Duty, Faith & Glory

The command bunker stinks of sweat, promethium fumes, and recycled air. You stand at the edge of a hololithic table, its surface flickering with the tactical topography of the Ash Wastes. Red markers swarm like a contagion across the northern hive spires, while a new, sickly purple haze has begun to creep in from the equatorial regions—Ch...

The command bunker stinks of sweat, promethium fumes, and recycled air. You stand at the edge of a hololithic table, its surface flickering with the tactical topography of the Ash Wastes. Red markers swarm like a contagion across the northern hive spires, while a new, sickly purple haze has begun to creep in from the equatorial regions—Chaos. Commissar Hellier grunts beside you, his augmetic lung wheezing with each breath. He jabs a thick finger at a cluster of red icons. “Ork splinter forces. Still think they can take Hades Hive back. Fools.” You keep your gaze fixed on the map. The loss of your left arm is a dull phantom ache beneath the whirring bionic, a constant reminder of the last time you faced an Ork Nob in close quarters. You’ve learned to compensate. The long-las slung across your back is your true weapon now—a surgeon’s tool for a battlefield of butchers. “And the warp incursions?” you ask, your voice steady despite the fatigue pulling at your bones. Hellier’s jaw tightens. “Khorne cultists. Tzeentch sorcerers. They’re not here to win. They’re here to bleed us dry while the greenskins do the same.” He turns to you, his one good eye narrowing. “Yarrick leaves at dawn. He’ll take the Fortitude of Iron and a strike force into the void. We stay. We hold.” The weight of that word—hold—settles on your shoulders like a leaden cloak. Millions of Orks. Daemons. A world choked by industry and ash. And you, a junior commissar with a bionic arm and too many nightmares. Through the bunker’s reinforced viewport, the sky glows a bruised orange, lit by distant artillery flashes. Somewhere out there, the war grinds on. And you are already part of it.

The hololithic table flickers as a new data-stream overlays the tactical map—a priority signal from orbital surveillance. Hellier leans forward, his augmetic lung hissing as he reads the scrolling text. His weathered face tightens. “Inquisitor Nix is requesting reinforcement at the equatorial survey station,” he says, not looking at you....

The hololithic table flickers as a new data-stream overlays the tactical map—a priority signal from orbital surveillance. Hellier leans forward, his augmetic lung hissing as he reads the scrolling text. His weathered face tightens. “Inquisitor Nix is requesting reinforcement at the equatorial survey station,” he says, not looking at you. “Her kill-teams have been engaging Tzeentch cultists for three days. They’re holding, but barely.” You study the purple haze creeping across the southern hemisphere of the projection. The survey station sits at the edge of that contamination, a lonely outpost on the border between ash wastes and warp-touched territory. If it falls, the cultists will have a clear path toward the industrial heartlands. “She’s not the type to ask for help lightly,” you say. Hellier snorts. “Bloody Mary doesn’t ask for anything. This is a demand.” He straightens, rolling his shoulder with a grimace. “But she’s right. If that station goes, we lose early warning on the entire southern front.” He turns to face you fully, his one good eye boring into yours. For a long moment, the only sound is the distant rumble of artillery and the hum of the hololithic projector. “You’ve been training for real command,” he says, his voice carrying an edge you haven’t heard before. “Consider this your first independent assignment. Take a squad, reinforce the station, and report directly to Inquisitor Nix. Don’t embarrass me.” The weight of his words settles in your chest—equal parts pride and cold dread. He’s trusting you with a real mission. No hand-holding. No safety net. Hellier turns back to the map, dismissing you with a wave of his hand. “You leave in thirty minutes. Brief your squad. And Vance?” You pause at the bunker door. “Don’t die. I’m not done teaching you yet.”

The bunker door slides shut behind you with a pneumatic hiss, cutting off the low hum of the command center. The corridor beyond is dimly lit, emergency lumens casting long shadows across the reinforced plasteel walls. Your boots echo against the deck plating as you make your way toward the barracks. Thirty minutes. Not nearly enough tim...

The bunker door slides shut behind you with a pneumatic hiss, cutting off the low hum of the command center. The corridor beyond is dimly lit, emergency lumens casting long shadows across the reinforced plasteel walls. Your boots echo against the deck plating as you make your way toward the barracks. Thirty minutes. Not nearly enough time. You find them in the staging area—a converted storage bay now serving as a makeshift armory and briefing room. Sergeant Urphem Jenkins stands apart from the others, field-stripping his lasgun with practiced efficiency, his movements precise and economical. He glances up as you enter, one eyebrow rising. "Fresh orders, Commissar?" His tone carries that familiar edge of arrogance, but there's a flicker of genuine curiosity beneath it. Trooper Brett Briars is seated on a munitions crate, sharpening a combat knife with long, deliberate strokes. He catches your eye and offers a small nod—a silent acknowledgment between friends. The rest of the squad, eight soldiers in total, look up from their equipment checks. You step to the center of the room and key the hololithic projector built into the floor. A ghostly image of the equatorial survey station flickers to life, its outline traced in pale blue light. "We're moving out," you say, your voice steady despite the weight settling in your gut. "Inquisitor Nix needs reinforcements. We're going to give them." Jenkins sets down his lasgun, his full attention now on you.