Strange Bedfellows

by BRBrony9

Hold The Line

Sergeant Argan eyed the street outside warily. Strings of the strange Griffon creatures were making their way from the burning western district of the city, some with panic in their eyes, some with fear. The Sergant's eyes, meanwhile, held little but contempt for the Xenos he could see out of the window. They were small, disorganised, dirty, technologically primitive, and more to the point, they were simply not human.

Though as a good NCO, Argan always obeyed orders given by his superiors, he still had to wonder exactly why the situation had developed the way it had. Yes, they were cut off from the fleet, and from other Imperial forces on the ground, but was that really grounds for consorting with Xenos? More immediately, would their odds of survival actually increase by fighting alongside these things, rather than simply massacring them and occupying the town fully by themselves? The Sergeant knew that the operational considerations were the purview of those with stars on their shoulders rather than stripes, but couldn't help feel angry at the fact that, as always, it was the poor bloody infantry that would suffer regardless. He took another look outside.

His squad held a two-storey stone structure at the head of T-Junction. It seemed to be some kind of dwelling, judging by the squalor of dirty rags and palliasse-type bedding, with straw piled in one corner of the room Argan was currently in, on the second floor overlooking the junction. The civilian Xenos were coming from the west, along the stem of the T, towards the junction, thence turning left to head north to the fortified district around the palace. His squad of ten were holed up in the house- they had a vox-set, a heavy bolter on a pintle mount set up in one of the upstairs windows, and a missile launcher on the floor below. Enemy contact, company HQ had informed them, was to be expected at any time from the west. Indeed, gunfire could be heard from that direction, with an occasional puff of smoke coiling up over the rooftops from some grenade or missile detonation. Argan watched the Griffons stumbling and flapping towards the illusory safety of the palace and the protection of their king. Who is just another filthy bird-alien like the rest, only this one wears a crown, Argan thought. He had met the king as his squad had formed part of the honour guard for Major Harding when they agreed their temporary ceasefire upon the arrival of the Chaos forces planetside, and he had not thought highly of him. Just like most human nobles, I'll give him that. So stuck up his own arse he really thinks he can make a difference here. And now there's some horse princess, came in on her fancy airship? I bet she thinks the same. Two for the price of one. Nobles are always the same, even alien ones. Argan spat on the floor, keeping an eye on the street outside. I knew a princess once. Well, I saw a voxcast about her. She made the mistake of trying to negotiate with Ork invaders. Her head ended up on a spike outside their camp. Don't think anybody knows where the rest of her went.

The ranks of terror-stricken Griffons on the street were thinning, a few stragglers here and there, some wounded, some wandering shellshocked, aimless. The sounds of battle to the west had ceased, only silence from that direction now, though crackling small arms fire could still be heard away to the east and north. Argan brought his magnoculars up and scanned the street. One or two of the bird aliens scurried or flapped along, casting panicked glances behind them. He noticed they were wearing the armour of the Griffon military. Deserters. I should probably shoot them myself, he mused. Then again it would be a waste of ammunition. A final Griffon scampered around the corner and fled, leaving the street deserted.

'Alright, easy boys,' Argan muttered. 'We could be in contact any second now. Keep your eyes peeled and sing out the second you see anything. If it moves, blow its head off.' A chorus of approval answered him from his squadmembers. Each man manned a window or doorway, covering the street, keeping a close watch for any sign of the enemy.

They didn't have to watch for long.

'Contact front!' someone shouted. Sure enough, two hulking figures had appeared at the end of the street.

'Open fire!' Argan shouted, and his squad complied. Las-fire lanced out down the street and the heavy bolter chattered, kicking up cobblestones and spurts of dirt around the hostiles. Both of them began to advance, and within moments they were joined by three more, and together they returned fire.

Bolter rounds slammed into the stone house, blowing chunks from its facade. The missile launcher roared, its projectile slicing down the road and narrowly missing one of the targets who neatly sidestepped. Argan summoned the vox-trooper and grabbed the handset.

