Snippet #2624692

And so it was Cassandra's reputation as the Commissar with a vendetta against the 501st would only worsen, if any of the guardsmen survived long enough to tell of how her safety beacon was a deathtrap.
The Commissar braced against an interior wall as the shells hit. A gas main or something was struck that ran under the road outside, which cracked open and burned everything in both directions within sixty feet. Between that and the bottom floors quickly being buried by the floors above them, there was some precious little time before the survivors of the artillery barrage had any orks to worry about. "Troopers!" She called. "Grim! Get over here." The hallway had two other metal frames, which Cassandra grabbed at with a free hand and (placing her foot against the wall they were rustily bolted into) ripped them out. "We're making a bridge next door. If the Enginseer has a torch or arc tool now would be the time to use it." Otherwise she brought her lascarbine around and made one hell of an improvised attempt at fusing.
How long it would remain or how much weight it could support didn't concern the Commissar as she walked to the end of the hallway and hacked into the wall with her chainsword. She shouted a series of curses as, at first, she made little progress. The center of the building collapsed and the opposite side was groaning over to join it while she made a trooper-sized hole. She walked back over, grabbed the bed-bridge, maneuvered it through, and set its opposite edge on the alley-facing windowsill of the adjacent building, fifteen feet away. "Get a move on!" she ordered as she switched back to her lascarbine. "Use your grav-chutes or you fat-asses are going to drop through this bridge like your mother through her own bed." It was clear she intended to cross last. "Secure the adjacent building!"
The adjacent building, fortunately, had its bottom two floors crammed with furniture, junk, and sections of wall and rubble, first by the hasty (failed) barricading of some civilians and then the damage of the artillery strike. The only way down as through a window or off the roof, but the only way up for the orks would be slow and met by laser fire.

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Sanders pulled the pin of a krak grenade and threw it. And then the tank suddenly lifted, had its appendages bend in odd ways, and was dropped on top of it. "...what the fuck kind of-?" he tried to question before the explosion rocked the ork armor and blew its tread clear loose. One of the rollers were thrown clear back across the street at him but he was so stunned by what he thought to be the Emperor's direct influence that he didn't even feel it crack his head open.
He did feel Simon kicking him in the hip a minute later. "W-what happened?"
"You saved the day, Ministrant. But now I need you to help save the day again." Sanders had been dragged somewhere else and now had troopers on either side of him. He had missed the message of the ork charge and, hazily, wondered why everyone was shouting and so many lasrifles had become so pointy. Simon was holding his chainsword. "What's happening?"
"The Orks are charging. We're showing them why that is a bad idea. Perhaps on the planets they take, against the weak-willed, weak-bodied enemies they choose to face, their shouts and screams and displays of physical might are impressive and effective, but now they fight the Imperium of Man. We do not bend at the knees and we do not lay in our graves! The Emperor does not find us wanting!"