text: (Note: inspired by the WH40k story of Ollanius Pius, who is without doubt the bravest bastard in that entire universe. Look up his lore if interested. Also, cross posted from r/HFY. I’m proud of this story and wanted to share it here.) He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He should have been on one of the hundreds of evacuation ships that left weeks before. He should have left with the remnants of his company. He should have at least been standing a bit to the left when the final desperate assault force was teleported thousands of miles into the air and onto a ship that should not have even been there itself. Fights like this one were supposed to be off in the distance, where awestruck souls could watch the air strain on the horizon as swords that could cleave mountains and guns that could destroy cities clashed. These fights were only supposed to be between legends made flesh. Heroes who stood head and shoulders taller than any normal person and who wore shining armour emblazoned with medals, heraldry, and battle honours, not some foot slogger in a flak vest whose only title was his name and whose only gifted marking was his serial number. Battles like the one outside this ship were supposed to be fought in the space between stars and only seen through long range sensors, in battle reports, or told as hyperbolic war stories by old veterans, not felt through the hull or witnessed through the porthole. Battles like this decided the fate of entire star systems, where fleets of grand cruisers, imposing destroyers, and personal flagships slugged it out in devastating broadsides. This one was far to close, far too real. A confusion of thousands of battleships, cruisers, and frigates clashed in blinding light above the surface of Terra itself. Entire ships were torn in half by volley upon volley, only for the detonation of its reactor to claim vengeance from the grave. Even the ship he stood in was wrong. Twisting corridors that led to nowhere, doors and rooms in every position but upright, and flickering lights that revealed the silhouettes of those that never were. Daemons were supposed to be the villains of ghost stories, told by parents to frighten their children into behaving. They should not have even been real, but the walls of this ship dripped blood and the sounds through the bulkheads echoed with maniacal laughter and agonized screams. Control panels that should have displayed air pressure and door switches now blinked with bloodshot eyes and chittered with fang filled mouths. But of all places, he should have been anywhere else in the vastness of the galaxy but right here. Before him stood hatred incarnate. A warrior in armour that put tanks to shame, wielding a mace larger than that tanks turret. The warriors hand was encased in a clawed gauntlet of pure malice that dark gods had chosen to be the instrument of their will. Draped across his Herculean shoulders was the hide of an alien monster that would have taken several tank companies to bring down, but personally claimed by this warrior as an earned trophy. His entire body glowed with the fires of hell and he stared into him with an intent so absolute it could melt the steel floor he stood on. All he had was his flak vest, rifle, and bayonet. His knees almost buckled from fear. But there he stood, in the worst place he could have possibly been anywhere in the universe. He stood because behind him lay someone he saw as a god. The last time he saw him, he stood proud and tall, clad in brightly polished and untarnished golden plate. A hero who, despite being at the frontline of countless battles, always emerged unscathed and triumphant. A man who could walk past the field hospitals and bring every soldier back into fighting shape. He was supposed to be the hero of the story, riding in at the last moment to save the day. He should have been the same charismatic and fearless leader he always was, but now lay bloodied and broken behind him and on the verge of death. He should have been disillusioned, abandoned his beliefs that this man was invincible, given in to the whispers and promises that spoke in the back of his mind. He should have thrown down his weapon and run for his life. But there he was, standing ill equipped between the avatar of untold horrors beyond reality and the broken and dying hopes of all humanity. It was a pointless stand, but one no one else was there to make. He held his rifle with tightened fists, regained control of his legs and planted his feet, and took a deep breath before banishing the insidious voices from his mind. When he opened his eyes again, that unholy warrior looked down at the puny mortal that had the gall to stand in his way. What he saw was not the terrified visage of someone scared of death, but instead the stern face and disciplined military stance of someone who would not move without a fight. Just as he saw his leader struggle to get an arm under him to push himself up even just a small bit, he heard a new voice in his mind. He heard his leader, his emperor, his _god,_ beg him to stay, and gave him one last order. ‘Hold the line.’ And there, in the one place he should not be, he held the line. If he died, ten will take his place, and a thousand more of them. If anyone was willing to take up arms against the horrors of the galaxy, the bastion would never falter. If there was even the faintest ghost of hope left in the universe, planets themselves would break before those that stood guard. With the strength he never knew he had, he stood his ground against hell to his final moments.