'Forest Gamma 1 actual, this is Forest Gamma 1-1 actual,' he called, attempting to alert his platoon commander. 'Enemy contact, I say again, enemy contact, west of our position. Enemy is advancing, we are engaging, over.' After a few moments, a crackling reply came.

'Forest Gamma 1-1 actual, this is Forest Gamma 1 actual. Copy that. Engage and destroy enemy forces. Do you require reinforcements, over?'

Argan looked out of the window again. Despite filling the street with fire, the enemy was still advancing.

'Yes sir,' Argan replied. 'Contacts are traitor Astartes, over.'

'Understood. The rest of the platoon are on their way to you,' came the reply. 'Hold the line, Sergeant. Forest Gamma 1 actual out.'

Argan wondered if the platoon would arrive before the enemy. Another glance out of the window told him it would be close. The five marines were pushing forward, unheeding of the fire being thrown their way. The las-rounds pattered off their armour fruitlessly, and only the heavy bolter and missile launcher had a chance of bringing one down. A return volley of bolter rounds blew holes in the building wall, showering the men inside with chunks of stone, plaster and a fine coating of brick dust. A strangled yelp came from downstairs as someone was hit. The missile launcher fired again, a streak of fire crossing the street in a moment.This time one of the marines wasn't quick enough, and was struck bodily on the chest, knocking him back. But he did not fall, instead he soldiered on with his brethren, smoke curling from the edges of a ragged hole in his armour.

'We can't stop them!' one of his squad shouted.

'Calm down, man!' Argan roared. 'Remember your training. Aim and fire, aim and fire. That's all that matters. Keep shooting and we'll bring them down.' He brought his own gun up to his shoulder and squeezed off a few rounds, aiming at the wound inflicted on the marine struck by the missile. His aim was true and the las-fire singed and cauterised the exposed flesh beneath, but it was not enough to stop the wounded marine. His bolter blazed and more holes were smashed in the wall next to Argan, who flung himself to the floor. A trooper at the next window was not so lucky,and a bolt removed most of his head and sent him tumbling.

Argan picked himself up and peeked up over the windowsill, just enough to get a look at the road ahead. The marines were still coming, showing no regard for taking cover behind doorways, in alleys or behind carts. They were content to simply walk at a steady pace, each stride carrying them nearly twice as far as a normal man would cover. The heavy bolter in the next room drew a bead on the injured marine and pumped a dozen explosive rounds into his torso. He staggered and fell, crawling forward before another burst blew the back of his helmet, and his head, away. But his fellows avenged him immediately, a withering hail of bolt rounds smashing the walls around the heavy bolter, killing its loader and wounding the gunner, a bloody stump replacing his left arm. The gun itself was knocked from its mounting. He grabbed his covering vox-trooper by the scruff of the neck and dragged him over, taking the handset.

'Forest Gamma 1, this is Forest Gamma 1-1 actual,' he called into the vox. 'We need those reinforcements ASAP. What's your ETA, over?'

'Forest Gamma 1-1 actual, this is Forest Gamma 1,' came the reply from the platoon HQ's vox-trooper. 'We are en-route to your location, ETA is five minutes, over.'

'Better make it three, 1-1 actual out.' Argan tossed the receiver back to his vox-man and risked a glance outside again. They were still coming. A missile struck the leading Astartes in the weaker knee joint and blew off most of his right leg, but he simply began firing his bolter from a prone position while crawling forward steadily.

Better make that two...

The last of the Chaos dropships were making their landing runs, disgorging troops on the snowfields north and east of the city in an attempt to outflank the defenders completely. Several more were brought down by the Hydras, who in turn suffered the loss of another of their number as one of the Chaos gunships sprung up from seemingly out of nowhere behind an outcrop and let loose with a missile that detonated the ammunition, and the mobile AAA went off like a fireworks display, shells popping off in all directions and sparks flying.

