Private First Class Yakob Vassidiev jumped out of bed with his rifle already in hand. The alarms were blaring loudly, but to him they were but a background noise. None of his platoon had been getting much sleep. Rather hard to do so when there was an Imperial invasion going on, he grimly thought. Nobody planetside had taken the news well when their CO reported that an Imperial fleet had jumped into the system, no matter how many reassurances the officers threw their way. Yakob, just like the rest of his platoon, was a frontline soldier and had participated in a long series of war games with the Imperials. You didn't go through those without learning a thing or two about how those bastards functioned. The moment the alert had been raised, Yakob had known that he'd be fighting them on the ground sooner or later. He could feel it in his guts. As reports came in and the fleet battle above the planet turned south, that gut feeling was replaced with a grim determination and a fervent wish that the main assault wouldn't pass by his position.

The officers had come down hard when they caught wind of the betting rings that had popped up out of nowhere. He hadn't been particularly happy with that, given that he had placed a winning bet himself. He understood it, though. It wasn't good for moral if your own soldiers were betting on how quickly it would take the enemy to break through allied lines. As the Imperial attack kept nearing the planet, command had sent every soldier not needed for active duty to bed. Once again it was the sensible thing to do, but how the fucking hell was he supposed to fall asleep when you could see the sky lit up like a damned firecracker? Realising that unrest was rapidly growing, the officers had relented a bit. They had run a few drills, opened up the bars. Picked horrible movies that were so awful to watch they approached being good from the other side. It had helped and after a few hours of it, sleep had finally claimed him.

Now they were rushing towards their positions whilst being rapidly briefed on current affairs. Given how they were being told while rushing towards the front, Yakob knew that someone, somewhere, had fucked up. He wasn't happy to be proven right a few moments later.

'Right, twenty-sixth,' Lieutenant Presla began, having finished his head count. 'Imperial Fourteenth Army has made landfall and our main counterattack has been wiped to a man.' The lieutenant paused briefly, letting that news sink in. 'Literally. Don't know the gist of it or how it happened, but we lost two full divisions in a saturation strike and now the Imps are marching towards us unimpeded. We've got a few forces in between them and us, but they're not even going to slow the bastards.'

The sheer calamity those words implied took a while to sink in. In the end it was Yakob who spoke up first. 'Two divisions, sir?'

'You heard me, private. One moment I hear we're on the offensive and pushing towards the Imperial HQ, the next we've got alarms going off as the horizon lights up like a damned Christmas tree and all contact with the eleventh and eighteenth vanishes, while the Empire begins to rapidly advance on us. Last intel I got was that it's a standard heavy mechanised infantry composition coming in. Stoyk, you still remember what that entails?'

'Aye sir,' the grizzled sergeant replied as he fell in effortlessly behind his Lt. 'Means there's going to be shield tanks in the back, a fuck ton of support vehicles in front of those, up to and including heavy tanks, SPGs and every other nasty bit they have, with infantry in power armour in the front. What are we against in terms of numbers, sir?'

'Full division to start with,' the lieutenant said as the platoon reached their position in the large defensive wall. 'Stoyk, spread the men. Yakob, you take the HMG.'

'Sir!' the two men replied, Yakob eagerly sliding himself behind the heavy machine gun. He motioned for Velin and Sava to help him and between the three of them they quickly had the heavy weapon loaded and ready. Stoyk busied himself putting every other man of the platoon into the best spot. Yakob felt his nerves calm down as he ran his hands over the metal. There were shields all around them. They had the height advantage, there were artillery battalions behind them, as well as plenty of reinforcements. They were protected by the heavy armour built into the wall, had perfect cover and there were three wings standing by on site. The enemies would have to cross a minefield and attack a prepared position. This shouldn't be a battle, but a slaughter. This would be a slaughter, he chastised himself.

Yet, as he swept his sight over the dust cloud in the distance that hid the Imperial Army marching on their position, he couldn't keep a cold shiver from traversing down his spine.

Private First Class Rajab El-Rayes held his gun close to him as he jumped off the tank that had ferried his platoon this close to the front line. The first wave was slowing down, having blasted through the weakened frontline of the Novican defences an hour earlier. Now it was the second wave's turn to take the front and show the traitorous bastards what it meant to piss off the Empire. They had been briefed extensively on the enemy strength. He and the men around him knew perfectly well what kind of abattoir they were about to storm into, but none of them particularly cared about that. They fought for the Empire. Their personal lives mattered little in that.

