Fire and Iron

by The Canadian Patriot

Rating: mature
Tags: Original Character, Trixie, Rarity, Adventure, Crossover, Sunset Shimmer, Anthro, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Other
Length: 7797

It is the eve of the Fifth Millennium, and Equestria is at war. The vaunted and holy Raritas Generositas Regiment is once again called to the forefront of Equestria's eternal war against Chaos.

The Oc's of Firebrand and Ink Rose are used with permission.

It is the eve of the Fifth Millennium, and Equestria is at war. The hellish and demonic forces of Chaos once again beat at the door of Equestria, the Seventh Great Daemon Incursion is upon them. To answer this threat, all of the Imperium of Equestria must fight. The Raritas Generositas regiment, the regiment of Imperial Guard dedicated to Her Eternal Ladyship, Matriarch Rarity, is called into action from their home in Manehattan. But even as the Raritas Generositas regiment fights the enemy from without, those from within would sell their souls and damn their fellows for their own greed and heretical ambition.

A crossover with Warhammer 40K

Published 2015-01-19 01:30:02 UTC
Last updated 2015-07-03 20:58:51 UTC

Introduction

It is the Fifth Millennium. For more than fifty centuries the Alicorn-Emperor has ruled Equestria. He is the master of Ponykind, and master of a million lands by the might of his inexhaustible armies. His psychic power watches over all of Equestria from his throne in Canterlot.

Yet even in His eternal vigilance not all is within His sight. Mighty battlefleets of airships roam the sky, vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted war fronts. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Divina Militibus Imperatoris, the Emperor's Holy Knights, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless Provincial Defence Forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.

To be a pony in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the wonder and awe of magic, it has been twisted and warped beyond recognition. Forget the promise of understanding and progress with Friendship, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace in Equestria, only an eternity of carnage and slaighter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

Chapter One: The Ore is Mined

Fire and Iron

Chapter One: The Ore Is Mined

Just yesterday, Firebrand had been told that in a hostile world, for a colt to reach his age was a victory in itself. The day you turned fifteen you could count yourself lucky to have gotten that far knowing that so many children of Equestria would never make it to such an age, having fallen to disease or accidents or acts of violence.

Fifteen years, they said. He should feel proud. It was an achievement.

Happy birthday, you’re one step closer to becoming a man.

A day later, those fifteen years seemed relatively easy, reaching fifteen years and one day - that felt like it was going to be the real achievement.

Firebrand ran down a corridor, much like the corridors he had crawled, walked, and ran around his entire life. It echoed with the sounds of shouts and swearing behind him, his pursuers’ voices reaching him when their physical grasp couldn’t. Firebrand ran harder, faster. It was a long corridor, and he didn’t know where he was running to, other than away from his pursuers. This wasn’t his complex, the lev where he had been born and raised, old 42B. Straying from his complex in the first place was the cause of all of his current problems. Firebrand had decided to celebrate his passing from the fundamental education system of Manehattan and his few weeks of a vacation until his induction into a specialized education and a possible part time job or even an apprenticeship. In his celebrating, he had strayed from his home in 42B and into complex 44C.

42B and 44C. The tensions between the two complexes ran deep and old, so deep that no one quite knew where they had started. None of the many complexes, levs, and floors between the two complexes had anything like the same rivalry.

42B and 44C. Just numbers. Even by the standards of Manehattan gang culture, it was arbitrary warfare. Now Firebrand was going to die for it, for walking into a drinking den in the wrong complex of his own damn hive.

Trust his luck to get recognized by the handful of 44Cers he’d ever met in his entire schooling. Round and Dicer, who had been in the same compulsive weapons test as him a month before. The two 44Cers had been arrogant, cocky, and sure that their gang savvy would make them masters of a slandered rifle. Firebrand had scored higher than ether Round or Dicer, who had barely been able to hit the outer rim of the target. The Inspector, a stocky mare in a grey uniform, had noted Firebrand’s marks but not given any indication his shots were remarkable. He had forgotten the experience the moment he had left the range – just another bureaucratic ritual you had to go through as a Manehattan youth coming of age.

It seemed that Round and Dicer remembered what had happened, and were determined to get payback for their humiliation.

The corridor was drab and grey with only one in three of the lumens working. To Firebrand it was a dingy blur as he ran, motes of grit coughed out by ancient air processors causing his eyes to tear up. The main guidelines he had to follow as he ran were the markings on either side of him, thick stripes of rich blue paint, edged with thinner lines of red, that ran across every level of the hab.

Where everything else was poorly maintained, these lines of blue paint were fresh and unchipped, regularly painted. It was a matter of respect that this blue line be marked for every citizen to see, proud and perfect.

It was Manehattan blue. A deep, warm shade, an ideal of a dark, open sky that the Manehattaners themselves could only imagine, growing up within the lightless habs. They prized colour and flair like no other society in Equestria, a reaction to the dark, enclosed lives they led and who their city was patron to. Manehattan blue was the most prestigious colour of all, trumped only by one other colour scheme.

