“It is under the most dire of circumstances that true leaders are born”. The words of his father rang in the mind of young Lieutenant Wolodimir Zhukhov as he and his platoon endured their sixth month of bombardment from Ork Big Gunz. The Valhallan 406th regiment on Terosa had been pounded relentlessly during that time, with pauses only to allow Orks to charge through the no-man’s land, test the Imperial defenses, and kill even more guardsmen in hand to hand combat. Ammunition and supplies were in bad shape, and morale was worse. Lt. Zhukov received intermittent word from his commander to ‘hold defenses’; that ‘reinforcements were on the way’, but Zhukov knew better. Terosa was little more than a listening post, not an Imperial garrison. As such, it was expendable, and Zhukov’s commander knew it. The young officer walked the line, speaking to each of his men in turn, but he knew that the best they could hope for was to honor themselves in what was soon to be certain death. It was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make, a steadfastly devout officer of the Imperium whose family had served for 10 generations.
In the dark of night, as Zhukov stared across the battle lines through the smoke of the no-man’s land, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, a faint crackling came over the voxcaster. Zhukov’s commander was announcing a counter-offensive against the green skins. The young lieutenant knew that the day of reckoning was finally at hand. His commander, whose courage he had privately questioned on many occasions, was finally shining through. This would be the Valhallan’s final stand. Zhukov grinned at the thought, ready to fight and die for the Imperium, gaining glory in the eyes of his forbears. He readied his men for battle and awaited the assault force.
As Zhukov and his men readied to charge the Ork lines, they waited for the main force to catch up to them before the attack commenced. The din of heavy bolter and shootas rang out in the night, a veritable cacophony of gunfire and screams. As Zhukov ordered his men to rise up from the trenches, he looked back toward his Imperial reinforcements and his heart sank. Crawling resolutely toward his trench from behind his line, Zhukov saw mighty Imperial war machines, re-painted with Chaos colors and hung with traitorous embellishments. Beside them, Chaos Space Marines strode alongside his commander’s command squad, the lot of them firing at the Orks. Zhukov stood bewildered, unable to fathom what he was seeing. His jaw dropped in horror at the sight before him – his fellow guardsmen turned had traitor and were working with Chaos forces.
The young Lieutenant abruptly snapped out of his state when the mighty Waaaaagh! of a charging Ork mob came upon him and his men. Greenskins charged into the lines, leaping with reckless abandon into the trenches, choppas high overhead as they smashed into the Imperial column. Zhukhov and his men fired point blank down the trench corridors, blasting their way through their attackers. The air was thick with smoke and the smells of gore and burnt flesh. The battle raged on all night and all day, the ashes and smoke blocking out the sun. In the end, the Orks were broken and defeated. The small Imperial post at Terosa was but a shattered remnant of what it once was, yet it endured. Their new Chaos masters had departed back to their Battlecruiser, sated with their new unholy alliance.
Zhukov and his men, covered in blood, reported to the command headquarters as instructed to debrief the commander. As they walked through the main depot, the guardsmen stared wide-eyed at the vehicles in the motor pool, sporting the colors of the Iron Warrior Cobalt Legion. Fellow guardsmen continued to work on the vehicles, their faces ashen at the turn of events, but most happy just to be alive. The depot was lined with hundreds of corpses, the infirmary tent teeming with screaming guardsmen who would likely join them soon. Zhukov stared ahead intently on the command tend, striding ahead. The tension in the courtyard was palpable.
Zhukov flipped open the door to the tent and entered alone, his first sergeant remaining outside with the rest of his men. Looking around cautiously, the sergeant noted that the colours of the the 406th had been taken down and replaced with Cobalt Legion heraldry. He swore to himself and bit his lip in disgust. Slowly, guardsmen started emerging from tents and between vehicles, all eyes on Zhukov’s men. Another sergeant emerged from the armory, a Cobalt-coloured sash around his waist. He unslung his Las-rifle slowly and let it hang at his side, casually flicking the safety off as Zhukov’s first sergeant stared at him.
The commander sat at a large desk looking over a map, his executive officer standing beside him, the nub of a cigar clenched between yellowed teeth. The grizzled commander looked up grimly and sighed, knowing that Zhukov would demand some kind of explanation. He was working on the right way to explain that this alliance was the only way to prevent the annihilation of the 406th, that it was better to live to fight another day. Zhukov strode coolly before his commander, drew his las-pistol, and shot the old man in the face three times. The commander dropped like a ragdoll, wisps of smoke where he had once stood trailing from the scorched holes in his face. The XO stood abruptly, drawing his pistol. Zhukov rushed the man, grappling with him as the two fought to gain the upper hand. The two wrestled mightily, falling on the floor together, their pistols skittering across the floor. The XO lost the advantage and soon found Zhukov straddling him, punching him in the face as he fought to fend off the attack. The XO finally found Zhukov’s neck, choking him hard, his nails digging deeply into the Lieutenant’s neck. Zhukov pounded the XO in the face again and again, breaking his nose and several teeth as his face became an unrecognizable, bloody mess. As the XO’s grip relaxed, Zhukov leaned back abruptly, withdrew his combat dagger from his boot, and jabbed it forward quickly, shoving it in just past the man’s chin, up through his beard, through his mouth and tongue, all the way to the hilt. The XO flailed uncontrollably for a few seconds, his eyes rolling back in his head as he screamed through his clenched teeth, blood gurgling from his nose and lips. Zhukov held the man down until he moved no more, finally standing, out of breath as the XO’s blood pooled around his head and shoulders.
Emerging from the tent wild-eyed and with his dripping combat blade still in hand, Zhukov addressed the men. “The Commander and XO were traitors to the Imperium and have been relieved of duty. I am assuming command of the 406th effective immediately. Any man who wishes to affirm their loyalty to the Emperor and regiment, remove your traitor colours and stand with me.” Without pause, every man wearing Cobalt colors removed them and cast them down, taking stance in Imperial formation. All but one. The sergeant continued to eye Zhukov’s first sergeant, his Cobalt sash still tied around his waist. In an instant, the sergeant raised his Las-Rifle toward Zhukov to fire. At the same time, the first sergeant drew two bolt pistols and fired shot after shot, 10mm armor piercing rounds shattering the traitorous guardsman’s ribcage and skull as he slumped to the ground, a pile of raw meat. Zhukov nodded with approval as the first sergeant looked around, scouting for any other would-be challengers. Satisfied that there were none, he wiped his blade clean, slipped it back into its scabbard, and called out “let’s get to work!”
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