You are Guardswoman Sonja Larsson, 427th Valhallan. Your regiment was ordered to hold a world in the face of one of Abbadon the Despoiler's Black Crusades. Reinforcements are promised, but everyone knows they won’t make it in time. As the Warp becomes ever more unstable, heralding the coming of the massive Chaos fleet, your regimental commander, the Colonel, loses all contact with outside forces. The 427th is cut off. You dig in, knowing that no matter what happens, the regiment, and you, will die here. One way or another. But you are Imperial Guard. You are the only thing standing between the innocent men, women, and children living upon this doomed world and the ravaging hordes of Chaos. So you do the only thing you can. You are Imperial Guard. You hold the line. Your comrades die in hundreds, in thousands, but they die standing. They die facing the enemy, firing and slashing with bayonet, shouting battle-cries as they die for the Emperor and Humanity. The outer lines are overrun. Ammunition is dangerously low, and the medics have long since run out of supplies. Night falls. The Colonel walks the lines, as he has every night the 427th has been here. That's the kind of man he is. As he passes your position, he pauses. He looks down at you kindly, as you sit there behind the heavy bolter. He asks how you're holding up, as he does every night, to every soldier in the regiment. You smile wanly and answer, "The Emperor protects, Sir." It is the same answer you always give him, but this this time, it carries a note of finality. You see it in his face, too - you both know that this is the last time he'll be able to ask that question. You both know this will be the last time you can answer it. He begins to turn, to walk to the Guardsman, when a shout comes from a lookout post, and the mortar thumps as a star shell is fired over the outer lines. You look out, and by the fierce, pale light of the burning shell, you see the ground moving toward you. It takes you a moment to realize that it isn't the ground - the soldiers of Chaos are so tightly packed that it only seems so. As the shell bursts and lights up the night, a huge, grating scream comes from those lost souls, and they charge heedless toward your pitiful defenses. You rack the charging handle on the heavy bolter and open fire, the muzzle flashes ruining your night vision, the deafening report slamming your ears. You cut down ten, fifty, you lose count. The bolter clicks empty, and you reach for a fresh belt, only to stop as the Colonel jams one into the feeder. You squeeze the trigger again, bolter thundering, but it isn't enough. It can never be enough. Still, they come. They crest the breastworks and pour into the trench, screaming blasphemous epithets as they throw themselves upon the defenders. You abandon the emplaced bolter and take up your lasgun, firing heedlessly into the enemy. You fire and fire and fire, never once missing - how could you miss? There is nowhere TO miss. You are overrun. The Colonel shouts the order to fall back, then pitches forward on his face, a cultist's bayonet planted in his back. You shoot the man, shoot him again and again, until your lasgun's power cell runs dry. Then reason reasserts itself, and you run. You climb the defensive wall and run for the final, inner defense. As you reach it, a head pops up from the trench. On its face, you see the Eight-Pointed-Star of Chaos. There is no inner line. It has already been overrun. You stand there, in shock. Cultists before you, behind you, on all sides. The Colonel is dead. Emperor only knows if ANYONE is left alive after that. You have an urge to give up. To sit down and accept your fate. You lost. It's over. You remember your oath, the one you swore on that bright, proud day when you joined the regiment. You swore to protect the citizens of the Imperium, to the last breath and the last round. You snap a new powercell into your lasgun. You are Imperial Guard. You will hold the line. As this thought flashes through your mind, the night splits open around you. From nowhere, huge, hulking figures in shining black armor appear from the shadows. Tongues of flame leap from their hands, and some corner of your mind distantly notes that it sounds like bolter fire. The figures surround you, shielding you from the Chaos tide. Their fire never slackens, and no matter how many times they are shot, are wounded, they do not falter. They do not fall. They stand guard over you throughout the night, firing and slashing with their screaming blades. The Chaos assault breaks against them like a wave upon a great rock, and they fall back in howling disorder. Moments later, you hear the whistling of artillery rounds overhead, and the world explodes before you as the mighty Earthshaker cannons of Captain Petrenko's Basilisk squadron go to work. In minutes, not a single Chaos cultist stands before you. Dawn breaks in a glorious, red sunrise. As you watch, the figures - the Space Marines, you realize - begin to fade with the dawn, vanishing as silently as they appeared. You snap out of your fugue state, the run to the nearest Marine, falling to your knees at his feet. Voice shaking, you thank him for saving you, for saving the 427th, for saving this world. He looks silently down at you, and you shrink away from that silent gaze, slightly. It is no mean feat to bear up under the gaze of the Astartes, especially one such as this. His armor is black, and emblazoned with flames, skulls, and bones. His bolter smokes slightly from the muzzle. He begins to fade, and you shout. "W-Who are you? How did you get here? And... Why did you save me?" The Marine pauses, and then, for the first and last time, a Damned Legionnaire speaks. [i]"We are the Emperor's Will. We came because there was need. We saved you because you held the line."[/i] The sun clears the mountains, and the Marine is gone. [spoiler]critique? Critique.[/spoiler]