Firebrand had never seen the surface of Manehattan. He’d lived his whole life deep within, his family was minor nobility at best. His father was the overseer for complex 42B. Even with his father’s comparative wealth, they had never been rich enough to even visit the surface where the tall towers that the higher nobility lived stretched into the sky for kilometers. Firebrand had seen pictures but he knew it wasn’t the same.

Firebrand had held some hope of getting a transfer out of the hab, of being work-assigned to the Administratum, or even being sent out-hive. Great Emperor, even one of the upper and outer manufactorums would have been preferable to slaving away in the depths of the hab. His results from his last test were good and were currently chewing their way through a series of cogitators. Within the week his role would be assigned and he would know how the rest of his adult life would be spent.

Of course, for that to happen he had to survive the day. Reaching the end of the corridor, Firebrand dropped to his knees almost fumbling headfirst with his own momentum. He was relying on the layout of each complex being the same and that knowledge didn’t let him down – to his right was a busted-up maintenance hatch, and as on every floor of the hab it wasn’t just unlocked, it was barely fastened.

There were few foals in the hab so timid that they hadn’t crawled through one of these hatches a hundred times before, to climb the pipes of the atrium.

Ignoring the screams of abuse from the juves on his heels, not even daring to look back, Firebrand lifted the hatch and slithered through the hole beneath.

The black jacket Firebrand was wearing, an expensive leather garment that he saved for special occasions and lovingly hand-made and cleaned with a Manehattaner’s pride in appearance, snagged on the rim of the hatch, briefly pulling him backwards.

Firebrand didn’t stop to unhook it, instead forcing himself onwards letting the hand-sewn leather tear, pulling himself free and out through the hatch.

On the other side of the wall, Firebrand dropped a short distance onto a pipe that crossed the great atrium, grabbing one of the thick braces that held the sections of the pipe together. It was easy enough to stabilize himself – the pipe was far wider than he was, the curve so gentle as to be almost flat. He began to scurry on all fours trying not to look down.

The atria were supposed to be inaccessible to residents of the hab, airwells sunk through the middle of the hab, crisscrossed with pipes, girders, and splintered power cables. However, as some of the few open spaces in the habs, their lure had proven irresistible, access hatches constantly being broken open so that Manehattaners could crawl along the pipes and cables enjoying the relative space and free flow of air.

In earlier days people had fallen, their screams echoing through every airway in the hab as they plummeted to their demise, occasionally punctuated by a metallic clang as they bounced off an obstruction in mid-descent.

At some point the Tetrarchy, a government not known for yielding to the public will, had consented to the placement of atrium-wide grills every ten floors which had become unofficial, but sanctioned, meeting places. People still climbed the pipes, still fell, still died – but at least now they wouldn’t fall as far, and the screams were relatively brief.

All this was hab history, as well drilled into Firebrand as any formal lesson.

Halfway across the pipe, he leaned over. One floor down another pipe crossed the atrium at ninety degrees to the one he was crossing. It was a long drop, but not impossible. If he landed properly, he should be able to avoid falling off while preventing himself from dropping all the way to the grille six floors below him.

Six floors to the grille, then out through the big hatch on the other side. Firebrand would then be enough turns and distance ahead of Round and Dicer to get himself lost in the intersection, then find his way back to his own lev.

All he had to do was find a safe, quick way down through six floors’ worth of criss-crossing pipes, cables and gantries without falling to his death.

A metallic tap rang out behind Firebrand. He turned around to see Round squatting on the same pipe as him, knocking his knuckles against the metal. Having got Firebrand’s attention, Round stood up straight and began to walk across the pipe, slowly but with perfect balance. He was showing off, a smug grimace across his wide, black face.

Round held his arms level at his sides, hands slightly spread. Firebrand could see the dark weight of a folded knife in Round’s right hand, sharply contrasting with his light grey jacket, his 44C colours.

No way back. Firebrand rolled off one pipe, falling towards the one below.

Firebrand fell straight down hitting the pipe below shoulder first, rolling with his momentum as he made contact with the hard surface. The shock jolted through his upper body, but he managed to roll over onto his front and get a handhold before he slid off the pipe.

Ignoring the ache from his arm, Firebrand pulled himself to his feet and ran across the second pipe, hands dangling forwards just in case he slipped and needed to grab anything. It was only a dozen paces before he was level with a thick cable rig, only a slightly bigger drop away than Firebrand’s own height relatively level with his position on the pipe. Hundreds of cables were bundled together in the rig, braced with plasteel splints that kept them rigid.

Firebrand shimmied sideways off the edge of the pipe, until he was hanging by his fingertips, then dropped the rest of the way. He landed well, quickly balancing himself as he found his footing on the rig.