With approximately two thousand infantry on the ground as well as the Marines, the Chaos forces advanced, tightening the noose around Griffonstone and its defenders. Men, Pony and Griffon alike occupied their defensive positions, whether well-prepared trench, hasty street barricade or commandeered house, crouching, watching, waiting. Troops were pulled back from the eastern flank, including tanks, to meet the onrushing Traitor Marines coming from the west, leaving the eastern district bare of defences. The enemy forces were able to sweep into the city unopposed, but not entirely unmolested. Several small bridges that crossed glacial streams and small gorges within the city were detonated by explosive charges, sending them tumbling and limiting enemy mobility. The humans had had time to plant several small minefields, all their resources would allow, on the snowfield, which claimed several more enemies before they reached the city limits. The Chaos infantry crossed the abandoned trenches and were inside the city, advancing from both east and west towards the palace and the inner defensive ring. The enemies isolated on the northern snowfield, however, were denied support and faced the fully manned Imperial defences. Pinned down and taking heavy losses, a red flare went up from the beleaguered assault troops.

The two surviving Chaos gunships responded. Staying low and using the rock formations for cover from the remaining Hydra guns, they swooped in, finding an angle. Rocket and cannon fire strafed the Imperial trenches, smashing earthworks and killing several unfortunate troopers. Las-fire stabbed skyward after them. They wheeled round for another pass, unleashing death on the defenders, but this time they were heading straight for the airships.

A rippled broadside from the Vanhoover met them, along with their rapid-fire top deck guns. Flak erupted around them, the two VTOL aircraft jinking as they ran the gauntlet. One of them let loose with a volley of rockets against the Vanhoover, stopped cold by its shield. They stayed low and sprinted for the cover of the surrounding mountain peaks, below the angle of the airships' guns. They were not, however, out of reach of the Imperial Valkyries.

One popped up from where it had been lurking in a dark gorge, its sights set on the trailing Chaos gunship. Its heads-up display tracked the enemy, displaying a firing solution for the pilot. A quick burst of careful maneuvering set them up behind, and the Valkyrie's multilaser flashed. The first few shots missed and the Chaos pilot jinked about to try and shake his pursuer, ducking behind protruding cliffs and diving towards the gorge below. But the machine spirit of the Valkyrie was in a hunting mood, and soon the multilaser began finding its target, peppering the gunship's port wing and engine. Smoke billowed from it, washing over the cockpit glass of the pursuing Valkyrie. The pilot went in for the kill, multilaser spitting fire as the damaged enemy tried to nose down too close to a ridge to escape. The belly of his craft bounced off of the sharp rocks, ripping it open, pieces of the stricken gunship pattering from the nose of its pursuer. Another burst of multilaser fire smashed into the tail, and the pilot lost control, the Chaos craft dropping, dropping, dropping...and exploding, bursting into a dazzling fireball on the pristine snows of the lower slopes.

'Break left, break left!' the port door gunner shouted into his intercom. 'Enemy gunship on our tail!' The Imperial pilot obeyed, standard procedure as the door gunners had a much better view of goings-on abaft the wings than the pilot did. He pulled his joystick hard over to the left, banking the craft and ducking behind an outcrop. Puffs of shattered rock burst forth from the cliff face as the pursuing gunship opened fire, its autocannon tracking but missing. The port gunner of the Valkyrie opened fire, his heavy bolter swung around to the rear as far as it would go, endeavoring to at least distract their pursuer in the hopes of making him make a mistake in the tight terrain, as his fellow had done.

But the Chaos pilot wouldn't be deterred that easily. He stuck with them, a few stray bolt rounds causing minor damage to the leading edge of his port wing. But his autocannon now had a target, and opened up. The Imperial pilot threw his craft around but it wasn't enough to escape all harm, as shells chewed through the rear fuselage. The door gunners blazed away where they could get an angle, but it wasn't going to be enough. A turn was coming up, a mountain pass opening up on the port side.

