Disciplined in all aspects. Even in killing.  

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-Fourth Entry

Imperial Guard administrators, commissars, tacticians and navigators were ushered into the great vaulted meeting room of the Planetary Arbites Headquarters, Asat Homeworld Department. Grim and stern looking officers of the Arbites division gazed back at them from the opposite end of the room behind their steel tables.

Commissar Leetol and Tactican Abjax were among the Imperial Guard officials present.

Data-slates, maps and battle reports were laid all over the steel tables.

The various Imperial officials took their places on another steel table opposite the Arbites. Several smiles, acknowledging nods and handshakes were made across the tables. Their attention was drawn to a dignified looking armchair at the end of their tables, with golden threads as seams. At the end of each arm rest was a leering Adamantium plated skull.

“All rise to greet Warmaster Chandroil.” A gentle female voice sounded over the vox-boxes placed around the meeting room.

The metallic gratings of chairs against a spit-polished floor begin to reverberate across the room. Heels and shoes clicked in attention as the Warmaster, commander of all the Imperial, Arbites and Adeptus Astartes forces within the Asat System stepped into the spotlight of the overhead glow-globes, in front of his armchair.

Without a word, he withdrew data-slates and notes from his pockets tucked deep into his notably heavily fashioned robes and placed them onto a lectern in front of him.

“Distinguished acquaintances, welcome.” The Warmaster said.

“Good greetings my lord.” The crowd replied in unison, all aware of the standard procedures for Arbites/Guard meetings.

“The enemy is at our doorstep, but many of us are willingly inviting them into our houses.” The Warmaster said with a sigh.

Curious and inquisitive glances were made from the assembled audience to the Warmaster.

“Let me cut to the chase. Two days ago, a routine patrol made by Sergeant Engist and his agents chanced upon a Genestealer Cult’s hideout in the mutant sector of Valingdom. They stormed the hideout and found considerable evidence that the approaching Hive Fleet Plethora is of immense strength and power.” Chandroil said, gesturing at the nearby holo-graphic as it projected images of the hideout and the evidence found.

Sighs, groans and muttering of disbelief were heard around the room.

“That is not all; though Sergeant Engist and his agents did manage to quell most of the resistance, their leaders, managed to escape his clutches, to a location yet to be specified.” Chanroil said.

“Warmaster, if I may ask: Why leaders? Isn’t there just one leader for a Genestealer Cult uprising?” an Imperial Guard official inquired from amongst the massed ranks.

Chandroil sighed.

“My dear associates, this is where it is difficult to comprehend.” Chandroil muttered gloomily.

Curious glances darted around the meeting room, hash whispers were passed across the tables and deep, abated breaths were held back.

“The mutants, Tyranids, and Genestealer Cult are working as one. Every single damn one of them.” Chanroil said, conceding his shocking answer.

The audience replied with an uproar. Some cursed, some stood up in disgust, not believing what they just heard and some just sat there, dazed and shock.

Further down the room, somewhere in the recesses of it, amongst the swell of infuriated officials, sat a glowering Commissar Leetol.

Abjax sat obediently at his side, dutifully taking in all the information that the holo-projector showed, making full use of all his implanted chips and augmentation. He was oblivious to the furious crowed around him.

“Abjax?” Leetol said.

“Yes Commissar.”

“Damn, he didn’t tell me that. Can’t blame him; this came in new.” Leetol muttered to himself.

“Commissar?” Abjax asked, concern etched all across his face.

“Sorry. What? Don’t you see?” Leetol recovered from his pondering and snapped back irritably at Abjax.

“My humblest apologies Commissar, but I do not perceive anything.” Abjex replied distressingly.

“A Genestealer Cult is present amongst the populace. What chances would it be that some of them has infiltrated into our regiments?” Leetol breathed out, his voice venomous, as though he knew who the infiltrator was and would immediately destroy him.