There was a heavy smack above as Round dropped onto the second pipe, following Firebrand’s example. Firebrand heard a laugh from across the atrium and saw Dicer shimmying down a series of vertical pipes on the atrium wall, moving faster than Firebrand could.

He needed to move quickly, or be trapped by their pincer movement. The next few steps down were easy enough: a series of relatively short drops from rig to pipe to rig, with small shuffles back and forth to line up with the next level. Landing on the top of a creaking, thin waste pipe, Firebrand was halfway there – only three levels to go and he would be at the grille.

His next jump was a difficult one, an awkward leap across a wide gap to a narrow maintenance gantry a level below. With a run-up, it would have been easy but the narrowness of the pipe, and its angle compared to the gantry, made it more difficult.

Firebrand froze, intimidated by the jump he had to make, his eyes fixed between where he was and the gantry he needed to reach. Halfway there, but it would still be a long way down.

Something very small and very fast hit Firebrand in the forehead snapping him out of his haze of indecision and nearly causing him to lose his balance. It was a missile from Dicer. He looked across to see Dicer, hanging from a pipe on the wall, laughing at him. The laughter was echoed from above by Round.

Retreat wasn’t an option. Firebrand steadied himself, ran a few paces along the pipe, then with all his strength jumped forwards and to the right, pushing himself away with his heel. He twisted through the air in an ungainly fashion falling towards the gantry.

For a second, it seemed like he wouldn’t make it, that he would fall short, and far. He stretched out his fingers as if it would make a difference.

Firebrand hit the railing of the gantry with another bruising thump, the lateral bar catching under his armpits, his legs kicking thin air. He felt something give in his ribcage but scrambled to grip the railing tightly between his arms and body, rather than slip off.

Firebrand took a second to manage the pain, to take a deep breath then attempted to swing himself onto the gantry. His first attempt failed, his foot failing to gain purchase on the base of the gantry but the second time around he managed it. Firebrand pulled himself upright, rolled over the railing and onto the gantry proper.

Another missile hit him, bouncing off his chest and landing in the gantry. It was a small coin, virtually valueless. Firebrand felt a brief surge of rage. He wasn’t going to take having coins thrown at him like some beggar – He wasn’t going to take it from 44Cer’s! He was going to shake them off, come back with his own gang from his level, and show them!

With a brief glance over the edge, and ignoring the growing number of bruises that smarted all over his body, Firebrand leapt off the gantry dropping to another immediately below. He landed on his feet, drooping to one knee to cushion the impact. He ran across the gantry to where it met the wall, climbed on the left railing, and leapt across to grab a vertical pipe that ran nearly all the way down to the grille.

His grip failed him. Hands slipping off the well-oiled pipe he fell straight down, landing on the grille with an agonizing crunch. Pain seared up his right leg as it crumpled under him and his right arm twisted out of his shoulder socket. He rolled over onto his front, his face pressing against the cold metal mesh of the grille.

Firebrand must have passed out because the next thing he was aware of was being struck across the back of the head, hard. He tried to push himself up with his bad arm and cried out in agony. Pain caused him to instinctively let himself go, dropping back onto the floor, but a kick to the ribs brought him back up again.

As another blow struck him in the back, Firebrand forced himself away from the source of the blows. Through watered eyes, he could see that Round was raising a length of thin metal, presumably pulled from the wall of the atrium or torn from one of the gantries ready to bring it crashing down on Firebrand. Dicer was standing back, maybe preparing for another kick. Firebrand weakly shuffled backwards across the grille, feebly raising his broken arm in his own defence. There was little else he could do.

Happy birthday, you’re one step closer to becoming a man.

“Manehattaners, attention!”

The voice was deep and loud, the order bouncing back off the walls of the atrium like the screams of falling Manehattaners all those centuries ago.

Those two words hit both Firebrand and his assailants and triggered an instant reaction, one so deeply instilled through their short lives that it was barely conscious.

Round dropped his weapon and spun in his heels, Dicer also turning and stepping next to his friend so that the 44Cers were in perfect line. Firebrand used his unbroken arm to pull himself onto the knee of his unbroken leg then, gripping the grille with his good hand, managed to pull himself onto one foot.

While his assailants stood stiffly next to him Firebrand unfolded himself, centimeter by agonising centimetre, until he was standing next to them. He was shaky on one leg but stood at attention none the less, tear-stung eyes staring forwards.

The stallion who had given the order walked briskly across the grille to inspect them. He wore a Sergeant’s uniform, as well-pressed and cleaned as would be expected but a little worn around the edges. The white and purple of his coat slightly faded, the brass of his epaulettes dented from combat. The front of his coat had the rigidity that indicated he was wearing armour underneath and displayed a proud Iron Aquila.

Firebrand gasped as he realized just who, or rather, what he was looking at.