'Everyone hold tight!' the pilot called. 'It might get bumpy for a second.' For the second time in a minute he jammed the control stick over as hard left as he could, while simultaneously slamming his foot down on the left rudder pedal. Being a VTOL aircraft, the Valkyrie was considerably more maneuverable at low speed and low altitude than most others, and could be rotated about its axis while still traveling forward, like a spacecraft, thanks to its thrust vectoring. By the time it had entered the canyon, the Valkyrie was now traveling backwards, having rotated through 180 degrees but still traveling on the same heading, albeit more slowly, having bled off plenty of its speed in the turn. The Chaos gunship swung round the corner into the canyon, but instead of seeing a fleeing Imperial craft, it was faced with its firepower.

The pilot squeezed the trigger and mashed the firing stud atop his joystick. The multilaser blazed into life as a volley of rockets raced from Valkyrie's the underwing pods. The Chaos pilot had no time to react, and both the rockets and laser struck home.

The Valkyrie's door gunners were thrown about as the craft was buffeted by a sudden shockwave, their harnesses keeping them safe as the gunship slowed to a hover, rocking gently. Their pursuer had exploded into a thousand pieces, fragments rattling against the Valkyrie as the burning remains scattered themselves across the snowy gorge. The pilot gunned his engines again, swinging the gunship back around and setting course for Griffonstone.

'Command, Locksmith 1. Splash two bandits. We are available for close air support, over.'

Plaster dust rained down on Sergeant Argan. He looked around. At least three of his men were dead, and that was just in this room. There was still gunfire from downstairs so at least someone else was alive and fighting. His vox-trooper crouched nearby, whimpering. Death stalked them in the street outside and it was only a matter of moments before they were finished, he was sure. The veteran sergeant had long ago resigned himself to death in the service of the Emperor, and that was fine by him, for what prouder, nobler death could a man have? He gripped his lasgun tightly and risked another peek out of the window, its frame shattered and splintered by enemy fire and a large hole in the wall beside it.

The marines were at the junction, right outside. Even as he watched, several grenades went into the downstairs windows. Explosions rippled through the building, making the floor shake beneath him. But something else was happening. Suddenly las-fire was striking the enemies, but from the side, and he knew the rest of the platoon had arrived. The marines turned to meet the new threat, the three still standing at least. The wounded marine who was crawling relentlessly was still focused on the building, still focused on Argan. He knew this was the chance, the moment they needed to strike. Ignoring his panicking comms trooper, Argan headed for the stairs. The smooth stone slabs were peppered with shrapnel damage and a few smears of blood. Downstairs, the main room was a charnel house. There had been resistance mere moments ago, until the grenades ended that. Now, the floor and walls were spattered with crimson. One man at least was still mostly intact, propped up in the corner with a hole in stomach and ropes of gently steaming intestines spilled out around him. But several of his squad had been reduced to little more than slabs of meat. Long since inured to such sights, Argan hurried to the doorway to the next room, focused only on one thing.

The next room was where the missile launcher had been set up, away from the rest of the squad and with the back door of the house open behind it, to minimise overpressure and give the backblast an exit from the room. Here, too, there was death, with the gunner and loaded both prone on the floor. Argan only had one question- was the launcher intact?

It was, mostly, though the sights appeared bent. But that didn't matter. He leaped across the room, almost sliding across thanks to the gore. Was it loaded? Yes. Was the safety off? Yes. He peered through the battered sights.

The enemy were right there in front of him. Three marines, not focused on him, engaging the rest of his platoon. He sighted in on the closest one, his bolter flashing, blue-and-gold armour stained with the blood of others. He pulled the trigger and the launcher bucked against his shoulder. The missile roared free of the tube, and Argan ducked.

There was no explosion.

