Wyl
Day 01, 1900 Hours
"Iron-Soul" Light Cruiser Starship
"Advance! Thrust! Develop! Back!"
The booming voice of a pug-faced, bald sergeant filled the cavernous docking bay of the Dauntless Cruiser Iron-Soul, though it was soon lost in the cacophony of orders, shouts, and bawling screams of the other sergeants while the soldiers of the 113th Kaneron Rifles "Devil Hound" Company drilled in a mass line formation. Well over two hundred guardsmen in full battle gear, including full packs and extra ammunition, stabbed out into the air with their bayonets. Sweat soaked through their olive drab uniforms, causing the coarse cloth to cling to their bodies and chafe their skin. It dribbled down their faces in tiny rivers, dripping down their backs and chests, causing them to itch. Their limbs shook from the exertion and continuous exercise, rifles trembling in their arms as they returned to the ready position to begin the drill once again.
Wyl's breath came in ragged, heaving gasps, his eyes stung from sweat and his mouth was as dry as a sandbox. He had watched several men simply drop after almost four hours of the same bayonet drill. Their unconscious forms were dragged away by the medics to be given smelling salts, a swallow of water, and returned to the rear of the formation to resume the punishing training. Wyl's vision was already swimming and he felt lightheaded as they repeated the same motions over and over again. He felt close to passing out, but they had been threatened with half-rations if more than a quarter of the company fell, and he would not add to that. His brown eyes fell upon the men who stood on a raised dais that overlooked the grunting soldiers. Hot, red anger swelled in his chest and brief vigor returned to his limbs as he thrust out at an invisible foe, twisted the rifle, and pulled back.
Captain Rayon stood upon the platform, his sharp, aquiline features unreadable. He wore a sharply pressed olive green dress uniform decorated with various medals and ribbons over his heart. A brightly polished longsword hung from his waist, glittering even in the dim light of the docking bay. A wide brimmed hat trimmed with silver set with a gleaming golden aquila in the center sat atop his shaved head. His hands were clasped behind his back, though he would occasionally glance at the archaic timepiece he wore on the inside of his wrist. But the officer was not the object of Wyl's hatred, it was the guardsman who was standing at the position of attention next to him, eyes staring at the wall like his life depended on it.
Never had Wyl hated a man more than he hated Alexio Quixone. He was a uselessly skinny, beady eyed waste of oxygen who couldn't even keep track of the equipment that he was assigned. The man constantly lost items such as boots, fatigue shirts, and even his own identification tags. The latest offense, the one that all of Devil Hound Company was currently paying dearly for, was Alexio failing to provide a sharpened bayonet upon inspection to a passing lieutenant. Not only was the weapon not sharp, but he had left it in his room and was walking to the chow hall with his squad with an empty sheathe. That had been four hours ago, and of course the officer had run to Captain Rayon to tell him all about Private Quixone's latest mistake, and obviously the problem was systemic in the entire company.
"Thrust! Hold it out, boys! Hold your fragging blades out!" The order rippled throughout the formation and the guardsmen held their bayonets out as though stabbing an alien enemy in the throat. Their lasguns, loaded with power cells, grew heavier with each passing second and Wyl clenched his teeth until he felt his jaw pop as he fought to keep the weapon up. Lasguns everywhere were drooping down, some slowly, others horrifyingly fast. Men groaned in pain as they rolled their shoulders to get any kind of relief from the weight. Wyl couldn't tell if he was sweating anymore because of how thirsty he was, but he licked the edges of his mouth, tasting the salt of his skin. Oh Throne, he just wanted it to end, even if it meant being shot. Every man who failed to keep their bayonet out became the prey of the roving sergeants, who descended with the fury of a comet and delivered a flurry of punishing blows that would drop the guardsman to his knees and would be dragged out to stand in the rear of the formation to be berated and "corrected" with more creative exercises.
"Hounds, do any of us know why we are here, and not currently in the chow facility?" Captain Rayon's drawling voice sounded over a vox caster that had been handed to him by a lieutenant. There was a deadening silence for a long and uncomfortable moment before someone called out, blaming Quixone's blatant stupidity for their current predicament. Rayon sucked his teeth in disappointment and slowly shook his head.
"No, we are here because none of you were capable of ensuring everyone was ready. How long has this soldier had an unsharpened weapon? We have been in transit for well over three months, and none of you thought to correct this?" Rayon didn't shout, he didn't scream, yet his tone shot daggers through Wyl's chest more than any bullet ever could. Rayon was by no means a cruel officer, he refused to execute men for trivial reasons and had fended off the slavering dog that was Commissar Argaan when he had wanted to shoot a squad of guardsmen out of the airlock for oversleeping. For Wyl, Rayon's disappointment was the ultimate failure on his part. He felt shame flush his cheeks as he had known about the bayonet, along with almost everyone else in the company. Even the roving sergeants paused in their whispered threats and punishments when they realized that Rayon was also looking in their direction.
"I expect more from Devil Hound Company, we are the tip of the spear in the 113th, I expect better." Rayon added, his obsidian eyes narrowing. More than half of the company had now lowered their weapons as their muscles failed, though they fought to bring them back up before the sergeants unleashed their fury on them. Wyl's was dangerously close to touching the ground as it dropped lower and lower, his arms shaking violently.
