[Simulation starting...]
[Current identities available: Catachan Recruit, Death Korps of Krieg Grenadier, Kashezin Sergeant Major, Letalis Storm Squad Trooper]
[Please select your identity]
[Declining will result in random selection]
[Identity selection declined]
[Simulation starting...]
[You have arrived in the Warhammer Universe]
[Time Period: M41]
[Location: Milky Way Galaxy, Ultima Segmentum, Taros Campaign]
[Planetary designation: Taros]
[You find yourself inside a Valkyrie assault carrier, the deck vibrating beneath your boots.]
[You wear heavy military-green carapace armor, the plates thick and reinforced. A closed helmet covers your head, the interior display showing basic environmental data.]
[An Accatran-pattern lasgun rests in your hands, the weight familiar and reassuring. On your back, secured by quick-release straps, you carry a grav-chute pack.]
[You turn your head slowly, taking in your surroundings.]
[The Valkyrie's troop bay is dimly lit, shadows pooling in corners. Around you, mortal soldiers dressed identically prepare for combat in focused silence. Most clean and check their Accatran lasguns with practiced efficiency. A few carry specialized equipment: flamer units, portable mortars, demolition charges.]
[You draw a breath, adapting to the cabin's constant vibration as the Valkyrie cuts through atmosphere.]
[You're about to question the nearest soldier when movement catches your eye.]
[From the cockpit, a middle-aged man emerges. He wears the uniform of an Imperial Guard officer, complete with a wide-brimmed hat that shadows his face. What you can see of his skin is weathered, scarred, burned by years of combat. Gray hair escapes from under his hat. His face is a map of old laser burns and blade cuts.]
["Listen up, troopers of the Astra Militarum!" His voice cuts through the engine noise, commanding immediate attention. Every soldier in the bay focuses on him.]
[A smile cracks across his scarred face, transforming his severe expression into something almost paternal.]
["Most Guard regiments get the easy ride," he continues, his tone conversational. "They leave on Valkyries, adjust their lasguns at leisure, say their prayers, land nice and steady under anti-aircraft fire..."]
[His voice rises suddenly, fire igniting in his eyes.]
["But you're not most regiments!"]
[He pauses, letting the words hang in the air.]
["You will leave this Valkyrie in a completely different manner!" His neck bulges with the force of his shout, veins standing out. "Tell me! Boys and girls! How do we land?"]
[Instantly, every soldier in the bay freezes. Hands stop their maintenance work. Bodies straighten.]
[As one, they stand.]
[A chorus of voices, firm and powerful, echoes from within their helmets.]
["FEET FIRST, SIR!"]
[You find yourself shouting along with them, the response automatic, coming from muscle memory you didn't know you possessed.]
[The middle-aged officer snaps to attention and delivers a crisp salute. Then he lets out a battle cry, wordless and primal.]
[The soldiers around you respond with their own roar, pride and defiance mixed in equal measure.]
[A mechanical hiss fills the cabin. The grav-chute on your back emits a low hum as it powers up.]
[You turn toward the source of the sound.]
[The Valkyrie's rear ramp is opening, descending slowly. Brilliant daylight floods the dim interior, so bright after the shadows that you instinctively squint.]
[Wind screams into the bay. Cold, sharp, powerful. It hits you like a physical blow, nearly knocking you off your feet.]
[You stagger, fighting for balance.]
[A hand grabs your arm, steadying you. Strong grip, confident.]
["Careful, Captain!" A female voice, amplified slightly by her helmet's vox. She sounds amused.]
[Before you can thank her, movement explodes around you.]
[Soldiers rush toward the open ramp, screaming their battle cries. One by one, they throw themselves into the void beyond. As each trooper clears the ramp, their grav-chute ignites. White flame streaks behind them, bright against the blue sky, adjusting their trajectory.]
[The woman who steadied you slaps your shoulder plate once, a gesture of camaraderie, then sprints forward without hesitation. She leaps, and her chute fires, and she's gone.]
[Fear coils in your gut. A primal terror of falling, of being helpless in open air.]
[You hesitate at the ramp's edge, feet refusing to move.]
[Your eyes drift sideways. The middle-aged officer stands near the cockpit, one hand resting on his holstered sidearm. His expression is expectant. Patient. But there's steel in that patience.]
[You suck in a deep breath.]
[Then you roar, forcing courage through sheer volume, and charge forward.]
[You leap into nothing.]
[The wind is a knife. It finds every gap in your carapace armor, every seal that isn't quite perfect. Cold air drives into your body like ice water injected directly into your veins.]
[You fall.]