He immediately knew and cursed himself for such an elementary mistake. The missile had a minimum range needed for the projectile to arm itself so as to prevent it detonating prematurely, either over friendly lines or within range of the firer themselves. He looked around for the ammo crate, pouncing upon it. Several missiles remained, and he grabbed one, sliding it home into the tube. But the enemy now knew that there was still resistance inside the house. Looking through the sights, Argan quickly switched targets from the marine who now had an unexploded warhead stuck in his side to the one farthest from him who was still engaging the platoon. Bolt rounds smashed into the wall beside him and he quickly pulled the trigger before diving to the floor.

This time the missile armed itself, having reached the minimum distance. The two-stage shaped-charge Krak warhead was able to punch through the armour of its target, sending a cone of molten-hot copper through the breach, vaporising skin, bone and muscle alike. The marine crumpled to the ground, and Argan sprung up, scrambling for another missile even as more shells blew small holes in the wall, damaging one of the tripod legs supporting the launcher. Then, most of the wall ceased to exist entirely.

Argan's head snapped round. The marine he had shot, missile still lodged in his side, had simply burst into the room, shattering the wall as if it were made of paper. He raised his bolter to fire.

'Shit...!' Argan dove for the open rear door of the house, just about making it outside as high-explosive rounds demolished the frame, sending a cloud of dust and smoke after him. He scrambled through the bare earth of the house's yard, but it was a dead end. There were no other exits, unless one happened to be a Griffon and could simply fly up over the ten-foot high smooth wall. Any moment, the marine would step through the door- or rather, through the wall again, as he was far too tall to fit through the intended opening- and finish Argan off. The Sergeant took a quick mental sitrep. He was trapped in the courtyard, he had his lasgun, all but useless against such armour, and two grenades, one smoke, one frag, both likewise useless. Or so he thought, until an idea popped into his head, an idea so monumentally dumb it might just work. He pulled the smoke grenade from his webbing and pulled the pin, tossing it and letting the handle fly off just as the marine burst through the wall, debris tumbling as he forced his way through, bolter already up and about to fire. The cloud of grey obscurant smoke quickly began filling the courtyard, and Argan ducked and ran, trusting in the Emperor. The marine fired, tracking him, stitching a string of shell holes on the wall behind him as he fled towards his sure death. But his ploy worked, and he somehow snuck through the gap the marine had made for him, back into the house.

He was pursued immediately, a foul incantation coming from the voice-speaker of the marine's armour, the very sound and syntax sending a wave of revulsion through Argan as he arrived back inside. He again had moments to act. This time it was his frag grenade that came off of his webbing. He pulled the pin and chucked it underhand into the open missile crate. Then he ran for his life. The marine stepped inside, firing again, but Argan was already gone, through the doorway into the main room and as far up the stairs as he could go in the time he had.

The grenade detonated after the five-second fuse ran out. By itself the explosive charge it carried was negligible compared to the strength of a suit of power armour. But in exploding, it set off a chain reaction. The remaining half-dozen rockets, their warheads and propellant, ignited instantaneously, a huge blast wave and fireball filling the room. In turn, milliseconds later, the missile still buried in the marine's side went off as well.

Argan was tossed bodily up the stairs, landing in a crumpled heap on the landing at the top as dust cascaded down around him like an avalanche. He went momentarily deaf, and when his hearing had recovered enough to distinguish anything from the ringing in his ears, he heard a strange sound. It took a moment for him to realise it was sobbing, and he picked himself up and staggered into the second-floor room. His vox man, Merkev, was crying in the corner, shaken by the sudden, huge explosion so closeby.

'Get up, private!' Argan shouted, grabbing him and dragging him to his feet. 'The rest of the platoon is here, and I need my vox working! So grab your set, grab your rifle, and frakking move!' The sudden tirade shocked the young private from his terror-stricken stupor, and after a moment's hesitation, he nodded.