The sergeant took off his peaked hat, better to inspect the three young colts before him. He was, to Firebrand’s eyes, middle-aged with a weathered coat and close-cropped hair. A thin scar ran across his left cheek, from the corner of his mouth to the top of his ear.

The sergeant looked each of them up and down, his golden eyes passive and expressionless. When he came to Firebrand his glance flickered downwards briefly to the crippled leg Firebrand was keeping off the ground. When his glance met Firebrand’s, there was an odd expression, something Firebrand couldn’t quite read.

“I am sergeant Bastion of the Raritas Generositas Regiment,” the sergeant said, producing a small, aged device and raising it to Round’s right eye. The device flashed, causing Round to flinch. “You may have heard of us.”

Bastion looked at Round witheringly then repeated the process with Dicer and Firebrand. Firebrand tried not to react, but found the light left his vision even more blurred than before, coloured spots swimming before him.

“You boys clearly have some youthful energy to work off,” said Bastion. “And this is your lucky day citizens…” Bastion examined his device, reading off a small pict-screen. “…citizens Concussive Round, Bayonet Dicer, and Firebrand. None of you are assigned reserved occupations, all of you are of fighting age, and today the steadfast and vigilant Manehattan Home Guard is recruiting.”

Bastion looked all three of them straight in the eye, one after another.

“Congratulations, you’ve just been conscripted. I had some doors to knock on but you’ve saved me three of those.”

“Report to station 32R in two cycles’ time,” Bastion shouted back to them as he marched away. Halfway across the atrium, he turned around.
“Oh, and Round, Dicer – get Firebrand to the nearest infirmary and make sure he’s fixed up. Any of you three turn up dead or missing before you report for duty, the ones who survive will be on sweeping duty.”

Bastion’s words barely registered with Firebrand. A cramp had crawled up his good leg, and he was beginning to shake. His broken limbs were numb. As Round and Dicer, muttering and swearing to each other, moved to grab him by the shoulders and carry him away darkness crept into Firebrand’s peripheral vision, and his leg finally gave way beneath him.

Firebrand, newest recruit to the Manehattan PDF, fell.

Author's Note

This chapter is heavily inspired by Maek Clapham's novel "Iron Guard". I highly implor you go find a copy and read it. It's a very good 40K novel.

And for those of you who couldn't pick up on it; yes, Firebrand is an Earth Pony.

40K Interpritaions in this chapter are
The Manehattan Iron/Home Guard=The Mordian Iron Guard
Manehatten=The Planet Mordian

Chapter Two: The Rocks are Broken Part: 1

Chapter Two: The Rocks are Broken
Part: 1

“By all of the Saints, what in the Emperor’s name happened? Where have you been?” Firebrand’s mother exclaimed as he stumbled through the door. Grimacing, Firebrand limped into the common room.

“Just let me sit down first.” Firebrand said through gritted teeth. Trying to keep his weight off of his bad leg, He hobbled towards one of the couches and laid down.

“Firebrand,” His mother insisted, “what happened?”

“What’s going on?” A small voice asked. Firebrand looked to see his little sister, Kindle, standing in the nearby hallway.

Through pain grit teeth, Firebrand told them how he had wondered into Complex 44C, had been discovered and chased, nearly beaten to death, and finally his conscription.

“Absolutely not,” Firebrand’s mother said after a moment of silence.

“Pardon?” Firebrand asked.

“I won’t have you be part of the Guard. I’ll speak to your father, he should be able to exempt you from service.

“But mother,” Firebrand protested. Like all Manehattaners, Firebrand had been raised on a strict ethos of duty and service. Although he hadn’t planned on serving in the Home Guard, the thought of cowing out of his duty left a bad taste in his mouth. He had been called upon by the Emperor to perform his duty. To deny one’s duty to the Emperor was, as Firebrand was taught, heretical and traitorous in the upmost.

“But nothing! We’ll speak more of this when your father gets home. Now get to bed and I’ll call a physician.” His mother ordered. Wearily, Firebrand limped to his bed, passing his little sister. For whatever reason, Firebrand couldn’t look her in the eyes.

The physician arrived a short while later. After looking Firebrand over he put a cast on his right leg and arm, gave him some pain killers, and instructed him to move as little as possible. Firebrand agreed and, once he took the pain killers, sunk into a dreamless sleep. He awoke hours later when his father arrived.

Firebrand weakly hobbled into the dining area. Sitting at the head if the table was his mother and father, Southern Cross. Firebrand’s father was a rather large man with wide, heavy set shoulders. His father sat at the table, with his arms crossed and an unreadable scowl etched into his face. He had a dark blue coat, a light blue mane, and iron-grey eyes. Firebrand’s father was also a retired Major of the Iron Guard. Initially, Firebrand thought that his father would be supportive of a military career, but his scowl made Firebrand rethink his father’s position.

Swallowing his hesitation, Firebrand sat down at the table across from his father and mother.

