Inspiration!
***
Alan Cross was an ordinary man. He was not a Space Marine, a revered soldier of the Imperium. He was not a psyker, the necessary but often hated members of society. Nor was he a man of particularly exceptional intelligence, skill, or wealth. He was a humble farmer on an Agri world, one of the billions used by the Imperial Guard as recruitment grounds.
"Father!" his daughter wailed, clinging to him with tears in her eyes. "P-Please don't go!"
Alan said nothing. In the end, he left his wife and daughter to weep behind him. It took all he could to not weep, too.
He heard rumors, dark whisperings of the end times for man. The Imperium was beset on all sides by foes, both internal and external: vile Chaos, persistent Orks, horrific Tyrannids, and unstoppable Necrons. While all these threats existed, who was he to deny his responsibility to the survival of Mankind in its most darkest hour?
Alan had nothing against the oncoming darkness. His flack vest was tissue paper to their weapons, and his lasrifle couldn't even scorch the paint off their armor. An ordinary man would flee in terror against such odds. He couldn't fight. He couldn't win...
He looked at the rest of his unit and saw the same fear in their eyes. They knew it, too. But there was something in their eyes, something other than fear -- resolve. Faith in the Emperor and in their loved ones prevented each of them from fleeing like the dogs they were. As long as they drew breath, these men and women of the Guard would master their fear.
Suddenly, memories of home rushed back. Of the many nights with Anna, teaching her how to read. Of the many happy years he spent with Giselle, supporting each other like no other wife and husband had ever done before. Many more memories came: Anna's birth, his wedding, and his wedding proposal to Giselle he made one moonless night...
An ember in Alan's heart burned. The flame, nothing but an ember before, roared to life into a raging inferno. It burned away the doubts, the fears, and the regrets. His eyes narrowed, posture straightened. All that was left was a courage that would seem him through this trial.
He would not live past this day, and that was the certainty. But if he could hold back this tide for even a second, he would die with knowledge of his responsibility fulfilled. A second of his family secure from the horrors of the entire galaxy.
The grip on his lasrifle tightened. "Let them come! Let the enemies of man batter themselves against our ranks!" he shouts, catching the attention of every soldier on the line. "In the name of the Emperor!"
Millions take up his cry, in both mind and spirit. The fate of mankind now hangs on their shoulders. From the highest commisar to the lowest grunt, they all carried the weight of humanity's survival. None would disappoint on this day.
Alan Cross was a soldier of the Imperial Guard -- the Hammer of the Emperor -- and he would die standing.