+THOUGHT FOR THE DAY+
Honor the fallen by carrying on their fight.
The crush of cultists enveloped you in a seething, scything torrent. Though you parried their blows with contemptuous ease, and your scout armor was more than a match for their piddling autogun fire, you knew that even Astartes and their equipment had limits.
Nimrod was finding that out for himself.
Your pale brother was a black pillar against a ragged tide, a head higher than the tallest cultist, even though Nimrod was the shortest neophyte among your friends. Perhaps among this entire generation of neophytes.
He put up the fight expected of an Astartes, easily taking down a score of cultists before the eventual turn of fortune. Rusted blades found their way into the soft spots in his armor's joints - you could see it in his now-stiff movements.
You ploughed forward, kicking an obstructing cultist square in the chest. He fell into the press of his comrades, his ribs caved in. On and on, you struck with body and blade until you reached Nimrod.
"Brother!" you yelled above the din.
Nimrod turned, face still expressionless despite the musk of combat hormones you smelled from him. "Sigismund."
"What were you thinking?" you asked him, cleaving a cultist in twain with your chainsword. "You rushed off without warning us!"
Your brother headbutted a particularly tall cultist, annihilating his foe's face. "I sensed her."
You had sensed her too, and as you pushed deeper into the crowd her presence grew more apparent. Your palms itched violently, and something was always in the corner of your eye. Next to Nimrod, though, her presence seemed to waver. It was as if her howl had reached a void it could not cross.
The witch hovered higher, her hair drifting around her oblivious to the laws of gravity. You noticed her crying despite her cacophonous cackling, despite her demented smile. Your mind roiled in disgust, and in response your body pumped more chemicals until your odor surpassed the reek of the crowd.
"Burn the witch!" you cried.
The freak turned in response, extended her hands and unleashed a gout of hellfire that swallowed you and Nimrod. The cultists around you screamed as they burned alive. You stifled the overwhelming urge to yell in pain, and even Nimrod grunted through charred lips.
You charged, now clear of the crowd. The witch hurled more bolts of profane flame, bursting into the ground in a hail of burning debris. Nimrod surged ahead of you, roaring in a rare moment of passion. The witch clawed at her face as your brother neared, convulsing and screaming.
Five meters away, you leaped at her, launching yourself through the air and grabbed her foot. You felt her ankle snap from the force. You swung her into the ground as you landed. Her teeth flew from her face as the impact ravaged her body.
With hate in her eyes, the witch held out a hand, fire growing and growing. From this distance, the flame would consume you utterly.
"No pity! No remorse! No fear!" you yelled, waiting for death.
The flame in her hand faltered, shrank, and disappeared. Nimrod's foot was buried in her stomach. The cold light vanished from the witch's eyes, replaced with the eyes of a confused girl who had just woken from a nightmare, before her eyes saw no more.
You panted, twin-hearts racing. You grabbed Nimrod's head, pressed your forehead to his.
The squad vox buzzed. Reynauld's voice was awash with static. "Brothers, converge! Retrieve Sword Brother Theobald and initiate fighting retreat, now!"
You and Nimrod hurried back to where the initiates battled the berserkers. It had been a hard battle, the bodies of superhumans both traitor and loyal littering the ground, but the Templars had won. Only three initiates remained, their warplate shrieking from the savage blows dealt by berserker chainaxes.
What commanded this terrible landscape, however, was a red-clad tyrant triumphant against a black-armored hero. The champion's power armored foot was on top of Theobald's chest, burying the Sword Brother into the ashen earth with contempt. One of Theobald's arms lay a meter away from him; one of his legs was twisted and mangled beyond recovery.
The champion bellowed at the sky, implored his false god to witness him as he raised his chainaxe overhead, ready to deal the felling blow.
"Traitor!"
An Astartes bulled into the champion, sending them tumbling. The Templar flew from the champion with a vicious kick, stood, and charged once more. From his markings, you saw it was Reynauld.
Theobald had not lasted long against the champion; Reynauld would not last half that. Already the champion's chainaxe buried itself into Reynauld's side, promising to tear the Templar in half.
"Cur!" he called in the vox. "Retrieve Theobald, quickly! Initiates, with me - ahh!"
The other three initiates rushed to Reynauld's aid. One died immediately, decapitated by the axe, which in one fluid motion buried itself in the shoulder of another initiate.
You and the other neophytes were already running. You, Emmerich and Bayard hefted your fallen leader, dragging him with all the speed you could muster. Gottfried continued his devastating hail of fire into a thinning crowd of cultists.
You were now more than twenty meters away from the champion. Templar bodies lay before him ignominiously, Reynauld on his knees. The champion sized him up, laughed, and kicked him - not deigning to even finish him off with his axe.
"Command," you voxed, "this is Crusader Squad Theobald. Theobald is heavily wounded, we need immediate evacuation."
Static was the only answer.
"Does anyone on the Fury hear this? We need a Thunderhawk now!"
Nothing.
You continued dragging Theobald, hoping to find the Guardsmen from earlier and regroup with them. They were nowhere to be seen now, perhaps chasing after the fleeing cultists or withdrawing to another fight.
Panic was a looming threat, but you had prepared extensively for this crusade. The Codex Astartes had many chapters devoted to situations where extraction was not an option.
Recounting them, you decided it was best to:
[ ] Head deeper into the city.
The fighting would be thicker there, but that meant more chances of happening upon friendly troops with hopefully working communicators.
[ ] Head further from the city.
Theobald was in no condition to remain in a combat zone. It was best to find a defensible location and wait until communications was reestablished.
[ ] Climb up the spires.
Hierosolyma's cities extended upwards in dazzling spires where the rebellion had barely touched. Communications would surely work there - the problem was convincing the upper class to allow the war into their home.
[ ] Head into the wastes.
Outside the spire cities were the wastes. No one fought there because there was nothing to fight over. Undoubtedly your communications would no longer be jammed there. The problem instead was surviving against the elements.