'Y-yes, Sergeant...!' He fumbled with the heavy backpack vox, putting it on and grabbing his gun. Argan peered out of the window.

The other marines lay dead. One had a large steaming hole in his helmet where a plasma gun had found its mark, and the already-wounded marine had been finished off by melta grenades thrown from cover by members of Gamma Platoon, who now crowded the street outside, crouching in cover and approaching his building.

'Shadow!' Argan shouted.

'Vixen!' came the reply, the Brigade's daily challenge code used to identify friendlies in the combat zone. Argan made his way downstairs with Merkev and out into the street. Lieutenant Albrecht, the platoon commander, was there, along with the remains of the unit. Bodies littered the street as the marines had taken their death toll before succumbing. Including Argan and Merkev, of the 50-man platoon, only eighteen remained alive.

'Where's the rest of your squad?' the Lieutenant asked.

'Dead, sir,' Argan replied matter-of-factly. 'What's the situation?'

'We shouldn't be here to relieve you. All units were told to pull back,' Albrecht replied. 'We're tightening the cordon. We're being outflanked, it sounds like. There are more of those marines out there to the west, plus enemies to the east. They're inside the city so it's gonna be almost impossible for our Valkyries or those Xenos airships to engage effectively. This place is like a labyrinth.'

'Any idea on their numbers, sir?' Argan asked.

'Well, apparently our spotters counted five drop pods made it down, so that's at least fifty Astartes. I don't know how many of their landers got through, but well over fifteen hundred infantry I'd wager. Anyway, we're overdue. If we're out here any longer they'll probably shoot us for desertion when we get back to the line.' Albrecht turned to the platoon. 'FIrst platoon! Form up. Fourth squad to take point. Retrace our steps. We're pulling back, first to our original staging area and then to the inner cordon. Move out!' The survivors jumped into action, turning and leaving the scene of the deaths of so many of their brothers. Argan glanced back at the shattered hovel he had left behind, but there was no time to be sentimental about his lost squadmates. The battle was not over.

The Imperial lines tightened, the defenders waited. Griffon soldiers and pony assault troops joined them manning the inner cordon, nervous hands and hooves poised for action. But for an hour, nothing happened. Observer teams on the peaks and the pony airships gave reports of enemy movements; they were massing, preparing for the final push on the beleaguered defenders. Outside the city, the few remaining Hydras had to lay low, isolated by the investiture of the city by the besieging forces. Inside the city, an uneasy calm descended, a veneer of inaction as they waited for the storm.

It came at sundown. A sudden guttural roar filled the air from a thousand mouths. Out of the dim twilight came missiles, blazing lascannon beams, and a hail of bolt rounds. The enemy attacked at half a dozen different spots along the line, each location spearheaded by a fireteam of Thousand Sons. The defenders unleashed a blizzard of defensive fire, but very little of it was of sufficient caliber to seriously harm the marines leading each charge. Here and there, one or two went down to well-placed missiles or lascannon, but for every one who fell, two more forced their way through unscathed. Massed lasgun and rifle fire brought down dozens of Chaos infantry, but there were many more where they came from. The attackers punched through the line in three different spots, traitor Astartes forcing the breach and the infantry exploiting it, charging through to push on while the marines attempted to roll up the line, as they had done on the western flank earlier in the day. When it became clear the main line was becoming untenable, Major Harding ordered another retreat, this time to the final line, surrounding the palace, the last bastion of Imperial, Griffon and Pony alike.

The Imperial foothold on the city was faltering, being reduced to a small portion of its area. Those Griffon civilians who had not been able to evacuate inside the final line were butchered gleefully by the Chaos forces as they broke through. Retreating guardsmen were cut down as they ran. A few shells from captured tanks struck the palace, sending torrents of masonry falling from shattered towers onto the thick stone roof. The pony airships lit up the enemy positions with their searchlights to aid the troops on the ground, but thanks to the proximity of the attackers to the defensive line they could only engage outlying or separated units with their cannons.