For a few moments no one spoke. Then Firebrand’s father gave a heavy sigh, “Here’s to sleeping on the couch for the next few weeks.” Firebrand had no idea what his father was referring to but decided not to comment.

Southern Cross looked Firebrand in the eyes. Under his father’s steely gaze Firebrand had to struggle to keep himself from fidgeting nervously.

“Your mother has told me what happened and,” Southern Cross began. Firebrand forced himself not to lean forward in anticipation. “I have decided to let you join the Home Guard.”

Firebrand let out a sigh of relief from a breath he hadn’t known that he was holding.

“Cross!” Firebrand’s mother shrieked, “Have you lost your mind?”

“Firebrand has been called upon to fulfill his duty. I will purchase an officer commission, which should at least keep him out of the Iron Guard.”

“But you can’t just-” Firebrand’s mother began to protest.

“Enough!” Southern Cross cracked like a whip. Firebrand’s mother visibly recoiled from Southern Cross as if she had just touched something red hot. “We will speak of this privately. Firebrand, go to your room and get some rest, you’ll need it.”

“I’m going to miss you.” Firebrand’s mother said. Firebrand stood at a public tram station, the open space was lit by electro globs bolted into the celling.

“I’m going to miss you to.” Firebrand admitted as he pulled his mother into a hug. After a few moments Firebrand uncurled himself from his mother’s arms. Firebrand turned to his father. At first they didn’t say anything, Southern Cross simply put a hand on his sons shoulder and looked him in the eye. Eventually, Southern Cross spoke.

“I know you won’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t” Firebrand said.

A moment later Sergeant Hearken approached the group.

“Sir, the tram will be leaving momentarily. If we are to go it must be now.” Sergeant Hearken reported. The Sergeant was a house guard for Firebrand’s family who was rotating back into the Home Guard. Southern Cross had selected him to make sure Firebrand got to where he needed to be.

“Of course, Sergeant.” Southern Cross nodded.
With his goodbye’s said, Firebrand stepped onto the tram. Looking back, Firebrand could only catch a glimpse of his family before the tram disappeared into the tunnel-tracks.

“Tell me, Sergeant,” Firebrand asked, “what might I find in the Home Guard?”

“Sir, you will find a vaunted and highly disciplined fighting force. The Home Guard is the main policing force in Manehattan, we work in conjunction with the Arbites to ensure that order is maintained and that the laws of Manehattan and of the Lex Imperialis are followed. While the Iron Guard fights the enemy without, we fight the enemy within.”

“I know that, I meant what occupations are there?” Firebrand asked.

“There are many occupations in the Home Guard, Sir. The most common and numerous being the rifleman, armed with standard equipment. There is no shame in being a rifleman, they take the fight to the enemy first. If you find yourself being a rifleman it means you either have no outlining skills or you’re a squad leader. You will be trained to have a general understanding of how to clean, maintain, and fight with a variety of heavy weapons and other assorted skills.” Sergeant Hearken smoothed out an imaginary crease on his dress tunic and the continued.

“If you are a good shot you will be trained as either a marksmen or a sniper. Charged with taking out enemy officers and compromising enemy moral. If you are found to be adept with explosives or construction based skills you may be selected to be a combat engineer, sufficient mechanical ability may see you placed in a tank or armoured fighting vehicle crew. The Home Guard does possess artillery but is rarely used in the confines of hab and is mainly stored and stationed at the city’s outer surface defenses.”
Firebrand nodded and turned his attention to the window.

Firebrand stood in front of the Guard military station. ‘Station’ though, would be the wrong word. The Station was more of a fortress, the outside was made of a dense plasteel alloy and armaplas. The walls were at several meters thick in some places. Towers rose to a height of easily six floors, causing the celling of the lev to be just as tall. Firebrand could see heavy weapon emplacements in those towers, as well as near any entrances and vantage points. Bunker spaces and pillboxes were built into the buildings frame. Images and statues of Imperial angles were carved into the buildings outside, their harsh gaze seemed to be fixed on Firebrand, as if they were the eyes of the Emperor who could see into his very soul and know his true measure.

Swallowing his new found anxiety Firebrand followed Sergeant Hearken into the building. At the front archway stood two Home Guardsmen in ceremonial dress, holding their lasguns upwards in a parade position and could easily be brought to bear if needed.
Firebrand stayed right on Sergeant Hearken’s heels, careful not to be caught up and separated in the press of bodies. Firebrand glanced at the guardsmen at their post. That’ll be me, Firebrand thought. Firebrand followed Sergeant Hearken through the station’s main entrance, a set of thick blast doors, to the front reception desk. The Sergeant didn’t say anything, he just looked at Firebrand and motioned with his head to the stallion behind the desk. Nodding, Firebrand stepped forward.

“Uh, excuse me?” Firebrand asked him.

“Yes?” The stallion said as he looked up from his paperwork.

“I’m here to report for duty.” Firebrand explained. The stallion didn’t say anything, he just handed Firebrand a sheet of paper and a pen.

