Snippet #2621138

"Twice." The Commissar shot a daring look in Grim's and his idiot friend's direction. Her hearing had saved her life more than once, even before enlistment; one had to learn to hear shifting sand before a trapmouth got its meal. But most of the 501st was raised from a Deathworld; they knew the type that went with it.

When the pysker looked at Simon, he offered a smile. He nodded to her kindly and offered a friendly gesture before she rose and left him. His smile mutated into one of odd bemusement; most people enjoyed his company before they saw him in battle, striking down the evils that threatened his empire. Looks like I'm not making any friends today.
Simon felt bad for her, but was oblivious to how uncomfortable his armament made her. He assumed she was shy (which wasn't unheard of for their type); he failed-as he often did-to connect his flamer to her disfigurement, which he had paid no mind to. As she walked away, his eyes fell on Alex. He opened his mouth as if to offer a greeting, but now the room was filled and he felt it would fall on deaf (or at least occupied) ears. Instead he sat back, rolled his shoulders, let out a comfortable groan, and mentally browsed his rolodex of prayers and battle hymns. He found himself wishing his superior officers would allow him to bring bagpipes into combats. "Nothing says funeral oration like Amazing Grace played on a goat's stomach," he mumbled to himself.

The Commissar bristled at the second choir-boy being elected second-in-command over her. Well what the fuck does that make my job?! She didn't dare say anything, but her displeasure was obvious (though easily mistaken as anger at her subordinates whispering about her). "With all due respect, Sergeant Solar, I'd like to request in the future that I be consulted on force deployment. My experience with heretics and traitors of the Empire makes me more than prepared to handle Orks and my experience commanding at the platoon level more than qualifies me for half a squad." Her tone had no sense of argument in it; she spoke evenly despite her displeasure. "Not that I aim to challenge Pilgrim's own qualifications, Sergeant.
"I don't care who's ordering me, as long as they're directing the righteous in our glorious campaign against the evils of the universe," Simon chimed in, an almost sing-song quality of enthusiasm in his voice. "But Commissar Rascal I'd like to remind you of the age-old adage, 'the candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.' I'm sure the good Sergeant has is own reasons to, er, trust my fellow Eccelasian."
Trust him to spurn his subordinates into the grave, Rascal thought to herself.