WARHAMMER 40,000: A Thousand Tiny Suns (40k/Exalted Crossover!)

You gave it: "Corpsman. 41-22."

"Hurm," the Magos seemed unimpressed. "What passes for the medica for your cavalry?"

"No, Magos," you said, shaking your head. "Naval medic. Given to the rough riders so they have a doctor." You felt your gut twinge in guilt and sorrow. To be assigned to the navy had been a shame all its own - as navy either died all together or never, and the very idea of passing tour after tour without testing yourself beyond distant laser lances and flashing macro cannons made you want to snap your glove. Your fingers fidgeted, almost doing the instinctive motion, but you kept them still.

Not just navy, but a medic too.

The Emperor gave his trials to...

You felt a strange sense of weight on your chest. A depression. A religious thrill shot through you. Was...had your stray thought been heard by Him on Earth? Then, foolish. The feeling was a change in pressure. The grinding sound of massive gears and the shifting of air made you realize what it was. The door was beginning to crack open and the vault was going to spill its forces into the battle. As if to catch up, a trumpet started playing - the tune said...saddle up. You nodded to the Magos.

"Need to get ready, Magos," you said.

Scu-Tau 41's optical tendril retracted beneath her hood and she let out another 'hurm.' "So it seems," she said. "Go and die gloriously for the Emperor. I've already deleted your designation from my long term and short term memory banks." She turned and waved a hand - you thought to dismiss you...but then with a jolting series of POPS, the feeding tubes came free from your mounts. Gitta tossed her head and you reached out, rubbing her chin gently.

"it's okay, Gitta," you whispered.

Then.

"I just need to find 55-95," you said.

Your fingers fidgeted. And with no one else to see, you reached down, hooked your fingers on the thin elastic that kept your glove flush to your wrist, tugged back, then let it slap against your wrist with a fierce, stinging pain. You snapped three more times, then hurried from the stables, boots thumping.

Outside, you could see that the far end of the stables were already emptying and the lower numbers were donning their gear and swinging up. Despite the change of pressure, the door hadn't really begun to swing wide: It was just a thin crack. You hurried to your tent and found that 55-95 was kneeling at the bedroll, his combat knife in his hand. He was holding in the other a blunt tipped explosive lance-head. He played the knife along the edge of the lance-head, rasping gently. You hurried forward, kneeling down and grabbing his wrist. "What are you doing?" you hissed, softly - fury tight in your throat.

He lifted his head, looking up at you. "I...don't know..." he said, uncertainty. "The...Emperor says-"

You shook your head. "You've been into the meds again, haven't you?" you asked, grabbing the heavy weight of the diagnosticator and the injector-unit. The unguents that were pre-loaded in the injector sloshed and slopped within the glass vials, and you checked the stims to make sure that 55-95 hadn't been imbibing them.

"No...no, I haven't," he said, in that dull monotone of his. He started to stand, and you saw that his glove was half off. He tugged it back on, fidgeting. "I just...I've been having bad dreams. And the dreams come when I'm awake too-"

55-95 hadn't been like this when the troop ship had left Krieg. He had been just like everyone else. But the Commissar said that he was still fit enough to fight - and you were getting increasingly unsure of that. You buried that worry deep, deep, deep in your belly and instead took 55-95 by his arm, shaking him gently.

"The Emperor says it's time to be the choosers of the dead, 55-95," you said, firmly.

"Choosers..." he whispered. "Yes. We're the choosers of the dead."

He was quiet for a moment.

"Do you hear the voices too?"

You were about to reprimand him...but then you heard them. A voice was coming from your micro-bead, on a low, hissy, grainy volume. Your finger went to your microbead - about to turn it up, in case it was orders. But then a shout came from the nearest sergeant, 31-32.

"Shut down all com equipment under pain of death! Immediately! Shut down all com equipment!"

Your hand went to the microbead - but before you could pull it out, the whispering voice got loud enough to make out: "...fallen, and soon, the Imperium too will fall. You will not be saved by the Emperor, for he rots in-"

You dropped the bead on the ground and smashed it under your heel - and you weren't the only one. Crunching sounds came from across the camp, while a tech-priest hurried by, shouting. "No! Don't smash...ah, by the blessed spirits of the Omnisiah, don't smash them, we don't have any more of those!" he said, hurrying past, like a man who had had his favorite boots stolen. As he left, you swung your pack on over your back.

"Lets find the sergeant," you said.

"...yes..." 55-95 said. "Do you think-"

"It was lies, 55," you said, firmly. "The Emperor is all that speaks true, not that filth. Got it?"

55-95 nodded.

Fit to fight.

Right.

As you found your sergeant, 39-40, and the rest of your squad, the whole regiment had managed to form up and the tech-priests were gathering up the microbeads that no one had smashed. The Commander had found a box to stand on, and she shouted. "As our communications are impacted by the tech-heresy that the enemy are broadcasting, I will need volunteers to run communications between other units in detached duty."

You trembled. You immediately wanted to thrust your hand up - volunteering was next to godliness, after all.

But you were a medic. Would the Commander even notice your glove if you raised it? Touched, as you were, by sin?

---
[ ] Volunteer
[ ] Don't