[Your eyes snap open.]
[You bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. Your lungs burn as if you've been running for hours.]
[You look down at yourself frantically, hands patting your chest, your arms, searching for wounds that should be there.]
[Nothing. Your skin is unmarked, whole.]
[You press a hand to your forehead, confused and disoriented.]
[You stare at your other palm, turning it over slowly.]
[There's something fading from your body. A familiar sensation, a burning that's not quite physical pain. The lingering touch of Warp flame, perhaps. The echo of something that tried to claim you but failed.]
[You lie back down, suddenly exhausted.]
[Your eyes close again despite your efforts to stay alert.]
[The sedative hasn't fully left your system. Your mind is clouded, thoughts moving like they're wading through mud.]
[Your body feels like you've run a marathon. Every muscle aches with deep, bone-tired fatigue.]
["Emperor protect..." you whisper into the darkness.]
[Sleep takes you again, dragging you down into dreamless black.]
[In the second week, the scattered survivors in the medical city begin the process of reorganization.]
[Charles, the medic who'd nearly had you shot, speaks on your behalf to the unit commanders.]
[You're assigned to the Cadian 4012th Armored Regiment.]
[When asked about your qualifications, you're honest. You don't know how to drive a Leman Russ tank. Have never even been inside one before this posting.]
[Your honesty impresses Colonel Odrameyer, the regiment's commanding officer. He's a weathered man with scars that tell stories of a dozen campaigns. He appreciates straight answers more than empty boasts.]
[When he learns that your shooting scores are exceptional, his eyes light up.]
[He makes you a hull-mounted gunner on the spot. Your only task: operate the twin-linked heavy bolter. Shred anything that gets in front of your tank.]
[It's a job you can do. A job you'll excel at.]
[By the third week, the undermanned armored regiment has scraped together fifteen Leman Russ tanks.]
[The regiment should have three times that number. But this is war, and you work with what you have.]
[The tank you're assigned to runs with a skeleton crew of three. It should have five, maybe six, but there aren't enough trained personnel.]
[The tank commander handles driving and overall command.]
[The gunner operates the main turret weapon solo, a job that normally requires two people.]
[And you control the hull-mounted heavy bolter, scanning for targets and providing covering fire.]
[Despite the dire situation, Colonel Odrameyer gathers all personnel and makes an announcement.]
[In a few days, the regiment will join an expedition led by War Apostle Mathieu, a priest of the Ecclesiarchy. You'll advance into enemy-held territory to strike at the Plague Alliance directly, fighting under the Emperor's watchful gaze.]
[You're not surprised by this news. If anything, you've been waiting for it, eager to bring the fight to the enemy.]
[You spend every spare moment loading your Leman Russ with ammunition and supplies. Shells for the main gun. Bolter rounds by the thousands. Food, water, promethium for the engine. Every available space gets packed with something useful.]
[In the fourth week, the expedition's religious leadership arrives.]
[A priest of the Adeptus Ministorum appears, resplendent in his ceremonial robes. A servo-skull hovers above his head, eye-lenses recording everything.]
[Behind him march several Battle Sisters in gleaming power armor, their weapons blessed and ready. Following them comes a mob of civilian faithful, zealots who've taken up arms in the Emperor's name.]
[Colonel Odrameyer and the priest greet each other warmly. Old comrades, perhaps, or at least old acquaintances who've fought together before.]
[They speak briefly, then the colonel turns and bellows the order.]
[The expedition launches.]
[Leman Russ engines roar to life, a choir of mechanical thunder. The vibration rattles through the hull, through your bones, into your teeth.]
[At the head of the column, an enormous war-train rumbles forward. It's a magnificent machine, bristling with weapons and armor, covered in purity seals and devotional script.]
[Civilian vehicles join the procession. Trucks, tractors, even some ground cars retrofitted with armor plating and mounted guns. Those without vehicles march on foot, clutching lasguns or improvised weapons.]
[The Battle Sisters begin their war-hymns, voices rising in perfect harmony.]
[The priest stands atop a Leman Russ and delivers a sermon, his amplified voice carrying across the entire column. He speaks of duty, of faith, of the Emperor's eternal vigilance.]
[You watch the civilian zealots, see the fervor in their eyes, the absolute conviction in their movements.]
[You sigh quietly. They're going to die. Most of them, anyway. But their faith is real, and that counts for something.]
[In the fifth week, the massive expedition leaves the relative safety of populated areas and pushes into the wilderness.]
