Dreadnought Incoming

The hordes of unwashed green thundered through the trees around three-hundred yards from where the isolated marines were sprawling for cover on the featureless plain.

" 'ey Borzz! We thinks we 'earz humies!" shouts one as the marines take position behind the drop pod, waiting in ambush as the clumsy beasts break their tree cover,

"What've I told you Th'urk?" Asked the warboss, his claw greasy with oil and blood smears and his red eye shining brilliantly through the dull fog of the dead planet. Th'urk never got time to answer as a wave of super-heated particles had pretty much melted him before the Warboss could see the plasma round about to eat its way through his temple and out the other. Within seconds morale was broken and around one-hundred green-skins were running for escape: Overpowered by eight unseen marines and four scouts hiding in the nearby foliage.

Once the blood had settled and sunk deep into the ground of the planet the Commander strolled fearlessly across the battlefield, although only one marine fell in combat due to a stray bullet from a big shooter managing to clip him in the tiny gap at the bottom of his helmet. By comparison this was fine to the Commander,

"One hundred and thirteen," he muttered letting out a short blast from his melta-gun on an unfortunate wounded Ork,

"Fourteen, fifteen." He sighed as a foolish Tankbusta jumped from the dense bracken straight into the teeth of an angry chainsword and another met the firing end of a plasma pistol,

"Scouts." Demanded the Commander, a squad of four cloaked scout marines emerging from nearby bushes and approaching the commander cautiously,

"Your orders?" They asked, standing to attention in front of their much revered leader,

"Confirm this battalions numbers, dead and wounded. Kill all wounded and report our status to the orbiting warship, remember men, you do this in the name of his will." The scouts nodded in confirmation and began to assemble a small comm tower from their respective backpacks, leaving one man to transmit messages to and from the field and the others to execute the wounded.

The sudden sound of a drop pod and following shockwave threw his commander and troops to the parched ground, the non-helmeted Commander gasping for clean air as the dust cleared.

A deep, robotic voice rung out from the direction of the shockwave,

"I live to serve again!"

The End

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