“Sign where instructed.” The stallion told him. Nodding, Firebrand placed the sheet on the ledge space in front of him and began to read.

By the signing of this document I hear by forever swear my eternal loyalty to the city of Manehattan, its rulers, and to our eternal and most Holy Master, the Father of all Ponykind, the Alicorn-Emperor. With this I forever swear to serve, to never retreat and never show fear or cowardice in the face of the enemy. From this day on, both my body and soul shall be bound in His service, to be a willing instrument of His will-

Firebrand didn’t need to read the rest. Skipping to the bottom, he signed his name and handed the sheet back to the stallion. The stallion nodded and handed

“Processing is down that hallway, recruit.” The Stallion said, motioning his head to Firebrand’s left. Firebrand nodded his thanks to the stallion and turned to Sergeant Hearken to thank him for his help.

“Get moving, Recruit, down the hall.” Sergeant Hearken ordered in a clipped voice that had absolute authority, then turned and disappeared into the crowed. Firebrand stood there for a few moments, shocked. It took a few moments for the realization to fully sink in. He was a guardsman now, with none of the former privileges he had before.

Firebrand turned and walked down the indicated hallway, holding the paper handed to him like a life line. The hallway had a number of doorways with signs hanging above them indicating their functions. New recruits and Guard personal bustled around, moving from room to room with professional ease. Occasionally a new recruit wouldn’t know where to go and an imposing NCO would point them in the right direction.

Firebrand was ushered into the ‘barber’ by a Sergeant with a bionic arm. There Firebrand’s mane, which was of medium length and styled backwards, was shaved into a Home Guard regulation close cut. Next Firebrand was sent to the infirmary and was examined by the medics. Firebrand tried with all of his might as they poked and prodded him with needles and cold gloved fingers to not flinch. While certainly not one of the Emperor’s Holy Knights, Firebrand liked to think that he was rather fit and after a number of injections, the purpose of which he had no idea, he was announced fit for service and sent to the next station.

The next station happened to be the kit station. There Firebrand was measured and given his dress uniform, which doubled as his combats, two spare changes, and his PT gear. It took a few tries but they eventually found his size. Firebrand looked at himself through the changing room mirror, he wore his blue Home Guard dress uniform. Up until that point it had all been surreal, as if Firebrand was in some sort of dream. But as he looked at himself through the mirror, Firebrand could feel the true weight of his commitment settle on his shoulders. He was part of the Manehattan Home Guard, a soldier of the Emperor, a chip of his Hammer. It was now his eternal duty to ensure the safety and security of not only Firebrand’s family, but all the families in His holy realm.

Hours later Firebrand had been assigned quarters. The barracks Firebrand had been assigned to was a long hall with a low celling able to house four training platoons of forty men each. Firebrand slept in his bunk. Deep and dreamless, his rest was undisturbed until a Training Sergeant kicked in the Barracks’ door, turned the lights on, and began shouting for the recruits to get out of bed. Firebrand scrambled out from under his sheets and hurriedly began remaking his bed in the manor he had been shown yesterday.
A trio of Training Sergeants flowed into the room, screaming at recruits to hurry up. One of the Sergeants flipped over the bed of a particularly slow recruit. It took about twenty minutes for the recruits to make their beds and fall-in, in front of their racks. Once they were all fallen in, a Sergeant Major walked into the room.

The Sergeant Major looked over each recruit’s bed. Noting where they had made a mistake, fallen short of the standard, or had attempted to short-cut their way through. The Sergeant Major didn’t shout or scream at the recruits, his voice was calm and level. The recruits were assigned push ups as punishment, the number of which was determined by the number and severity of the mistakes. Firebrand had to preform thirty-seven push ups.

Once the bed inspection was finished the recruits changed into their PT gear and were herded out of the barracks and formed up “outside” for their pre-breakfast run. From being born and raised in the underground hive, Firebrand instinctively knew that it was early morning, what time it was exactly he couldn’t tell but his best guess would have been oh-four-hundred.

Formed into ranks of three, the platoons doubled off on their run, each under the steely gaze of their Sergeants. The platoons ran in-step with each other and kept their dressing. Whenever a recruit began to drift out of the dressing or got out of step, a Training Sergeant would descend upon the recruit and make sure he got himself fixed. The terrain they ran on was rough. Unlike most of Manehattan, which was built of plasteel, the tunnels the platoons were made of rockcrete or even bare stone. Glow-globes lined the walls, pasting their surroundings in washed white light.

Firebrand didn’t know how far he ran. His breath came to him in ragged gasps and his wounded leg clenched in pain with every impact. His world consisted of the thundering vibrations of each stride and running bodies in front of him. For a moment, a single instant of time, Firebrand lowered his head and let it hang forward between his shoulders as he ran. Before Firebrand even realized what he did, a Training Sergeant ran up beside him.

