondering. Why do we have to do this? I mean, the Astra Militarum has… has long-range weapons, right? Couldn’t we just, you know, shoot these buildings from the field? Level the whole block? Save us the… the trouble?”
The question felt weak even as it left his lips, a silly attempt to logic his way out of the terrifying prospect of entering that knocked out structure.
Sergeant Vonnelock took two deliberate strides back, closing the distance in shockingly long footfalls until his bulk loomed over the Theron. The sergeant’s shadow swallowed the young recruit, making him feel even smaller and more exposed. The air around Vonnelock smelled of recaff, gun oil, and a faint, underlying scent of something animal, something that spoke of countless close-quarters engagements. Vonnelock’s grin widened, revealing teeth that looked a little too sharp.
"Astra Mili- what?” He growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble, though the familiar glint of dark humor still flickered in his good eye, feigning an out. He punctuated his words by a hard poke to Theron’s chest with a thick calloused thumb, the impact jarring the recruit. “You’re in the Guard now, son. We don’t sit back and lob pretty little shells. We get down in the muck. We look the enemy in the eye.” He leaned in closer, his scarred face inches from Theron’s. “There’s no glory in pushing a button miles away, recruit. The Emperor wants boots on the ground, faith in action, and a bloody nose if that’s what it takes. And besides,” a phantom of something colder than humor crossed his features, "Artillery?” he repeated, a hint of incredulity reaching into his tone. “Air support? Son, you’re thinking of a proper warzone. This… this is just a glorified rat hunt."
He clapped Theron on the shoulder, the impact firm enough to nearly send the boy cartwheeling. “Look, recruit. I know this ain’t pretty. But it’s the Guard. We go in, we clear it out. Simple as that. Now, keep your eyes open and your lasrifle ready." Sergeant Vonnelock didn’t wait for a verbal response, already turning back towards the ruined hab-block. With his silhouette framed against the gloom, he indicated a sweeping motion to the rest of the team. "Move it, now, move it. Let’s go kick in some doors.”