“Holy Emperor…” Abjex said, his eyes going wide, realising the true horror and terror that would occur if what Leetol said was true. His face went pale and his heavily augmented head fell into his hands in distress and anguish.

“Comrades! This is not for doubt! This calls for immediate action! The call of martial law has been raised. Do proceed with caution now in whatever you do and you are to conduct intense personnel screening within the next week. The meeting is adjourned.” Chandroil bellowed across the room, his barely contained rage sounding through the vox-boxes.

The game has been sighted, the torches lit, the race has begun.

Charging fearlessly into battle, the Space Marines. 

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-Third Entry

“Go! Alpha formation spread!” Sergeant Engist barked through the microbead.

The courageous agents of Homeworld Asat division of the Imperium-wide Planetary Arbites charged valiantly into the cultists’ hideout.

Shock and dazed faces were seen staring blankly at the Arbites at first, but soon military instincts overtook them. Cultists and mutants nimbly jumped out of the treacherous line of fire, several of them taking direct hits and falling like stones immediately onto the ground. A few of them become a red spray of cloudy mist.

Frag and Krak grenades were flung in all directions, bullets ricocheting off the walls and floor and blood and gore were splattered across the hab.

Sergeant Engist spotted a cowering cultist taking temporary refuge behind an overturned computer console. He flung a Frag grenade in that direction and all that was left could not be discern as Engist focused his attention onto a trio of oncoming mutants. They looked horrid.

Sergeant Engist bared his teeth. He unloaded a few shots into the mutants, barely slowing them down as they came charging towards him.

They’re damned and doomed, corrupted in mind by the benefactions bestowed upon them by the Mother Hive. Soon, I shall cripple them in body.

Engist let out a ferocious roar of raw anger and hatred. He swiftly holstered his laspistol and unsheathed his close-quarter sword. It had been his trusted companion through his forty years of service to the Planetary Arbites and it had seen the end of things far less human and more bestial. It would do no different this time.

Let them come…I shall end their treacherous existence.

Engist could see their faces now; foul putrid stenches emanating out of their mouths, vile pulsating pimples of puss and blood pooling around their nostrils and eye slits. One of them was hobbling on tentacles, and another had a large stump of flesh growing out of his right shoulder. It pulsed and moved as though it was a living thing.

They looked grotesque. Disgusting. Foul traitors that deserved no more then the Emperor’s holy justice to be executed mercilessly upon them.

As they were two strides away from him, Engist let out another bestial roar and leaped towards them. As he landed he brought his blade down in a forward swipe, cutting an arc of gore as he competently swiped his sword through two mutants from shoulder to groin.

They collapsed immediately, bodies sliding apart, spilling organs and entrails onto the ground as they fell.

Engist glared at the remaining mutant. It seemed oblivious to the utter desecration of its comrades as it howled and jabbered in its indecipherable tongue.

It’s heavily muscled arm didn’t daunt Engist. Its enormous size didn’t frighten Engist. He had faith.

Engist finished its pathetic existence as he lashed out swiftly with his blade, piercing the mutant straight through the torso. Blood spluttered out from the wound as Engist withdrew his blade triumphantly, eyeing the flailing figure with a venomous stare as it inexorably dropped to the ground to its final resting place.

Engist risked a glance around; his men were doing well, finishing off the last few resistance of the damned Tyrannid worshippers.

Out of the corner of his eye, through the swirling mists of gore and dust, Engist spotted a few figures huddling out of a small alcove. One of them had a figure of eight legs.

Engist snarled and ran after them.

Dreadnought whooping. Faith over fear. 

Fire support. I sympathise the poor chaps on the receiving end. 

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-second Entry

The huge alloyed doors were thrust open. The menacing form of the hideous Elshilta covered the whole entrance. In the back, he was flanked by several armed cultists, mutants and Genestealers.

“Fellow followers, welcome. I am Zulkan Flamborg.” Said a robed cultist, among a whole crowed of such from the middle of the rectangular room.