[Weightlessness. Your stomach lurches. The ground is distant, impossibly far, rushing closer with terrifying speed.]
[Your grav-chute activates automatically. White fire erupts from the pack, and suddenly there's resistance. Your fall slows, becomes controlled descent. The chute's machine spirit adjusts thrust constantly, keeping you stable.]
[Against the azure sky, dozens of Valkyries release their cargo. Hundreds of soldiers pour from open ramps, their grav-chutes creating a constellation of white flames.]
[As your Valkyrie banks away, you catch sight of markings on its hull. A distinctive emblem. Recognition clicks into place.]
[Elysian Drop Troops. The finest airborne infantry in the Imperial Guard. "Death from Above" made manifest.]
[The cold saps your body heat with every passing second. You grit your teeth against the chill.]
[You watch the troopers around you, mimicking their body positions. Legs together, arms tight to your sides, letting the grav-chute do its work.]
[The ground approaches rapidly. One minute of fall-time, maybe less.]
[Then impact.]
[Your boots drive deep into soft earth. Mud squelches around military-grade soles. The shock travels up through your legs, joints protesting the force despite the grav-chute's deceleration.]
[But your feet are on solid ground. That's what matters.]
["I hate airdrops," you mutter to yourself, voice shaking slightly.]
[Around you, more soldiers land in rapid succession. Each one hits the ground, immediately drops to a combat crouch, weapon up and scanning. They shed their grav-chutes with practiced efficiency, fingers flying over quick-release clasps.]
[You fumble with your own straps, eventually managing to free yourself from the pack. You check your equipment by touch: lasgun functional, power cell charged, spare cells on your webbing. Everything seems intact.]
[You take stock of your surroundings.]
[An industrial sector. Tall buildings, most of them processing facilities or storage units. The architecture is angular, efficient, utilitarian. Not Imperial construction. Something else.]
[Other Elysian squads have already begun their assault. They breach into nearby structures with textbook precision. Through windows and doorways, you see las-fire streaking in red lines. Blue energy pulses answer back. The enemy is here. The battle has begun.]
[You start to rise, ready to join the fight.]
["Captain! Wrong direction!"]
[Nine soldiers converge on your position, their carapace armor identical to yours. The lead trooper's voice is familiar. The woman who steadied you on the Valkyrie.]
[Her tone stops you mid-movement.]
[Your mind races. Captain. They think you're their commanding officer. You need to maintain that illusion.]
["Repeat mission objectives," you order, keeping your voice steady and authoritative.]
[The woman responds immediately, though you can hear confusion beneath her professional tone.]
["Sir, the 23rd Airborne Regiment's primary objective is to secure freshwater plants designated 23 through 30. Our company's specific target is the water storage facility at grid coordinates—" She pauses, likely checking her helmet display. "Three hundred meters northeast of current position."]
[You nod sharply. "Understood. Lead the way, trooper."]
[She gestures, and your squad moves out. Ten soldiers total, including yourself. You take up a position in the middle of the formation, where a captain would logically be.]
[The sounds of combat intensify. Las-fire. Explosions. Screams. But you haven't encountered the enemy yourself yet.]
[Then, at an intersection ahead, movement erupts.]
[A swarm of red drones bursts from around a corner. Small, roughly the size of human heads, they move with insect-like agility. Each one bristles with weapon mounts.]
[They open fire without warning.]
[Blue pulse fire streaks toward your squad. Plasma rounds, but smaller, more focused than standard plasma weapons. They move fast, almost too fast to track.]
[You react on instinct.]
[Your hand shoots out, grabbing the female trooper's armor and yanking her backward. A plasma pulse burns through the space where her head was a moment before.]
[Your other hand raises your lasgun. One-handed shooting, compensating for the awkward angle and reduced stability.]
[You fire.]
[The las-beam lances through the air and strikes a drone dead center. It explodes in a shower of sparks and melted components.]
[You track to the next target. Fire. Another drone falls.]
[Around you, the rest of the squad has dropped to firing positions. Disciplined volleys of las-fire shred the drone swarm.]
[Within seconds, the threat is eliminated. Smoking wreckage litters the street.]
[The female trooper looks at you, her helmet making her expression unreadable. But her voice carries something that might be respect.]
["Good shooting, Captain. Thank you."]
[You grunt acknowledgment and check your lasgun's power cell. Still plenty of charge.]
["Move out," you order. "Stay alert. Where there's one drone cluster, there'll be more."]
[The squad advances toward the objective. And somewhere ahead, in those industrial buildings, the real enemy waits.]
[T'au. The rising empire from the Eastern Fringe. Young, idealistic, and dangerously effective.]
[This is going to be interesting.]