He hadn't understood that when he had first joined up. His story wasn't a unique one. Plenty of impoverished civilians in the Empire jumped at the chance to enlist. He had been one of the many, greedily taking the offer of a fair wage, good food and job security. He had joined up a total idiot. Basic had been a nightmare of a time. His instructors had been demons summoned up straight from hell and he had been their hapless victim. Every single one of them had been tougher and meaner than the worst boss he had ever had before this and none of them had even the slightest intention of letting the fresh meat go. Two dozen men had started the training and they'd damn well end up with two dozen again, which didn't deter them in the slightest to, quite literally, break people if it suited them. You simply couldn't quit and if you got hurt they just glued you back together until you were once again functional. If you broke something or took damage beyond the medics' ability to fix, they'd just alter their schedule and exercises, but you'd stick with the group. No way out. He chuckled at the memory. He really ought to have read the fine print more carefully.

The physical training had only been one half of it. The other part was something that was straight up indoctrination. Tactics and warfare were one thing, but he had been lectured, for months on end, on the importance of the group. Ironically enough, his instructors had informed them, that this did not mean that the individual did not matter. The group gained strength through strong individuals and as a collective, the group used that strength to protect everyone. One for all, all for one. That poetic crap. It sounded ridiculous, but given enough time, beatings, near-death experiences and practical examples, the group had bonded together and taken that notion to heart. A single individual could, at key moments, sacrifice himself to give the rest of the group the chance to acquire victory. On paper, his instructors had told them, you did it because it's the best option available to you. If people have to die, it's best to let as few as possible die. In reality, however, you died for your mates, as they would die for you. Who died when was a matter of place and time, but when it happened, when your moment arrived, you could not afford to hesitate. And so you didn't. You went in, screaming and firing and did as much damage as you could before your inevitable demise, because in doing so you allowed others to survive. Then, they had explained, you had to apply that logic to the entirety of the Imperial military. One unit died so several others could live. Because you were all in it together.

Now that the battle had begun, as the muzzle flashes of enemy artillery indicated, all those lessons rushed back to the front of Rajab's mind. One particular memory stood out amidst the plenty, a singular time when he had been called in the lead drill sergeant. He had all but shat himself at the time, doing his mandatory twenty push-ups before knocking on the door. He had entered, stood at attention and had remained that way as the sergeant explained, in great detail, how his sacrifice had bought the platoon the necessary time to flank the enemy and win the battle. The imposing instructor's voice was neutral as he went over everything, from the most minor of relocations to every last movement of his trigger finger. Every action he had taken, every decision he had made was thoroughly scrutinised. He was asked in depth questions about what motivated him during the entire process and at the end, after four long, gruelling years, Rajab El-Rayes was found to have acquired the necessary traits to become an official part of the Imperial military. Absolute loyalty to the higher ranks. Unshakable faith in your colleagues. Unwavering devotion to your duty.

It was more akin to faith established through hellish training than anything else. Constant war games made sure you stayed on your toes and despite the harsh discipline that was ever present, the tight bond you had with your colleagues ensured that you had plenty of fun all around. It also meant that when the time came, you didn't hesitate. You fought for your brothers, those you knew and those you didn't. Because you knew that they were doing the same for you.

Then the first shell of the incoming artillery barrage hit the shield he and the others of his platoon were under and he fully focused on the here and now. The Lt had briefed them extensively and they knew the importance of their mission. He held his rifle more tightly. They wouldn't fail.

The shield tank took up position next to them, the rest of the attack vehicles assuming a v-formation around it. The Novican artillery barrage intensified, but they had a lot of targets to strike and the shields held nicely as more and more tanks and platoons arrived, thickening the line. More soldiers hopped off their impromptu transports and spread out while the officers linked coms and finalised their plans. The twelfth platoon used their last bit of free time to double check their equipment and scan the terrain, pointing at specific bits of cover or spots where they'd be out in the open. Then the Lt rejoined them.

