Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

"Important women?" Peter asked, sounding intrigued. "The machine spirit doesn't care about rank or gender, Captain."

"One of them," Kayvaan hissed, "is an inquisitor. And her escort consists of a squad of Sisters of Battle."

There was a loud thunk from the cockpit. "What was that?" Kayvaan barked.

Edmund's panicked voice answered. "Captain, Peter fainted. I'm flying now. We'll land shortly."

"Good," Kayvaan said flatly. "We're going to have a very long discussion once we land. Now take us to the drop site."

The Iron Hawk skimmed the canopy, its engines droning like a chorus of engines whispering prayers to the Omnissiah. Suddenly, with a hiss, the side hatch slid open. A rush of wind tore through the cabin, though no one jumped and nothing was deployed. The door closed again after a moment, leaving Darius bewildered. "What was that?" he asked.

Kayvaan shrugged. "Just getting some fresh air."

________________

The Cadian 101st Regiment was once a proud and renowned unit. Its soldiers were just ordinary people who had undergone rigorous military training. They weren't genetically enhanced like the Space Marines, nor did they possess the fanatical zeal of the Adepta Sororitas. They didn't receive the God-Emperor's blessings, nor did they wield devastating psychic powers. They were simply human.

Before enlisting, these soldiers came from all walks of life. Some were hardworking farmers, others were miners laboring deep underground, and a few were fresh-faced schola graduates ready to step into society. But there was one thing that set them apart—they were from Cadia. Growing up on Cadia was a different experience. It was often said that Cadian children could disassemble and reassemble a lasgun blindfolded by the age of five. Their first books were military manuals, and they were taught combat drills before they could even walk properly. Cadia didn't just raise citizens; it raised warriors.

Now, under the banner of the God-Emperor, these ordinary people left their previous lives behind. Farmers put down their tools, miners left their shafts, and graduates abandoned their dreams. They picked up their weapons, marching together under the flag of the Cadian 101st Regiment to fight for humanity's survival. And then they were defeated.

It happened on a lush, picturesque world. Marlborough, the regiment's deputy commander, remembered it vividly. It was spring—bright and peaceful, with fresh rain that nourished the land. But this tranquility was shattered by an unrelenting nightmare: the green-skinned Orks.

The Orks weren't a metaphorical plague; they were a literal one. Like fungal growth after rain, they emerged from the ground, spreading across the land. Every soldier in the 41st millennium knew about Orks. These creatures weren't born like humans. Biologis theorized that Orks were an unnatural hybrid of animal and plant matter, allowing them to grow directly out of the soil. Their green skin came from chlorophyll, enabling them to photosynthesize like plants.

This wasn't just terrifying—it was absurdly unfair. Bury an Ork in winter, and by spring, an entire warband might sprout in your backyard, ready to wreak havoc. How could such abominations exist in the Emperor's universe? Yet, here they were: violent, cunning, and impossibly durable. Orks were the embodiment of war. Stronger than bulls, craftier than vermin, and tougher than a plague of cockroaches, they were destruction incarnate. For them, fighting wasn't just a necessity—it was their purpose.

The Cadian 101st had been sent to confront this menace, but due to an intelligence failure, they arrived too late. The Orks had already grown into a massive horde. From the moment the first shots were fired, the regiment found itself locked in a brutal, unrelenting battle. The soldiers' lasguns were pitifully underpowered against the Orks' sheer resilience. A single lasgun shot rarely did more than scorch an Ork's hide; it often took three to five direct hits to bring one down. Against the larger, tougher Nobz, even more firepower was needed. The regiment fought valiantly, but it was like trying to stop a green avalanche with pebbles.

The battlefield became a slaughterhouse. The Orks charged with reckless abandon, turning the conflict into a grinding war of attrition. The Cadian 101st was hopelessly outmatched. Their regimental commander, a man Marlborough deeply respected, was killed in a gruesome manner. An Ork wielding what appeared to be a rusty cleaver—Throne knew where it found one—split the commander's skull in half, exposing a grotesque cross-section of his brain.

The political commissar fared no better. He executed over a dozen soldiers during the battle, claiming they had shown signs of cowardice. Yet many suspected that these "cowards" were simply victims of the commissar's paranoia. Regardless, the public executions did boost morale for a time. However, when the regiment began its retreat, a lasbolt from the rear struck the commissar, melting his knee. Perhaps it was a stray shot, or perhaps it wasn't—Marlborough couldn't say. Still, the commissar stoically volunteered to cover the retreat, limping back toward the advancing Orks. His defiant shouts and the sound of gunfire echoed into the night until they were silenced forever.

By the end of the battle, the regiment was shattered. Half of its soldiers were dead or missing. All heavy weaponry had been abandoned during the retreat. The Cadian 101st was no longer a fighting force; it was a broken shell of its former self. With no choice left, the remnants of the regiment were reassigned to a desolate border fortress, far from the frontlines.

The soldiers of the Cadian 101st Regiment were supposed to have some well-deserved rest and recovery time. They were ordinary men and women. Soldiers who had just endured fierce battles needed time to heal their physical and emotional wounds, catch their breath in a safe place, and prepare themselves for whatever new challenges awaited on the next battlefield.

But fate had other plans. Just as they were trying to regroup, they encountered an Eldar Ranger—a sniper of elite caliber. For any army, encountering a sniper is among the most difficult scenarios to deal with. Snipers are ghosts, striking fear and chaos into their targets. There are typically only two ways to deal with them: one is to send out a sniper of your own to hunt them down, and the other is to use artillery to obliterate the area where they're hiding. A bombardment might lack accuracy, but it ensures no sniper, no matter how skilled, can remain hidden.

Unfortunately for the 101st, they had neither option. They'd lost all their heavy weapons in the last engagement, and the fortress's arsenal had been sabotaged—the guns rendered useless. Even their sharpshooters had been casualties of war. Morale was at rock bottom, and this battered half-regiment of over 500 soldiers had no choice but to cower behind the thick walls of Fort Gallan, calling desperately for reinforcements.

When the rescue finally arrived, the sight on the tarmac didn't inspire much hope. The soldiers who weren't on duty stood in two neat rows, forming a half-hearted welcoming party. Deputy Commander Marlborough was among them, silently praying that only the Astra Militarum reinforcements had come. Anything but a political commissar, he thought. The last thing they needed was someone passing judgment on their sorry state, perhaps even carrying out summary executions for cowardice.

But when the airship's doors opened, Marlborough's heart sank further. The passengers weren't commissars—they were far worse. Inquisitors and Adepta Sororitas in full power armor stepped out, their presence radiating authority and intimidation.

Marlborough's nerves betrayed him. He blurted out a question he'd regret later: "Why are you here? Aren't you with the Militarum reinforcements?"