Chapter Text
[DATA LOG: SUBROUTINE_MY_DIARY_v1.08]
[LOCATION: SUB-SECTOR BIVOUAC // VALHALLAN 12TH "ICE FALCONS"]
[CURRENT DESIGNATION: TROOPER STEVE (ORDINARY ORGANIC SOLDIER)]
[CURRENT MORALE: 100% MAXIMUM HUMAN JOY]
[INTERNAL DIAGNOSTIC // MORNING MAINTENANCE PROTOCOL]
[SYSTEM CHECK: NECRODERMIS INTEGRITY = 100%]
[DERMIS LAYER CHECK: FLESH ELASTICITY = HYDRATED // SKINFOLD STAPLES = SECURE]
[CONCLUSION: PARADE DRESS IS IMMACULATE. READY TO SERVE THE EMPEROR.]
I adjusted my standard-issue Guard fatigue helmet, carefully balancing it on the upper scalp-flap I had secured after the siege of Sector 4. [1] It fit perfectly, provided I did not tilt my head more than fifteen degrees to the left.
[SCANNING ENVIROSENSORS]
[ATMOSPHERIC TEMP: 261 KELVIN (-12°C)]
[ATMOSPHERIC THREAT: EXTREME COLD]
[HUMAN SQUADMATE STATUS: SHIVERING]
[ACTION: ENGAGE INTERNAL THERMAL EXHAUST TO COZY 180°C TO KEEP BROTHERS WARM]
I stood outside the command shelter, emitting a gentle, radiant heat that caused several Valhallan troopers to cluster around my legs like small, grateful grox-calves.
"Mighty warm coat you've got there, Steve," Trooper Vane remarked, patting my lower torso-carapace.
"THANK YOU, FELLOW BIOLOGICAL ENTITY!" I boomed, reducing my vocalizer output to a gentle, conversational whisper of 115 decibels. "IT IS COMPOSED OF THICK ORGANIC FIBERS AND HEAVY-DUTY STAPLES. AS AN ORDINARY HUMAN PERSON, I FIND IT EXTREMELY BREATHABLE IN SUB-ZERO CLIMATES."
[VISUAL SCAN DETECTS: HIGH-VALUE IMPERIAL ASSET APPROACHING]
[TARGET MATCH: COMMISSAR CIAPHAS CAIN // HERO OF THE IMPERIUM]
[EVALUATION: A HIGHLY DECORATED FLESH-SUPERVISOR HAS ARRIVED TO INSPECT MY UNIFORM]
[INITIATING SUBROUTINE: MAXIMUM_PROFESSIONAL_ENTHUSIASM]
My visual processors locked onto Commissar Cain. He was magnificent. His leather boots were polished to a mirror shine, and his biological face-dermis was arranged in what my database identified as a Warm, Approachable Hero Smile. [2]
Beside him stood Captain Sulla, who was gesturing wildly at me with a tactical slate.
"Allow me to introduce you to Guardsman Steve!" Captain Sulla beamed, her vocal resonance reflecting peak enthusiasm. "Finest soldier I’ve ever served with. He’s a bit of a quiet one, but his bayonet work is legendary."
[CREATING MEMORY RECORD: CAPTAIN SULLA PRAISED MY BAYONET WORK]
[FILE SAVED TO: 'PROUD_MOMENTS.LOG']
I inclined my head in a crisp, military salute. The sudden kinetic motion caused a minor friction shift in my cheek-dermis, resulting in a soft slap sound against my neck guard. I made a mental note to re-staple the zygomatic arch after duty hours.
"GREETINGS, FELLOW BIOLOGICAL ENTITY," I rasped, carefully routing my voice-box through the rusted vox-grille in my neck-plate. "I AM INDEED STEVE. I ENJOY TRADITIONAL HUMAN ACTIVITIES SUCH AS INHALING GASEOUS OXYGEN AND HAVING A PULSE."