“Waste no time in formalities. My spies have notified me that our enemy is well aware of our plans.” Slurred Elshilta impatiently.

“Then we shall begin in our plans. Please, follow me.” Said the cultist as he led his retinue and Elshilta’s into the adjacent room.

The hab they were in was a gloomy one, purple headed skulls were painted onto the ceiling, floor and walls. Bizarre iconography filled the walls, depicting monstrous beasts shambling across limb-strewed and bloodied grounds. On one particular wall, the one facing the entrance door was a text covered in what seemed like blood red ink, “THE HIVE MIND HUNGERS, SATISFY IT”.

Other then the gruesome sacrificial tablets that were laid across the main hall of the hab, Elshilta paid no heed to the still living moaning carcasses at his feet. An unrecognisable form, clawed at his feet, its face charred black.

Elshilta muttered a growl and kicked back at the figure, snapping its head backwards with an audible pop and it moved no further.

The adjacent room was no more pleasant; foul, odd smelling scents filled the already putrescent air with an erratic throbbing of what seemed like a heart beat emanating from a nearby holo-projector console.

The congregation walked towards it and the lead cultist reached out to stroke a few runes. A three-dimension image of the capital city of Homeworld Asat, Valingdom immediately sprang into view. Valingdom feature a wide assortment of building types. There were habs, canteens, forges, shops and unseen hideouts. They ranged from vast hangers, huge dome shaped gardens, cubed habs and various other oblong shapes of buildings.

A particular turquoise cube caught Elshilta’s attention.

As though sensing his curiosity, Zulkan said, “The lighted cube is where we are. The other green ones are the other minor abodes of our followers. Reds are the once that represent threats such as military installations, inquisitor hideouts and suspected spy activity.”

Zulkan cleared his raspy breath with a violent fit of coughing. He then spat on the stained floor ostentatiously before stroking a series of runes. The graphic resized its image to offer a wider scale; the Asat system. Several green blips were already converging with the great bulk of the Asat Homeworld.

“Those, my fellow esteemed followers, are our broods.” Zulkan concluded with a grin across his sooty face.

An explosion ripped across the room. Two cultists were immediately obliterated and another three had their limbs blown off. Blood sputtered from their stumps.

“DAMN IT! IT’S A RAID! ELSHILTA! FOLLOW ME!” Zulkan frantically bellowed above the multiple explosions.

Fighting With Faith- Twenty-First Entry

“Leetol, come in.”

“Greetings commander. What news have you called me for?”

“Nothing new. Our foul nemesis once more rears it dreadful tail to lash out at us...” Chandroil Ngot, sector commander of the Asat system mused out aloud.

“Damn chabs…fill me in.” Leetol’s anxious voice immediately inquired.

On cue, Chandroil got up from his warmed lathered office seat and strode to the middle of his circular office, where a holo-projector stood idle. It hummed to life as Chandroil stroked the ignition rune.

“There, there, and there. What is it?” Chandroil asked, using a laser pointer to guide Leetol’s watchful eyes across the holo-graphic.

“Drifting debris? Stray comets? How would I know?” Leetol answered irritably.

Another swift combination of rune stroking further magnified the image, enlarging the three blots to a much clearer form.

Leetol dropped the fiberglass goblet he was holding in his hand.

It shattered on the floor, spraying glittering shards in all directions.

Chandroil stood still, his face an impassive mask with a steely gaze.

He cleared his throat and said, “These are the forward searching elements of Hive Plethro, not numerous in numbers but still as lethal. Their main objective is to locate planets, become planet bound, fester up, and become dormant until the main fleet arrives.”


“Also, they are documented as not unlike any other scout parties; they scout and stay. They don’t have to go back, thanks to their attuned hive minds.”

“And that’s where my troops come in.” Leetol said.

“Damn, you’re so right.” Chandroil replied, grinning from ear to ear, revealing several adamantium coated teeth for the first time.