[The Plague Alliance's invasion has left its mark everywhere.]
[What were once fertile fields now lie abandoned, choked with weeds that grow unnaturally thick and fast. Between the hills and mountains, the forests have died. Twisted vines strangle the trees, leaving only skeletal branches reaching toward an uncaring sky.]
[Your gunner, a taciturn man who rarely speaks, finally opens up a bit.]
[This isn't just natural decay, he explains. The Plague Alliance brings corruption with them. Where they walk, life itself becomes sick, twisted, wrong. The planet is dying, slowly transformed into something that would please the Rot Lord.]
[Colonel Odrameyer assigns your tank to perimeter security. You're one of the outer ring, the first line of defense if the enemy attacks.]
[You check your heavy bolter's machine spirit one more time, speaking the proper litanies. You reload the ammunition, making sure the feed is clean and smooth.]
[As the expedition pushes deeper into hostile territory, movement appears on the horizon.]
[Plague zombies. Dozens at first, then hundreds, shambling across the desolate landscape toward your column.]
[They were Imperial citizens once. Now they're walking corpses, transformed by disease into mindless cannon fodder for the enemy.]
[As the distance closes, you open fire.]
[The heavy bolter roars, a thunderous bark that drowns out everything else. The recoil pounds through your shoulders as you sweep the weapon across your field of fire.]
[Plague zombies explode under the mass-reactive rounds. Bodies come apart in sprays of rotten flesh and diseased bone. Your firing lane becomes a killing field.]
[But they keep coming. For every one you destroy, two more appear. They're endless, breeding and multiplying like insects.]
[Colonel Odrameyer recognizes the tactic. The enemy is trying to drain your ammunition, force you to expend your supplies on worthless targets.]
[His orders crackle over the vox. "All tanks, conserve ammunition. Use your mass. Crush them under your treads."]
[You grab onto the heavy bolter's mounting as your tank commander acknowledges.]
[The Leman Russ lurches forward. Your commander pulls a sharp turn, the tank's rear end sliding in a controlled drift, and then you're charging directly into the tide of corpses.]
[The sound is horrific. Bodies crunch and pop under sixty tons of armor and machinery. Diseased flesh smears across the treads.]
[Fifteen Leman Russ tanks plow through the horde, crushing everything in their path. Gradually, the endless wave begins to thin.]
[Then new threats emerge.]
[Nurgle Beasts burst from concealment. Huge, bloated monstrosities, combinations of diseased flesh and daemonic essence. They're fast despite their bulk, bounding toward your tanks with terrible purpose.]
[Your training kicks in. You scan the battlefield, identify the threat, calculate firing solutions.]
["Contact! Three o'clock, one hundred meters!" you shout, your voice sharp and clear over the internal vox. "Nurgle Beast, closing fast!"]
[Your gunner doesn't waste time acknowledging. The turret swivels smoothly, servo-motors whirring. The main gun tracks the target, leading it slightly.]
[The gunner fires.]
[The cannon's blast is deafening inside the hull. The entire tank shudders from the recoil, suspension groaning under the stress.]
[Through your vision slit, you watch the shell impact the Nurgle Beast dead center. The creature explodes, literally comes apart in a shower of corrupt flesh and daemonic essence. The blast wave flattens plague zombies in a wide radius, creating a temporary clearing in the horde.]
[Colonel Odrameyer's voice crackles through the vox, warm with approval. "Good kill, boys. Keep it up."]
[You turn and catch the gunner's eye. He grins, feral and fierce.]
[You can't help but grin back.]
["Commander!" you call forward. "Request permission for another pass!"]
[Your tank commander doesn't speak. Never does unless absolutely necessary. But his hand rises above the driver's compartment, thumb extended upward.]
[The engine roars louder. The Leman Russ surges forward with renewed fury, plunging back into the sea of bodies.]
[You work your heavy bolter methodically, conserving ammunition now, taking only the shots that count. The main gun booms again and again as your gunner picks off the larger threats.]
[The battle rages for hours, but eventually, the tide turns.]
[The last plague zombie falls. The last Nurgle Beast dies in a hail of artillery fire.]
[The Cadian 4012th Armored Regiment has won its first engagement. Victory tastes like promethium fumes and spent shell casings.]
[But you know this is just the beginning. The real enemy still waits ahead, deeper in the corrupted wilderness.]
[Ku'gath and his plagues are out there somewhere. And sooner or later, you're going to meet him again.]