'Right. Our job's plain and simple. Massed charge on that line of bunkers over there. The shield tanks will advance with us until we breach most of the minefield. If they go any closer, the Novicans will just overwhelm them through sheer fire. So, that's where this round starts. Our entire battalion's here and they're not the only one. Once we get in, our job is to tear the place apart. Once we're done with the bunkers, we make for the shield projectors behind them, which will finally allow our own artillery to join the game. We should have orbital superiority by then as well, but the boys in the Navy can't throw down enough firepower to overwhelm the shields without boiling us in the process. That means we'll have to do it all the old fashioned way. I hope you're all up for a nice jog.'

The Lt took his time to look at each and every one of his men and gave them a nod. 'None of us are likely to survive this, so before we get to it, I want you to know that it's been an honour to lead you. You have been exemplary soldiers and I am proud to have lead you all. Now, let's make the Empire proud one last time. Make those bastards realise just who they picked a fight with when they betrayed us like the cowardly sons of bitches they are. Trust in one another when we charge. Cover your fellow man. And blow the enemy to kingdom come. Get ready, gear up. We move in fifty.'

'Sir, yes sir!' nineteen voices screamed into the coms, loud enough to make it out of the power armour. Rajab didn't mind that his tears were flowing freely as he turned around and punched Mikal's shoulder in a final gesture of brotherhood. Then he took in his place left of the tank him and his squad would accompany and waited for the go signal. He trained his eyes on the goal, slid his finger onto the trigger and let himself slip into a feral state of mind.

The attack begun and immediately the Imperials started taking losses. So far the Novican artillery had done nothing more than discolour the thick shield barrier, but now that the entire enemy wave was burning daylight to close the gap, that had begun to change. The longer ranged cannons joined the bombardment and the staccato of heavy clunks that accompanied each shot were like music to Yakob's ears. Shockwaves started bleeding through the shields and while they were still stopped by the next field, it did wonders for his morale. The Imps weren't sitting still either and their heavy duty vehicles took the lead, heavy lead balls slamming the ground in front of them while powerful disruptor fields were channelled into the ground whenever the scanners picked up a mine. One way or another the Imperials would blow their way through the treacherous minefield.

Then, all at once, the entire attack seemed to come to a full stop. The shield domes ceased their movement and a fair number of shells ploughed the ground in front of them instead. Yakob blinked in surprise, then heard his Lt swear. He looked through the scope of his gun and realised that they had stopped just short of his attack range.

'Get ready men!' the lieutenant shouted and Yakob all but crawled into his scope.

He peered through it and his eyes went wide when the Imperials left the safety of their own shields and commenced the assault. Heavy tanks thundered forward, accompanied by soldiers clad in power armour. Lighter vehicles slid out of the protective cover and unloaded their missile payload. Point defences flared online and interceptor systems launched their countermeasures. Imperial missiles dropped heat flares in response and the overhead duel begun in earnest. The sky was lit up by hundreds of explosions, but the Novican defensive line held, only a handful missiles breaking through and even then they failed to create any solid breaches. It didn't deter the Imperials, who simply drove their vehicles back into cover and immediately began reloading.

In the meantime Yakob got to be busy. Very busy. The first Imperial troops simply stormed through the minefield, chasing the juggernauts that were upturning the ground and clearing a path. Yakob knew better than to waste ammo on the heavily armoured beasts and instead turned his attention on the infantry behind it. He pushed down the trigger and began sending controlled bursts towards the invading army.

'Alpha, go!' Mikal screamed and Rajab obeyed. He stopped firing, jumped up from the ground and sprinted forward. One hundred and one. One hundred and two. One hundred and three! 'Alpha, down!' Mikal's voice tore through the carnage and he dropped down again, rolled over once, twice, then snapped up his rifle and fired again. He was aiming, but knew better than to assume he'd hit anything from this distance. He was merely providing covering fire while Bravo got up and advanced. All across the line platoons and squads were jumping in teams, staying in the clear for only brief moments before jumping to cover again. It didn't make them invincible, but it kept the Novicans from drawing a clear bead on them. Mostly. Sixty odd feet to the side he saw a guy from another platoon take a full burst to the chest. The armour held, but the man was blown back and before anyone could act, two follow-up salvos tore him to shreds. Rajab mourned him silently and got up again, reloading as he sprinted. Soldiers were dying in droves. The lead vehicles were focused by the enemy gun crews and blown into scrap, putting an end to the easy run through the minefield. Now they were going to have to find mines the old fashioned way. By stepping on them. This day was just getting better and better.