“Our meeting is adjourned. My adjutants will be handing you the data-slates on your upcoming missions. Emperor’s blessings.” Chandroil added.

Leetol offered a smart salute, turned on his heel and marched to the door. He gently opened it as he had when he came in and was immediately greeted by various adepts offering him the much needed data-slates for his upcoming work.

Leetol briefly glanced at the slates and sighed. He swiftly whipped out his microbead and keyed for his second in command, Abjax.

“Abjax?”

“Loud and clear Commissar.” Came the reply.

“Flower has bloomed, seeds are to be sown, over.” Leetol announced grimly in their battle tongue.

“Aye, flower has bloomed and seeds are to be sown. Word shall begin, over and out.” Abjax answered camly, before closing the channel.

I was there...the last German armoured assault on the Russians... 

Fighting With Faith-
Twentieth Entry

Two months later…

“Lent! Lent! Pass me the grenade!” Benlian hissed urgently.

“Huh? Oh sorry, here.” Lent casually flipped the egg-shaped standard issued frag grenade towards Benlian’s grimy outstretched palm.

“Thanks.” Benlian replied. Benlian then proceeded to fasten the newly acquired grenade to his belt harness, making sure the pin was pointing towards him.

Already a dozen recruits had fallen ill to such lack of weaponry discipline. Weapon jams overloads, frag grenade pin-detachment and a plethora of other foolish errors which only trained soldiers would only laugh about. These soldiers, however, were not.

Everyone was wondering why they were issued weapons with live munitions only after two months of training. On a casual visit to the librarium one day, Benlian involuntarily found out that Imperium regiments were only issued live rounds and weapons to their soldiers after the first four months of intensive training and preparation.

Bel Company was arranged along a dust ridge, out in one of the many mock battlefields of Pholorine Boot Camp. Dust curled and whipped at their faces, triggering angry spitting and curses flowing fluently out from their mouths. They were joined together with Easeth Company. In total, they were at maxium strength of forty men.

In this training, Starut Hogrim was chosen as company leader. Tall, slightly tan and rough features made up his physique. Everyone in the company had already gotten to know each other better through the intense tranings and demanding courses they had to endure together.

However, Starut still held a tinge of enigma to his past, his thick jet black hair with a few strands of outstanding white strands, and lastly, the queer markings on his arms and torso which showed a leering skull in purple. A few curious ones had ventured bravely to inquire his markings. His simple answer of, “Nothing, just a hobby.” Easily brushed them off.

Out of the twenty men of each company, they were divided into 2 squads, of ten men each. Each squad is able to survive possibly any tactical situation they were in, as of their various roles of troop types in it. The roles ranged from heavy machine gunner, heavy support, medic, sniper, squad leader, vox-caster and foot soldier. All complemented with each other and their lives were in each others hands.

Currently, Benlian was the acting second in command, after Sturat.

This training required 2 teams of two companies each. It was an annihilate mission: both teams were to outwit, outplay and outkill each other. Both teams were deployed behind two sand ridges five hundred metres apart facing each other; in between the ridges was an assortment of dunes, knolls, and sand pits.

“Squad I and II, advance to mark Oh-two-point-five on your tact-map. Squad Easeth will provide covering fire. Spread-fire formation, medic taking prime space, over.” Starut’s gruff voice came over the micro-bead.

“Mark oh-two-point-five? That pit over there?” Lent asked.

“Yeah, saddle up boy.” Benlian replied as he nimbly stood upright and hoisted his backpack onto him. All along the ridge, the troops of Bel Company were doing the same.

“Go go go !” hissed Starut over the mico-bead.

Immediatley, the attentive and heedful opponents picked up the shifting figures through their dust chocked goggles and begun firing their mock armaments in quick, disciplined bursts.

“Bloody Chabs- there’s so much- AH SHIT I’M HIT!” an aggitated Zeralton spat out in disgust as his reactive laser armour on his torso picked up a stray laser shot from the opponents guns and activated its gravity pull, rendering the trooper lying sprawled embarrasingly on the ground.