"Sergeants, take command of your men, dismissed," and just as abruptly as it began, it was over. There was a clatter of bayonets and rifles as the guardsmen relaxed, many of them dropping their weapons from their numbed fingers. Others fell to their knees, tears brimming in their eyes from anger and pain. Wyl managed to cling to his lasgun as he lowered himself, his free hand clawing at his belt for this canteen. The sweet taste of cold water filled his mouth and he drank greedily, draining half of it in seconds. Dozens of others in formation did likewise, though a few of them returned the water onto the floor after drinking too quickly. Wyl's eyes found Alexio, still on the dais, staring down at his feet to avoid the eyes of his comrades. Many of whom stared up at him with contempt and promises of retribution.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wyl rested his head against the plasteel wall of the community showers, the high pressure water blasting across his chiseled shoulders and back. A large black imperial aquila was tattooed across his shoulder blades, a mark he had gotten as a teenager before joining the Kaneron Rifles. The heat scoured the dried sweat from his fair skin. Twenty other soldiers scrubbed themselves, steam rolling across their bodies while muttering to themselves through their exhaustion. Many of them bore similar imperial tattoos, their loyalty to Emperor and Imperium forever marked on their skin.
"That fragging ass, I swear, if he screws up one more time..." A hulking brute of a man by the name of Lundail swore while massaging his swollen, aching shoulders with his meaty hand. Lundail was a corporal from 2nd Squad, so Wyl didn't know him that well, but he did know that the big man had a short fuse when provoked.
"You know damn well that the Cap'n won't tolerate no fightin'." Another man spoke with a lazy country drawl. Wyl recognized the accent from the countryside of the homeworld of the 113th. Kanera was a beautiful, temperate world with vast, sprawling grasslands the color of rust, farmlands of rolling grains, herds of foul-tempered animals that tasted best when roasted with sugar, and oceans of sapphire green water. The air had a certain spice smell that Wyl only now noticed, and he sorely missed now that he was forced to gulp down the recycled, stale air of the Iron-Soul. What he missed most about his home planet was the sunsets, how they filled the sky with a deep purple haze that danced and writhed like splashing water.
"It wouldn't be a fight, just me twisting his little head." Lundail rumbled as he switched shoulders, grimacing as he worked the soreness from the muscles beneath his ruddy skin.
"Best save it for wherever the hell we en' up, we're gon'a need that 'ggression," the drawling man added as he rinsed the meager soap from his body with the scalding hot water. A silence came over the showers when a few hushed, angry whispers drew the attention to the door. Alexio stood there, wrapped in a thin green towel, averting his eyes from his brothers-in-arms. He quickly crossed the room, squeezing between a few men who refused to move aside for him, their eyes boring holes in the back of his skull. Alexio hurried to the nearest shower head and reached up to turn on the water with shaking fingers. A hand slapped his away and he recoiled, his eyes turning to his assailant.
"Shower's taken." The man said, his eyes staring deadpan at Alexio.
"B-but there's no one using i-" He tried to reply, but he was cut off by the other guardsman's hand raising.
"The shower is taken. Don't make me repeat myself." The soldier said again before returning to his own washing. Alexio sulked like a kicked dog, stepping away to find a different shower head. Wyl caught Lundail staring at Alexio as he searched for a place to wash himself, but each attempt was met with a guardsman either threatening him, sneering, or insisting that the shower was already being used. One man had even turned on the adjacent shower and turned both streams onto himself despite the pressure and heat, leaving Alexio standing awkwardly in the middle of the showers with no place to go.
"Please, just let me wash up, I can't be caught not washing." Alexio pleaded with those around him, but he was ignored by them all. Just as he was about to give up and leave, Wyl thumbed the switch on his own water and stepped away.
"Shower's free!" Wyl called out, earning him several stares from the soldiers around him. Alexio rushed to the faucet and muttered a low "thank you" before hanging up his towel and turning on the water. Wyl inclined his head slightly before turning sharply on his heel and leaving the showers. Lundail watched him leave, a hint of a smile touching his lips.
Wyl stepped out into the corridor after fully dressed himself in a fresh uniform that wasn't soaked in sweat. He slung his lasgun over his shoulder, glancing up and down the hallways. The corridors of the starship were dark and hard to navigate, as many of the lights had burnt out long ago. Either the crew knew their vessel well enough to not need them, or couldn't be bothered. Wyl himself thought he had a fair grasp on the layout of the Iron-Soul, but would somehow find an unfamiliar corridor that he had to navigate. Wyl noticed a man wearing a dark blue dress uniform approaching and he snapped his arm up in salute.
"Sir! I was hoping I could ask you which way back to the barr-" He never finished his question, as the naval officer wordlessly yanked a extending tube from his belt and backhanded Wyl across the face with it. The baton made a zzap and he felt his face numb and he stumbled backward. As quickly as it arrived, the numbness subsided and was replaced with throbbing pain that brought tears of pain to his eyes.
"Do not address naval officers, guardsman! Lower men do not speak with, or to, their superiors!" The naval officer shrieked, raising the stun baton again. Wyl recoiled, unsure if he should, or even could, defend himself. The officer smiled wickedly and returned the baton to his belt before turning on his heel and walking away. His boots clicked on the plasteel floor.
"Emperor's Balls, that hurt, fraggin bastard." Wyl said, tasting blood in his mouth. He spat and pulled himself back onto his feet just as several other guardsmen came out.
"Looks like you ran into Lieutenant Sparky," Corporal Lundail said. Wyl stiffened and nodded jerkily. The corporal was drying his head with a towel, coming out of the showers.
"He's attacked several other troopers too, I guess they have a weird caste system on this ship. The voidsmen aren't permitted to speak to the officers here, not even if they are talked to first," Lundail scoffed as he checked Wyl's face.
"You look fine to me, but be sure to not talk to the officers of the ship, otherwise you're in for a real shock," he added with a rather stupid grin on his face. Wyl stifled a chuckle and together they turned and walked back down the corridor with Lundail leading the way.