Oh well, he thought with a grim smile. 'Always wanted to go out with a bang.'

Yakob didn't get it. The first wave of the Imperial troops had been decimated. They'd run straight into the kill zones, trying to get close enough to do heavy damage to the entrenched Novican troops. Fire from the walls aside, the bastards were charging directly through an active minefield, without hesitation. Guns kept barking, missiles kept flying and heavy weapons fired as fast as the crews could feed them ammo or switch barrels and the casualties reaped amongst the Imperials were in the thousands by now, all in less than ten minutes. And still they were coming, the second wave catching up with the decimated first and pushing ever closer to the wall. He heard a shrill howling and instinctively unfastened the barrel, the bloody thing glowing red from the heat. His loader immediately slammed a new barrel into place and within a few seconds they resumed firing. More Imperials fell as he swept the muzzle over the advancing infantry, sending more men to their deaths. And still they came. Never faltering, never hesitating. It was fucking unreal.

'Alpha, g—' Mikal began, before a heavy shell impacted the tank beside him and blew the both of them into the afterlife. Rajab didn't miss a beat. 'Alpha, go!' he screamed, then laughed. He was alone now. Bravo was down to two men as well and he was alone. No, not entirely. Amidst the storm of bullets and rain of shells, four others were marching alongside him. He didn't know their names, their platoon or their rank and it didn't matter either. They were Imperial military, like him, and they were advancing. Amidst the death and the carnage, over the mines and the wrecks of armour, through the pain and the fear. 'FORWARD!' he screamed, switching his broadcast so everyone around him could hear.

'FORWARD!' came the immediate reply as the shout was picked up by their isolated front element. They were close to the wall now, only a scant three hundred feet separating them from the first bunker. Rajab had no clear idea what he'd do when he would reach it, if he lived that long, because he hadn't been the one equipped with breaching weaponry. Oh well, if push came to shove he could lob a few grenades in and do it all the old fashioned way. Jump in through the window and in the time it'd take his body to get torn apart, he should be able to clear out at least one nest.

He opened fire again and realised he was down to only half a dozen mags, meaning he had already blown through five times that number. He filed the information and sent another burst forward. Now he could aim and he grinned in satisfaction as he saw two Novican infantrymen go down in a spray of blood. How's it feels, fuckers? he grinned. There was no reason to his thoughts, no higher emotions involved. Most of his platoon was dead, but he was still standing and that meant he would advance and kill, until the very last breath left him.

Then he saw a muzzle light up and the next moment he was slammed backwards as a salvo struck him right in the chest. The armour tightened, then broke, the close range burst proving too much for it. He felt the bullets tear through his chest as his armour's systems kicked in and started pumping him full of chemicals, stimulants and other stuff he didn't know the name off. As he lay there on his back, he looked up, in a daze, at the Novican machine gunner, who was preparing to finish him off. He weakly tried to raise his rifle. Take the man with him. One more. Just one more. The ground trembled underneath him and he blinked in surprise when a massive roar temporarily deafened him, as opposed to the flash of the muzzle and the painful, short-lived sting of death.

'Bloody hell!' Yakob shouted, pushing the wreck of his machine gun off of him. He ran his hand over his face, clearing off the dust and began checking himself for wounds. 'Everyone still alive?' he called out as he went over his main arteries and was pleased to find them untouched. Well, not bleeding at least. 'Velin's dead!' Sava shouted. Yakob shook his head and whispered a prayer, followed by a curse. That bloody tank had taken him off guard. The Imp armour had gotten a lot closer on account of their infantry playing organic minesweeper. From this close the bastards could easily shove a shell into the bunker's firing slits, which was what had happened.

He crawled out of the rubble and drew his sidearm, dragging himself towards the edge of the bunker, before peeking out. What he saw defied beliefs.

