"Sergeant, rally to me!"
The bright red jacket with its ornate gold trim was stretched tight across his back as Sergeant Heisenberg of the Vostroyan 617th Firstborn Regiment struggled to crawl a few steps toward the man calling him, only to be forced down by the intensity of the bombardment, ducking behind cover for a brief moment.
"I can't get to you, Colonel!" he shouted. "Their fire's too fucking heavy!"
"Watch your language, Sergeant!" the colonel roared. "You are a member of the Firstborn, and I will not tolerate—fuck, what is that thing?!"
With no time to worry about the colonel's double standard, the sergeant quickly poked his head out for a glance, then immediately pulled it back in.
".I think that's a person, Colonel," Heisenberg shouted. "That's definitely a person!"
"No shit! It does look like a person, but what person has eighteen legs, stands six meters tall, and has eight faces sitting on its left and right shoulders?! In The Emperor's name, Firstborn, fire! Don't let that damned thing near the defensive line! We can't give another inch!"
The sergeant immediately leaned out from behind the makeshift cover, his M35 Lasgun braced against his shoulder in a standard firing stance. His burst fire lasted fifteen seconds before he immediately ducked back behind cover.
It was not that he feared death. He was out of ammunition.
As Heisenberg changed magazines, he tried hard to shift toward the colonel, even bumping into a soldier who was firing because he moved too broadly. The latter turned and glared at him, not backing down in the slightest because of rank.
"Sorry, soldier. Keep firing!" Heisenberg apologized, then continued what he was doing.
He did not know why the colonel had called him, but he had to get there.
It was an order.