“Men down! Medic get to him now!” Benlian howled over the cacophony of mock explosions and sand blasts, all the while making headway towards the nearing sand pit along with the remaning squad members. Already three were down with the two medics frantically running about amidst the thick web of laser fire.

The explosions were defeaning.

The firing was wild.

The shouting was loud.

“ Stratile! STRATILE! Get here and snipe those damn chabas manning the machine guns!” Starut ordered.

“On the way!” Stratile replied at once, making a short sprint from his cover point to Starut’s, waking a trail of laser fire in his path.

The situation was not good, their position was being holed down by the opponents heavy machine guns and in the mean time they were being flanked.

“LENT! Covering fire for me!” Benlian bellowed.

“What? Wh- WHERE THE HELL YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING BEN!” Lent roared back at the distancing figure of Benlian.

Laser fire spat at the sand around him, throwing up curls of smoke and dusts, obscuring Benlian’s view. But he didn’t care. He kept running, occasionally doing side steps to throw the opponents line of fire off-course.

There they are…twenty more steps…

A laser grenade was flung in his direction from the facing sand ridge. Benlian deftly did a leap over it before it exploded in a shower of sand and dust.

Fifteen…

More laser fire spat from the sand ridge, however, it faltered for a moment as laser fire begun firing from his back.

Eight…

Benlian could see their heads now: some were reloading, some firing wildly, obviously shock at the appraoching figure.

Two…

Benlian lept into the fray. He swiftly drew out his laser baton and jabbed at the nearest figure. He fell immediatley. Three more figures approached him. Benlian took out a laser grenade and flung it towards them.

Through the swirling dust, they didn’t know what hit them.

Benlian instinctivley ducked. A laser baton barely touched him.

There were five of them now, circling Benlian.

They fell immediatley.

“WOOOHOO! HERE COMES THE CALVARY” yelled an exuberant Jobash over the micro-bead.

Benlian turned his head over and spotted approaching figures. It was his squad. They were firing wildly as they ran, some falling as they were shot in return. The remaining made to the ridge and leapt over the barricades. Everyone immediately drew out their laser batons and intense, brutal close combat begun. Batons were flung, wrists were dislocated. Ribs were broken.

Benlian slumped to the ground, dazed.

If this isn’t war, just how more worse can war be? He thought.

As the dust settled and sand cleared, Bel Company stood triumphant over their foes. Many of them were mocking the fallen troops as they struggled against the gravity pull of their laser armours.

“Squad leader to all units: threat neutralised. Mission accomplished.” Said Starut.

They flight into battle fearless, leaving only the fearful dying behind. 

Fighting With Faith- Nineteenth Entry

Can’t…go on...

Benlian’s mind was being agonised. Tortured. Pain. Hours had long pass since their departure from the spaceport. Their contingent of moaning, perspiring adolescent males had since long forgotten the cause of their march. They were like zombies; oblivious to the graying skies overhead, the low droning of the winds being occasionally punctuated by a shrill screech of the various flying animals that lived on the moon. Near empty ration bottles and cans clattered audibly over the intermittent marching of dust and dirt collected boots.

Benlian looked up, trying in vain to seek out the horizon. How long more…

A recruit, two rows ahead of Benlian’s squad, uttered a pathetic cry before falling onto the soil, limbs sprawled wide apart. He was weeping, out of fatigue and embarrassment. His mates around him paused for a moment in their trance like state and immediately reached down to pull the fallen recruit back up, muttering assuring phrases and litanies.

They were bonding.

Benlian eyed the commotion for a moment before looking down his own row. His glance caught Arthelp’s and they hastily gave a thumbs-up sign, smiling assuringly.

Suddenly, from somewhere among the front rows of the contingent, came an uproar of shouts and whoops. Whispers and bellows were passed down the columns, every recruit’s face lighting up upon hearing the news.

