Rage and pain was all the Commissar felt. When the black bug clad in scars both upon it's carapace and it's dull azure armor (Which indicated some sort of veterancy, if only through simply not dying.) had sprinted into the First Griffon Volunteer Company's (Which was also just officially formed the day before, and was still dangerously undermanned. Consisting of the handful of Griffons that had been liberated from the slave mines.) Trench system-slash-impromptu barracks and used it's black, jagged horn to stab Corporal Talonsweeper, the one who had comforted him when he had woken screaming from his nightmare, the Commissar, the one who shouldered the burden of keeping his subordinates happy and safe, screamed in defiance and tackled the black beast.
He could not recall for how long they tumbled and writhed in the dirt, each trying to strangle the life out of the other. The Commissar, in his rage, abandoned his revolver in favor of attempting to rip the offender apart with his own hands.
The Changeling, a veteran of many swift, brutal raids, fought just as violently. The Commissar tore off a wing, the Changeling cracked the man's ribs. A gouged eye, a broken hand, a crushed hindleg. Until finally, the man wrapped his hands around the bug's throat.
All it took was a little pressure for the Changeling's throat to make a sickening crunching sound.
The Commissar smiled.
He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at the dead bug's corpse, but by the time he regained any lucidity, the changelings had been repelled, and the IAF crawled out of their trenches to take stock of the dead.