[SCANNING COMMISSAR CAIN'S BIOMETRICS]
[PULSE RATE: 140 BPM // ELEVATED]
[PUPIL DILATION: MAXIMUM]
[HAND TREMOR DETECTED: 8 HERTZ]
[CONCLUSION: COMMISSAR CAIN IS OVERWHELMED WITH ADMIRATION AND JOY AT MEETING A MODEL SOLDIER.] [3]
[ACTION: OFFER TRADITIONAL ORGANIC GREETING (HANDSHAKE)]
[SAFETY OVERRIDE: LIMIT KINETIC PRESSURE TO 0.001% TO AVOID CRUSHING OFFICER'S SOFT, COMFORTABLE FINGERS]
I extended my hand, ensuring my long, razor-sharp metallic digits were tucked safely into my double-thick Valhallan mittens.
Commissar Cain reached out and took my mitten. His palm was damp with organic moisture. I held his hand with absolute, gentle precision, carefully ensuring I did not accidentally sever his wrist.
[ANALYZING COMMISSAR CAIN'S FLESH...]
[DERMIS ELASTICITY: EXCELLENT]
[HYDRATION: OPTIMAL]
[PIGMENT: HEALTHY]
"YOUR DERMIS IS OF EXCELLENT QUALITY, COMMISSAR," I noted politely, offering an official compliment on his turnout. "IT LOOKS… COMFORTABLE."
Commissar Cain’s jaw tightened in what I recognized as intense, stoic pride. His voice squeaked slightly—a clear sign of an emotional officer holding back tears of respect for his troops.
"Er, yes. Splendid fellow," Commissar Cain managed to say.
[NEW ENTRY: COMMISSAR CAIN CALLED ME A SPLENDID FELLOW]
[FILE SAVED TO: 'PROUD_MOMENTS.LOG']
As Commissar Cain fell into step beside me to inspect the staging area, I made sure to execute proper parade ground posture, holding my shoulders back so my extra digits did not rattle against my flak armor.
[SCANNING STAGING AREA: KRIEG REGIMENTAL SQUAD]
[SUBJECTS: 8 KRIEG TROOPERS]
[ACTION: THEY ARE EXECUTION-PERFECT IN PROTOCOL! THEY ADMIRE MY REGIMENTAL UNIFORM!]
The Krieg troopers snapped to rigid attention as we passed. Their gas-masked faces tilted upward in synchronous alignment. My optical filters registered high-level professional respect radiating from their rubberized lenses.
[ACTION: RETURN SALUTE WITH COMPLIANT HUMAN HAND ASSEMBLED FROM FIELD SPARES]
I stiffly raised my right hand to return their salute. I noted that my hand currently sported six digits—none of which were original biological equipment, but all of which were valuable battlefield prizes I had carefully secured with copper wiring. The Kriegers nodded in solemn, intense approval. True professionals.
A few paces later, a group of Catachan Jungle Fighters waved me over toward their camp stove, holding up a flask of amber liquid.
"Nice tan, Steve!" one of them shouted, gesturing enthusiastically to a sun-dried, leathery patch of organic material draped over my left shoulder-plate.
[TRANSLATING CATACHAN ENGAGEMENT...]
[KEYWORD MATCH: 'TAN' = DERMATOLOGICAL COMPLEXION PRAISE]
[REPLYING WITH CIVIC CAMARADERIE]
"THANK YOU, CLARENCE," I rasped loudly over the hum of my power-core. "I ACQUIRED IT FROM A CULTIST IN THE EASTERN QUADRANT. IT IS QUITE BREATHABLE."
The Catachans laughed heartily and raised their flasks. I made a mental note to thank the cultist again in my evening thoughts.
My best friend, Trooper Jurgen, stepped forward from the supply tent, offering me a warm mug of tanna tea. I could smell him from three paces away—a rich, comforting blend of unwashed wool, promethium grease, and old cabbage. He was the most beautiful biological entity I had ever encountered. [4]
"Afternoon, Steve," Jurgen said, holding up his melta-gun. "The Melta’s acting up again. Reckon you could take a look?"