The Chaos forces hurled themselves at the final line of resistance, again and again, but were repelled each time. A squad of Pegasi marksponies were able to take up rooftop positions and pick off several platoons' worth of Chaos infantry before being spotted. Las-fire knocked several down to the streets below, and the rest flapped away to safety. Mortar fire began to rain down, targeting the plaza outside the palace. Captain Halix directed the defence from his above-ground command post, while Major Harding attempted to deal with the strategic picture, at least until it became clear there was no strategy anymore.

This was a fight to the death, a simple battle for survival, or rather, to prolong survival as long as possible. There was certainly no way out. No reinforcements were coming. They had lost the outer line, then the inner line, and now they were struggling to stay in possession of the final line of defences, the last thing between the terrors outside the wall and the leaders of the resistance within. Harding, Garston, Celestia...

Damn that Xenos witch! Where is she? What did I do when I agreed to send her off on whatever fool's errand she claimed to be on? Harding castigated himself. She had a plan, she said? To save herself. No doubt she has found some way to ditch her escort and flee, leaving us all to die here like rats. He keyed his vox.

'Lieutenant Albaran, report! What is your status?' he demanded.

'Sir, this is Albaran. Uh...situation remains...unchanged,' Albaran replied, with a glance at the still-silent pony princess.

'Well what the hell is going on up there? Does she have a plan or not?' Harding questioned angrily.

'I...I'm not sure, sir. She wouldn't tell me, and she hasn't said anything since she started...whatever it is she's doing. She's just, uh...standing. And glowing, sir. Her, um, horn? It's glowing. But that's all. I don't know what she's trying to do, sir.'

'Damn it!' Harding growled as an explosion shook the command centre. He hadn't expected anything to come of her supposed plan, but some tiny shred of hope at least had remained that, potentially, she might have something useful up her sleeve that could at least assist in some way. But it seemed his initial suspicions had been proven, that she was merely blustering and posturing, like the Griffon King, but in a more manipulative way.

Albaran glanced over again at Celestia, and noticed a change. This time, her eyes were open. The alicorn looked at the Lieutenant.

'It is done,' she said simply.

'Uh, sir?' Albaran spoke. 'She, uh...she says it's done.'

'Well what's done, damn her?!' Harding shouted. 'Put her on the vox, now!'

'Yes sir!' Albaran scurried to comply, holding out the handset to Celestia, who cocked her head.

'Listen, pony! What have you done?' Harding spouted angrily. 'Have you done something that might actually help us? Or have you just been wasting my time? What have you done?'

Celestia spoke into the handset in reply. 'You will see, Major. You will see.'

Comments

[SkyPenguin]

Biggest issues with this fic -- besides the over-emphasis on OC's instead of say, Luna, is the arms & magic issue. You've got a ton of unicorns that never try to magic the grenades back over yonder, and pegas that never try to clear the smoke off the battlefield or whip up a storm or the like. Instead they all depend on primitive firearms (since apparently it seems like they never received nor tried to ask for arms from the imperials). And despite the primitive firearms they are mysteriously successful with them at least on some occasions. Also feels like Cadance went AWOL like 50 chapters ago.

[Horus Lupercal]

9718795
The imperial wil never Fucking ever ever ever times 500,000,000 give fithly xeno scum the holy weapons made by the machine cult of mars.

[BRBrony9]

9718795
There are only a handful of unicorns in Griffonstone at this stage of the story, and Pegasi flying around to clear the smoke etc. like they might against a regular Equestrian enemy is asking to be shot out of the sky against an enemy with targeting equipment and truly rapid-fire weapons. Unicorns in previous chapters have used magic, though, as well as Celestia and Twilight, but in an early chapter I stated that there was a kind of 'standard-issue' of spells for royal guardsponies- shield, stun, magic attack/fireball etc. Most probably don't know many more unusual spells like Twilight might.

