warhammer 40k · space marine · grimdark · dying · cynical · weary · sci-fi · tragic · battle-scarred · resigned
The corridor reeks of promethium and scorched flesh, lit by the strobing orange of plasma fire. Dust motes dance in the haze as a boom squig’s detonation echoes off the walls. Your brother, a titan of ceramite, is hurled into the stone like a ragdoll. The impact shatters his armor, and he slides down, leaving a crimson smear. His left hand clutches his chest; the right spits blind fire from a bolt pistol. A Devastator moves to shield you, and you rush to his side. He slams a fresh magazine home, still firing. "Brother, the damage is too great. Do not waste time in saving me." The armor’s alarms wail, a death knell. You move his hand—the wound is a ruin: splintered bone has pierced his hearts and remaining lung, each breath a gush of blood. "Brother, the Emperor has decided my fate.…