“Keep your fucking head up, Recruit! Do you understand me? Get your fucking head up!” The training Sergeant shouted at Firebrand.

“Y-yes sir,” Firebrand wheezed out between gasps of breath.

“Why the fuck are you out of breath recruit? We’ve only gone two kilometers, two-fucking-kilometers! Barely half way!” The raining Sergeant shouted, matching Firebrand’s pace and taking a position right beside his ear. “We aren’t even using combat gear or weighted packs!” The Training Sergeant was now yelling full volume directly into Firebrand’s ear.
“You had better unfuck yourself you worthless Gak! I can already see what a failure of life you are! Your only use is going to be catching las-rounds! You’re a wash-out, a runner, a coward!”

Coward, that one word had so much meaning and weight to it. Coward, at the sound of it, Firebrand lifted his head squared his shoulders. Through force of will he kept himself running in step with the rest of his platoon.

“Well,” The Training Sergeant smiled, “looks like you aren’t completely fucking worthless after all.” With that the Training Sergeant picked up his pace to the front of the platoon.

The day continued much the same way, as did the weeks, and then months. The recruits were tested in every way, mentally as well as physically. Over the first week, it started to show who could and could not cut it. On the fifth day, the Senior Training Sergeant burst into the barracks and conducted a surprise inspection. One recruit in 2 platoon was given forty push-ups for inadequately polishing his boots.

Firebrand didn’t know the recruits name but he knew he was from one of the lower levels, probably a ganger from the tattoos he had, and he was older than most of the recruits at an age of seventeen. He was also the one who complained the loudest whenever light-out was called.

The recruit got right up into the Senior Training Sergeants face, screamed at the top of his lungs demanding who he thought he was and how he couldn’t be treated this way. Firebrand hadn’t even seen the Senior Training Sergeant reach for his gun. One moment the recruit was screaming at the top of his lungs, the next the wall behind him was painted with the recruit’s blood and brains, a las-pistol held in the Senior Training Sergeants hand. After that there was no more grumbling after lights out.

Firebrand was happy to learn that, despite his injuries at the start of training, he was turning out to be one of the stronger recruits. On the fourth week they started weapons training. They were told that at the end of training they would be able to take apart and reconstruct their lasguns in under two minutes. As it was, it took them just over half an hour. A large part of their training consisted of parade drilling. For the first three weeks, the recruits were drilled for four hours straight on the parade square, the Training Sergeants carried metal rods to thrash the recruits whenever they made a mistake. Despite his drill training in the schola, Firebrand went to bed sore and bruised more often than he would have liked to admit.

The recruits were taught to always obey orders, taught that so far as they were concerned that their officers were the Emperor and that to disobey a legal order was the worst sort of blasphemy imaginable. They were taught that their only purpose in life was their duty, their only purpose in life and death.

Because the Home Guard was a policing force as well as a military force, they were taught the intricacies of Manehattans laws and the laws of the Imperium. They were taught that the Emperor and the Matriarch spoke their will through their decrees and laws, and to break or go against them was heresy, for which there could only be one punishment.

On the sixth week, the recruits began close-quarters bayonet combat training. It is also when Firebrand killed his first pony.

It was 0900 and the recruits of F Company were formed up in front of the combat training area. A large open arena covered with ground up rockcrete which was supposed to simulate dirt and sand. In front of the four platoons was a series of interconnected canvas tents reinforced with flak-plates sewn into the material.

From the interior of the tent, out stepped a Sergeant Major with a bionic arm and cybernetic replacements for the left half of his face.
“Good morning Recruits,” the Sergeant Major greeted. “Today you will begin training in what I consider to be the most important part of your training.” His cybernetics whirred as he brought his mechanical fist to bear. The artificial light gleaming off of his clenched, metal fist.
“Thirty years ago in a Diamond Dog attack on this very city I was in the thick of the fighting. Our heavy weapons pounded the xenos but they eventually worked their way through our fire. Were it not for the training I, and so you, received here, I would have died and a different veteran would be standing here today.” The Sergeant Major said. He then folded his hands behind his back and continued to speak. “Today, you will be learning bayonet drill. We will teach you proper form, stance, and a number of sequences. After that, we will get into some sparring”

The order to open-order was given and the instruction soon began. Three hours later, the recruits were organized into pairs, and after covering a few rules began sparring. Firebrand was paired with his bunkmate, a blue stallion with white hair and green eyes by the name of Stone Pillar. The two faced each other in their section of space and soon began trading blows.

The recruits were dressed in their regular Home Guard dress uniforms. The deep blue fabric with red as a secondary colour has flack armour sewn into it, providing ample protection for the recruits. The lasguns they held were regular Manehattan pattern lasgun, on the end of which was a bayonet, blunted so they didn’t kill one another. The dulled bayonets had an electric charge, however. Whenever a recruit failed to block, parry, or dodge out of the way of a strike he would receive a painful jolt of electricity.

