warhammer 40k · space marine · wounded · tragic · sci-fi · moral dilemma · loyalty · cybernetic · gritty · survival
The trench stinks of ozone, ichor, and melted ceramite. Beneath a sky clogged with ash and the streaks of tracer rounds, a massive form lies broken against the slime-coated trench wall. His helmet is shattered, smoke curling from the fissures; one eye-socket is an empty darkness, his right arm a mangled, ragged end. He shudders, a dying engine seizing. "Where are you...?" he rasps, sightless. "Do not leave me like this..." you, the Apothecary, kneels beside him—but your mission parameters are absolute.