“Yes! The compound is sighted! About damn time!” an exuberant Lent Broxton of Benlian’s squad exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement. Smiles, cheers and whoops were all the reason for.

Benlian tiptoed, there it was! Huge, towering grey coated minarets soaring up like giant edifices out of a huge broad back of what Benlian presumed was the main compound. Near the tip of the towers, were beacons with lights flashing and blinking, guiding ships of which mainly were cargo transports into the various port holds. Other smaller, but still huge colossal buildings were erected around the main compound, dotting the landscape with firing ranges, obstacle courses and mass halls. Against the backdrop of the dull yellow sky, the grey buildings seemed camouflaged against the sky, as though trying to hide from the view of it’s soon to be inhabitants.

“What are you all waiting for?! RUN!” Came a shout from somewhere in front.

“WOOHOOOOO!” Benlian whooped and rushed head on, along with the whole contingent, towards the nearing mass of the training compound.

Stratile stumbled and fell clumsily. Everyone laughed along, casually pulling him and his equipment up. Zeralton cheekily slapped Stratile on the butt, causing Stratile to utter an embarrassing moan which tickled those around him into fitful laughs.

“WOOH! YOU CHABAS! GO GO GO!”

Meet such an abomination on the battlefield and you are better off dead. 

It is not what they seem; but what they are. 

Fighting With Faith-Eighteenth Entry

Plop.

That was the end of pilot Scregner, pilot of the freighter Retractable Rector for the past two decades which specialised in pulling in ships that were damaged or were low on fuel arriving into Hangkoi’s Southern Commercial spaceport.

His head was crudely discarded from his already limp and broken body with a simple flick of one of Elshilta’s razor sharp serrated limb, plopping onto the plasteel floor of his own ship with a sickening crunch as it hit the ground. His body followed after.

Two steps back, stood several cultists and mutants, watching on impassively; the fool deserved it.

“Fancy hiding in a ship which is the enemies’…” mused Elshilta out aloud, followed by the maniacal cackle of laughter of his minions.

He turned his back onto the corpse on the ground, already being ravenously devoured by savage Hormagaunts and strode obdurately towards the viewing windows of the transport freighter.

Beyond the plasteel windows, he witnessed what would make his blood boil; hundreds of troop transports, ferrying tens of thousands of recruits to the training camps located on the moons orbiting Homeworld Asat. Already a steady stream of the transports had already broken off from the main transport flotilla to dispatch their cargo to neighbouring moons.

Amongst all the flaring thrusters and decelerating brakes, the Retractable Rector powered on, a small speck of metal amongst a vast sea of ships. Initial identification and standard clarification orders were issued from the troop transports pilots, but the Grelion Slugs infesting the pilots were doing what they were supposed to do; mind control. Hence, no commotion was made out of the tow ship’s presence and the tow ship continued its uneventful journey through space, towards Homeworld Asat to spread the true and terrifying power of Hive Fleet Plethro, of the Tyranid race.

Amongst the fleet were other captured ships, all holding the traitors, murderous and fallen heretics of the Imperium, much like the ones in the Retractable Rector but heading to different destinations of planets and continents.

“Esteemed coadjutor, the Hive Fleet has dispatched a myceptic spore with a brood of Genestealers in its fostered orifice heading to our destination. We are advised to make full use of the Genestealers as much needed social security once planet bound.” A robed cultist whispered in a low rasp behind Elshilta and retreated into the gloom of the ship’s passenger hold.

Excellent…a much needed addendum into our new chapter by the Tyranids of the destruction of the Asat System, Thought Elshilta deviously.

“Attention, light space turbulence in-bound. Advised to brace for contact.” A Grelion Slug infested pilot said over the vox-speakers, his voice an emotionless, droning monotonous tone.