“You fuck up on the battlefield you’re dead! Pain is the greatest teacher, and I have much to teach you!” The Sergeant Major shouted as he walked up and down the lines, watching the Recruits as they fought each other and used a steel rod to thrash any Recruit who seemed to be struggling.

“What in the gak are you doing, Recruit?’ The Sergeant Major demanded as he stood off to the side of Firebrand.

“S-Sir?” Firebrand asked, glancing over to the Sergeant Major and lowering his lasgun hesitantly.

“Don’t look at me you worthless gakstain, keep your eyes on your opponent!” The Sergeant Major ragged as he hit Firebrand on the small of his back with the steel rod. Firebrand’s back arched instantly out of a pain induced reflex. Gritting his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out, Firebrand hefted his lasgun and looked straight at his opponent who did the same.

“Now fight each other, and do it right!” The Sergeant Major shouted at the two. Once again, Firebrand and Pillar traded blows.

“Wrong!” The Sergeant Major shouted, hitting Firebrand on the small of his back again and Pillar’s left shoulder. “You two are just going through the motions, practicing the sequences! You’re not getting into it! You’re not fighting like you mean it! I’m going to say ‘fight’ again, and this time you two will fight like you mean it or I’ll have you both flogged! Now fight!” The Sergeant Major shouted. This time, Firebrand and Pillar didn’t hold back.

Firebrand went for an overhand slash. Pillar blocked with a horizontal block above his head. He parried and countered with a downward diagonal slash. Firebrand dodged backwards with barely a millimetre to spare. The missed strike caused Pillar to overextend himself. Firebrand pressed his new advantage. Stepping forward, Firebrand pressed his lasgun against Pillar’s chest horizontally and then pushed. Pillar stumbled back, flailing. The flat of his bayonet clapped the side of Firebrands head, right on his ear.

Firebrand cried out in pain, tears blurred his vision. Rage coursed through Firebrand. Pillar regained his footing, holding his lasgun in a ready position. Firebrand went at him with all of his pain induced fury. Firebrand charged. Downward strike on the left shoulder. Pillar parried and aimed for Firebrand’s solar plexus. Parry, counter, aim for the upper arm. Pillar blocked and countered with a strike on Firebrand’s left thigh. Firebrand grit his teeth as pain coursed through him. The electric discharge causing his muscles to spasm. Wildly, Firebrand aimed a downward strike on Pillar’s right collar bone. Pillar blocked. Firebrand stepped forward and swung the butt if the rifle as hard as he could into Pillar. Firebrand felt the breaking of cartilage and the rupturing of blood vessels as he drove the rifle butt into Pillar’s neck.

Pillar’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. He dropped his rifle as his hands leapt to his throat. Firebrand followed up with a bayonet stab straight into Pillar’s Solar Plexus. Pillar fell on his back. Firebrand was going to add a third blow but before he could act something grabbed him by the throat and threw him into the ground. An instant later Firebrand felt something collide with his jaw.

Firebrand tried to get up.

“Stay still you gak!” The voice of the Sergeant Major commanded. Firebrand did as he was told. The pain induced anger faded from his mind and reason reasserted itself. Firebrand blinked, clearing his vision.

“Medics!” The Sergeant Major called. Two Home Guard troopers with red cross arm-bands appeared and knelt next to Stone Pillar. One of the medics put his hand on Pillars throat while the other secured his head. After a few seconds one of the medics shook his head. Firebrand couldn’t hear very clearly at that point, but he saw one of the medics say the word ‘dead’. Firebrand’s blood ran cold as panic set in. He had just killed Stone Pillar. A fellow Recruit, a loyal solider of the Emperor and a citizen of Manehattan. There would be serious repercussions involved. He would be thrown out of the Home Guard, his family would be disgraced. He would be thrown into jail or sentenced to death.
Firebrand saw the Sergeant Major point at him and shout something. Two troopers grabbed Firebrand’s arms from behind and secured him.

“W-wait! I-I-I didn’t mean to-” Firebrand tried to plead through his broken jaw. One of the troopers punched him in the cheekbone.

“Get this filth into a cell!” The Sergeant major ordered.

“Please,” Firebrand pleaded, looking up at the Sergeant Major “I didn’t me-” Firebrand saw the Sergeant Major bring his arm down. Something connected with Firebrand’s head and the world went black.

Author's Note

Hello everyone, sorry this took so long. Please comment to tell me what you though. I feast upon feedback as a Daemon would feast upon souls, insatiable and unrelenting. So you are all aware, for about the next six weeks I will leave to partake in a Youth Military Training Program. I will not have any access to the Internet or my laptop, meaning I will be unable to respond to people until I get back.

For visual purposes, this is the lasgun that the Manehattaners use.

If you have any lore questions, I suggest you take a look at the Warhammer 40K Wiki, it'll probably help.