"..."
Inside the temporary command post, Captain Timon stood before a command console, his lips pressed into a thin line as he frowned and stared fixedly at the tactical display showing the Ultramarines battle-brothers, the mortal auxiliary corps, and the Imperium of Man's positions and defensive lines.
As he watched, his fingers paused for a moment before his fist slammed viciously down onto the holographic console.
Bang—!
The next second, a dull metallic clang rang out. The image on the command console flickered from the impact, taking quite some time to stabilize again.
Only then did he raise his head and sigh bitterly.
"Over four hundred brothers!"
"That was over four hundred brothers!"
"Nearly five hundred Astartes died at the hands of those green beasts, along with tens of thousands from the mortal auxiliary corps. And if we include the forces sent out during this time for reconnaissance and probing attacks, our losses are even greater!"
"This is the worst defeat our company has suffered in decades!"
At those words, the command post instantly fell silent. No one dared to speak.
Every Astartes present stood in the same posture: feet together, backs straight, heads bowed in silence.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
The silence was not because there was nothing to say, but because there was nothing worth saying.
After all, casualty figures did not lie.
Over four hundred—nearly five hundred—brothers had been swallowed up in less than two months by those green, tireless, unkillable beasts, in a city they had basically brought under control, amid ruins plowed over countless times by artillery fire. What could they possibly say?
By now, many familiar faces in the company were gone.
They were Astartes, after all—not those mortal auxiliary corps who could be killed without end. Even for the Ultramarines, losing several hundred