Novican artillery had adjusted their range as much as possible and were sending a steady stream of high explosive and incendiary shells down onto the Imperial lines, who were dying by the hundreds in the unrelenting bombardment. Every man and woman in the wall was laying down as much fire as possible, even smaller calibres succeeding in taking down soldiers in power armour through sheer mass of fire. Thousands, if not tens of thousands of Imperials had died in this stupid, ridiculous frontal assault, yet they had reached the bunkers in record time and had now begun to fire back in turn. More missiles rained down, more and more of the damnable things breaking through now that the Novican interceptor stocks were nearly depleted. Fresh tanks flattened the wrecks of their predecessors and buried the firing slits with their own heavy rounds. Imperial infantry crawled over the corpses of their fallen comrades and supported the vehicles. Smoke grenades were popped and the Imperials charged the line, forcing the Novicans to engage in close quarters combat.

The door to his bunker was stomped open and Yakob sighed in relief when a squad of heavily armoured allies stormed in, immediately throwing themselves into cover and bringing their heavy weapons to bear.

The bunker line was damaged, but they hadn't fallen yet. They were throwing in reinforcements of their own now and the exhausted Imperials would be contesting ownership of the wall with the Novican's own power armoured forces.

'Bring it, you insane bastards,' he whispered, promising them a bloody death.

Despite that he couldn't stop his hand from shaking. The enemy had just run through a minefield, brought down a heavily entrenched position through sheer numbers and blind devotion whilst losing thousands of men in the process. No sane man would follow orders like that. This entire battle was just a one sided show of insanity of the Imperials and it began to deeply unnerve him.

Rajab was dying and he damned well knew it. The stims his suit had pumped into his body were the last thing keeping him standing and were the only reason why he hadn't kicked it just yet. His right arm was useless and he couldn't aim worth a damn with his left. But he was close! So close! The bastard who shot him was, if that shell hadn't killed him, hiding inside that broken bunker. He ran, as fast as his legs and the servos of his armour could carry him, hoping to outrun the final call of death. One more, he thought to himself. Just one more.

His charge was interrupted a scant few feet from the bunker itself by the loud cough of a heavy weapon and he felt something hot and heavy get rid of his right shoulder. He grimaced as his eyes flashed towards the source, his body already far beyond the ability to feel pain. He saw another enemy in there. Then another. Then another!

His left hand slid across his armour and he fingered the pin on the grenade, the rest of his digits wrapping around the handle. He couldn't pull it properly, but then again he wasn't planning on throwing it.

Just a few more, he amended his earlier thought as he stubbornly refused to die as more rounds tore through him, taking out a chunk of his center mass. His body was dead. His mind just refused to accept it yet.

Just a few more.

Yakob's eyes went wide as the impossibly wounded Imperial soldier threw himself into the bunker even as his allies blew him apart. The man was missing half his body, his armour was shot to pieces and the last shot had broken open his visor.

'Fucking fanatics,' Yakob whispered, subconsciously drawing an age old symbol that warded off evil spirits. The look of the corpse was unnerving.

Then he saw the Imperial's eyes, very much alive and grinning where his mouth couldn't.

'Got you,' Rajab coughed, just before the grenade went off.

General Shivran received the final report of the battle and went over it with a deep sigh. Seventeen thousand men lost, but the first heavy defensive line had fallen in less than thirty minutes. All those deaths, all those losses, purely because they needed to keep up the momentum. He already had received reports of massive troop movements taking place behind Novican lines as they redirected their forces to stop the four pronged Imperial assault, now that their original defences were proven to be incapable of holding off the invaders with the forces stationed there

The general stood up and looked towards the camera feed that showed the HQ. Thousands of men and women and hundreds of vehicles and fliers were buzzing about, reminding him of an anthill. So many people beyond the ones under his command counted on him to see this through to a good end. So many had already died and so many countless others would as well. Yet there was no other way. Angry Comet had to succeed and no matter how much he hated sending his men to their deaths, they all had a role to play and he could not shirk his duty any more than those beneath him could.

He turned towards the battle map and sighed. He hoped that Genesis would make their appearance soon. He prayed that they would succeed. That this battle, this slaughter, could end. But until then he had to push forward. He shook his head and dismissed his emotions, pushing himself back into the role of an Imperial General.

'Tell the third wave to prepare itself. We're going to see Novican counterattacks from this point on. Get me our NavInt liason on the coms. I want detailed information.'

Yes, he thought. We all have our role to play. Forever and always. All for a singular purpose.

His eyes narrowed as plans and unit structures flashed through his mind.

The Empire endures.