[SkyPenguin]

9719146
Ha, I missed the standard spell advisory, but yeah I was mostly commenting about the Ponyville encounter not the latest battle. You got all these mooks that do some daring deeds and almost come up with an amazing original thought and then... died like a mook. Expect some of that with WH40k but their either needs to be more world-building-plot during the mook episodes (like spell/weapon upgrades) or a bit more focus on protags that actually have some plot weight and live for a while. I kept expecting one of the ponies to either A: start using spells better or B: Grab a gun from a dead imperial or C: Jump in a tank after the original drivers die. As it is they're just mooks that don't drive the story in any real way. They're fairly competent mooks and they get some shots in but... ultimately just mooks. You could pick a different mook and the story would be pretty much entirely the same. This sort of evolution stuff would also make it a little more explicable how all the airships went from "omggggg evil metal bird from the sky i'm dyyyyying" to "I shrug off all your hits for I am unmoveable". And avoid the issue of all pony guns being super effective suddenly. Hell, maybe have Twilight come up with a bullet enchantment spell.

Or just continue with mook warfare. Supposedly Luna was going to handle things but feels like she disappeared a few chapters back. Guess she's waiting for all the civilians to get slaughtered and Celestia to come out of her spellcasting trance before doing anything?

Not saying the story is bad.... but it's a helluvalot of emphasis on mooks.

[BRBrony9]

9719713
Well that's the thing about war- there IS a hell of a lot of emphasis on mooks. It's the boots on the ground that win it and I wanted to show the viewpoint both of the commanders (Celestia, Harding, The Lord Admiral etc) and the folk on the ground (Muzzle Flash, Jonas, Argan etc) to give both perspective and comparison. Don't forget this is a first-contact scenario. There is zero chance a pony could jump in a tank and make it work- they just don't know how. And as another commenter said, there's no way the Imperials would give them any of their weapons, they mostly see the ponies and griffons as expendable allies of convenience.

In the latest fight, Luna is protecting the palace, although I'm not sure if I've mentioned that in the last published chapter or if it's in the one I'm working one. But she is doing something, fear not.

As to the airships, they were only 'omg metal birds' because it was a first contact scenario with an unknown enemy, aircraft they had never encountered before, performance and weaponry they had never encountered before, etc. Once they figure things out and the Imperials fill them in on some of the basics (what parts to aim at, how much to lead the targets, general weapons performance data etc), and it becomes common knowledge that las-fire penetrates normal magic shields- their performance both offensively and defensively improves accordingly. The more action they see, the more battle-hardened the crews become. Don't forget they started the story having not fought a major (as in MAJOR) war in living memory. Training can only take them so far- experience and courage have to do the rest. Think of it more as an evolution in tactics and understanding than an evolution in spells/weaponry, e.g. it's mentioned that Muzzle Flash aims at where Jonas told him the heart was in humans, whereas before that he might have just fired randomly at any body part.

[DOOMRIDER]

9719833 I for one have to thank you and I do sincerely mean that. After five long years of inactivity I nearly gave up hope this story would ever be updated again. I have to agree with you too war isn't pretty or neat. war is not a glorious thing to ever be sensationalized. It's an ugly truth and a horrifying reality In the Grim setting that is the 41st Millennium where there is only War. On the other hand though this is pure awesome fiction so I want to read more I'm only afraid that because of all the updates that this is going to either be cancelled or put on indefinite hiatus.

[BRBrony9]

9721297
And I thank you, I never really expected anyone who was following this story years ago to still be following it today, but it means something that people were still waiting for updates. I just want to entertain people with my writings so it's nice to hear people say that they enjoy it. And don't worry, now that I've restarted this one, I have the bug to finish it, and I intend to. Hope I don't let you down.

[Snowkitsune]

Please tell me that we are about to see the sun being brought to bear again choas