The Flesh Is Weak

[Piousservant]

Hey guys,

 

Have come up with a couple of bits of "flavour" text for my current army - Iron Hands. I intend to extend the first one to cover the fighting. The second will probably stay as is. C&C would be appreciated.

 

 

 

 

The Flesh Is Weak...

 

 

Steam hissed from leaking pipes, obscuring the gloomy passageway. This far into the depths of the forgeworld the machinery had been untouched for thousands of years. The few working lights gave out a dull yellow glow shedding little information on the thick network of pipes and conduits that filled the passageway. The tunnel was warm and the air heavy with moisture, despite the arcane machinery the tunnel was almost silent, except for the solemn thump of heavy strides.

 

Clan-Captain Harkov of the Iron Hands looked down the passageway into the dark. With a thought he flicked his bionic eye into infra-red, he looked around and easily spotted the rest of his warriors as they glowed white in his vision. The bionic eye provided better vision than even the enhanced vision of the Astartes, filling Harkov with a sense of satisfaction at the superiority of metal over flesh.

 

The passageway was wide enough to fit a pair of Land Raiders abreast, if it had been empty. Instead the tunnel was criss-crossed with thick pipes, most ran down the tunnel further into the depths of the planet, but some sprouted across at random intervals; where they went or what they carried was impossible to tell and it was likely that even the Mechanicus adepts far above did not know the purpose of most of them.

 

Harkov kept his sanctified plasma pistol raised as he stepped forward, the bionics in his arm keeping the weapon steady as he advanced over a raised grate in the ground. The marines from his Company were spread out through the tunnel, weapons held ready as they searched for the enemy. Suddenly, his bionic vision picked up spots of warmth ahead. They grew steadily in number, moving towards the Iron Hands, looking like a living carpet in the strange hues of Harkovs vision. He switched into a bio-scan mode and increased the telescopic zoom, seeing in stark detail the creatures that were swarming towards his men.

 

“Defensive positions, epsilon three,” He called out, his voice flat and mechanical. With their typical precision his Astartes formed up, aiming their weapons down the tunnel. The screeches of the creatures echoed up towards them as gridlines laid themselves across Harkovs vision, measuring the distance to the enemy. Tyranids.

 

Harkovs Clan-Company had been mustered to assist the Adeptus Mechanicus of Hadeon VII following the Tyranid invasion 3 weeks ago. He had made planetfall two days ago to find a bitter war of attrition already underway between the xenos creatures and the Skitarii of the Mechanicus. The aliens had dug deep into the dark depths of the forgeworld, spawning more and more monstrosities down in the warmth and shadows. The mechanicus had launched a number of missions into the lower levels to burn out the Tyranids but all had been lost. But they had not been Astartes. With the battle on the surface indecisive, and the Skitarii supported by the magisterial Titans of the Mechanicus, Harkov had led his marines into the darkness to strike at the very heart of the infestation.

 

Harkov felt a cold anger building at the sight of the xenos. They were unholy. Vermin. Creatures of flesh that had not even the most primitive vestiges of technology. They relied solely on their biology, the very antithesis of the Mechanicus and the Iron Hands. They had come and despoiled the forgeworld – a perfect representation of the machine – with their unholy presence. Metal would triumph over flesh.

 

The screeching and scuttling of the aliens filled the tunnel. Ratcheting up the volume in his vocabulator, Harkov bellowed over the approaching horde, “THE FLESH IS WEAK!”

 

“THE WEAK SHALL PERISH!” Roared his Astartes in reply, deafeningly loud, their voices echoed over the alien noises, filling the tunnel with the metallic sounds of the Iron Hands at war.

 

“Destroy them all.” Harkov finished; the harsh, metallic tone of his voice devoid of any emotion, even the cold hatred he felt inside. The range ticked down in his autosenses until the lines finally intersected. “Fire!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cogs in the Machine

 

 

Thick clouds of acrid smoke hung over the embattled hive, the heavy crump of explosions was crossed with the near constant sound of small arms fire. Clan-Captain Harkov of the Iron Hands surveyed the scene silently, before turning to the Guard officers stood at attention by his side. “Ready your artillery batteries Major. You will barrage the southern bank of the river and the Ecclesiarchial districts before I launch my assault.”

 

“My lord?” The Major looked confused, “Those districts are still full of refugees – loyal servants of the Emperor… We cannot…” The Major stopped as the Iron Hands commander took a step towards him. Helmet less, Harkovs bionic eyes fixed on the officer like a pair of icy blue lasers. He gulped and involuntarily stepped back. “I mean, my lord, that it would be wrong for us to…”

 

“If they were true servants of the Emperor,” Harkov replied, “they would not stand idly by whilst their planet was ravaged by war. Their failure causes them this fate. The barrage on the Ecclesiarchial district will prevent the traitors from flanking my armour. The enemy is mustering on the south side of the river and must be destroyed. The civilians are weak and will not fight. So be it. Their weakness does not concern me.Yours does. You will obey my orders or we will remove your weakness from the equation.”

 

The Major nodded slowly, his face ashen. “Yes my lord. It will be done.”

 

“Good.” The Clan-Captain replied, turning away from the Major. Bionics in his legs whined as he marched over to the waiting transports. He paused in the shadow of a heavily armed Predator tank and turned back to the Guardsmen. “Remember Major, you are part of a machine of war. And we will accept no frailty or failure in any of the cogs of the Imperial warmachine...”

[Walter Payton]

A CURSE BE UPON YE! THREE WEEKS WRITING AN IRON HANDS STORY, AND YE GET THEIR FIRST! MAY THE EMPEROR SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE!

 

Absolutely brilliant stories though, they definetely deserve the Librarium. I will just push the release date of my own back a few weeks :angry:

[hazardousZERO]

I like them both and look forward too more.

[Piousservant]

Oops... Sorry! :D Though three weeks probably means that mine pale into insignificance in comparison... :lol:

 

Thanks for the positive comments. Personally I'm not that happy with the second, the concept in my head sounded better than it did written down. I think it conveys the image I wanted, just that it does so a little clumsily.

[Walter Payton]

The second is excellent! You have also picked a much better name than me. I chose "Blood and Iron"