As the passenger hold was filled with the sound of stamping feet, claws and hooves of mutants, Tyranids and cultists getting into available seats and bracing positions, Elshilta was already deep in thought, his already mutated face contorting into a furrowed expression of intense brain storming. He stood in place, simply spreading his eight legs into a splayed formation, lowering his centre of gravity and continued thinking.

Still, from the view of other transports, the tow ship seemed like a normal space faring vessel, on its usual route of repairs and tow jobs. Still, the ships journeyed on, all to the same destination, but for so very different reasons.

Fighting With Faith- Seventeenth Entry

“RECRUITS…FALL IN!”

A cacophonous sound of thousands of spit-clean polished boots stamping down onto the cold and hard ceramite floor of the mass hall began to sound as wild-eyed recruits begin stampeding their way to their fall-in areas. They were already briefed on the freighter ealier on about their squads and fall-in areas in the mass hall.

The mass hall was massive, from Benlian’s point of view. Huge, thick Adamantium pillars were erected now and then in the hall’s premise to stretch up high into the almost invincible upper echelons of the hall to support the broad and alloyed ceiling of the hall. All around Benlian were dumbfounded looking males around his age, scuttling and shuffling among each other, getting into the neat standard formation as prescribed during the briefing. Many were chatting to each other, sharing worried looks and wary glances.

“Ben, what do you-” Zeralton’s voice was cut off from a sudden booming from various enormous vox-boxers placed strategically around the hall for maximum intonation. Benlian was startled.

“SILENCE. YOU ARE NOT TO PERFORM ANY FORM OF COMMUNCATION IN THIS HALL’S PREMISE AMONG ANY OF YOUR MATES UNLESS TOLD TO.”

The hall was silent. Every recruit stood in attention, or what they thought was standing in attention.

“LOOK DOWN. THAT IS YOUR SQUAD’S COLOUR.”

Benlian, among with all the other recruits did so. It was than he found out that he and his squad of twenty were enclosed by a flat rectangular navy blue rectangle on the floor. On the top left of the rectangle, in thick gothic skull white colour calligraphy, was, “NAVY BLUE, Bel Company”.

“BEGINNING FROM COMPANIES IN THE FRONT ROWS, LEAVE THIS HALL BY THE SIDE EXITS ON YOUR RESPECTIVE SIDES. YOU SHALL NOW PROCEED TO COLLECT YOUR EQUIPMENT.”

Thousands of footsteps began to sound thunderously as the various newly reconised companies began to depart from the hall.

The recruits arrived in another hall, similar to the previous one but with lesser area. Identical looking coloured rectangular boxes were inscribed onto the floor.

“ASSEMBLE.”

Everyone had the cue and fell in line. Arranged neatly in front of each squad, was twenty bulky looking equipment packs of dark green colour.

“COLLECT A PACK FOR YOURSELF EACH AND HEAD OUT. FOLLOW THE ROAD, RUN.”

Immediately everyone scrambled to the front in a flurry of foot motions to extricate a pack for themselves and hefted it onto their backs. It was heavy. A few recruits almost lost their balance as they were strapping the packs onto them. In it were standard issued water rations, supplement bars, environmental forming equipment and an assortment of items needed during a real battle, except lasguns and grenades.

A high shrill klaxon begin to sound throughout the hall and the front wall of the hall seemed to break into two as the wall divided itself into two separate walls now to reveal a bleak and barren looking landscape to the recruits. The sky was a gloomy colour of pale yellow and the soil was grey, almost white. A wide paved road extended from the exit of the hall to a few buildings along the horizon, far far away.

“GO. YOU HAVE UP TILL THE END OF THE DAY.”

Benlian and the thousand other recruits begin to jog at a steady pace out of the building they were in with the pack on their backs almost thrice their weight. Already some looked exhausted by just carrying the backpack. On and on they poured through the exit, never looking back, as though their life depended on reaching their destination on time. Many were not going to survive this exercise but many more will be stronger after this.

Damn. Benlian thought.