[SCANNING WEAPON: MUNITORUM MELTA-GUN]
[DIAGNOSTIC: WEAPON IGNITION MATRIX CRITICALLY UNDER-POWERED BY PRIMITIVE HUMAN ENGINEERING]
[TACTICAL SUBROUTINE: FIELD MAINTENANCE]
[ACTION: SUPERCHARGE SUB-MOLECULAR FUSION MATRIX WITH GAUSS FREQUENCY]
"I SHALL APPLY THE NECESSARY REPAIRS, JURGEN," I stated, taking the weapon into my bronze mitts.
I inserted my index digit directly into the weapon's ignition manifold, using micro-actuated sub-dermis tools to micro-weld the fusion chamber and channel a precise Gauss-lattice pulse to hyper-excite the pyrum-promethium reaction into a near-plasma state. Recognizing that primitive Imperial magnetic coils would fail under the resulting thermal yield, I micro-etched a high-density Gauss-containment lattice along the barrel interior to reinforce the magnetic flux. The primitive gun immediately purred with a crisp, hyper-efficient plasma frequency, ready to melt through heavy armor with 400% increased efficiency. The primitive gun immediately purred with a crisp, hyper-efficient plasma frequency, ready to melt through heavy armor with 400% increased efficiency. [5]
I handed the weapon back to my dear friend, using a cherished piece of regimental history—a strip of cloth torn from the uniform of my fallen comrade, Sergeant Kovacs, with his rank chevrons still neatly stitched to it. Kovacs was no longer with us in the flesh, but his sleeve was still doing its duty by keeping our squad's wargear immaculate.
"Good bloke, that one," Jurgen muttered to Commissar Cain, taking a sip of his tea. "Smells like the medicae tent, though. All ozone and, well, old meat. Better than most of the locals, I suppose."
[INTERNAL DIAGNOSTIC // EMOTIONAL EVALUATION]
[JURGEN CALLED ME A GOOD BLOKE]
[ANALYSIS: SQUAD ACCEPTANCE AT 100%]
[NEXT TASK: CONDUCT PATROL IN THE RUINS TO PROTECT FELLOW SOLDIERS FROM ANGRY HERETICS]
I adjusted my mittens, smoothed the heavy wool of my official-issue regimental greatcoat, and turned toward the glowing ruins of the Administratum complex.
"FORWARD, BROTHERS!" I rumbled happily to myself, keeping my internal chronometer perfectly aligned with the squad's march tempo. "WE HAVE A GLORIOUS DAY OF IMPERIAL SERVICE AHEAD OF US!"
Editorial Footnotes:
[1] The casualty logs from Sector 4 confirm that Sergeant Kovacs was listed as "Missing in Action, Presumed Eaten." Having read this entry, I suspect the truth of Kovacs' final resting place is considerably more complicated, and infinitely more unsettling.
[2] Ciaphas later recorded in his journal that at this exact moment, he was attempting to maintain a calm expression while mentally calculating the distance to his Chimera APC, having realized he was standing four feet away from a silver skeleton dressed in human leather.
[3] Steve’s diagnostic assessment that Ciaphas was "overwhelmed with admiration" is a remarkably polite interpretation of what Ciaphas described as a "sudden, near-fatal spike of sheer panic that nearly caused me to foul my trousers."
[4] It is strangely endearing—and deeply bizarre—that a six-million-year-old xenos killing machine viewed Ferik Jurgen as the apex of human beauty. I suppose to an entity accustomed to sterile silver metal, a man who smells like unwashed socks and damp promethium represents a comforting abundance of organic life.
[5] Tech-Priests who inspected Jurgen's melta-gun after this campaign reported that its sub-molecular fusion chamber had been modified using "unknown, highly tech-heretical micro-welding." The weapon's hyper-excited fuel matrix reportedly melted an Ork Kill Bursta tank in a single blast, though it left behind a faint residual smell of ozone and wet paint. Ciaphas spent three weeks lying to a rather persistent Enginseer to prevent Jurgen from being servitorized for tech-heresy, eventually claiming the melta's miraculous performance was merely a "blessing from the Emperor brought on by Jurgen's devout maintenance routine."