"What would you know of struggle, Perfect Son? When have you fought against the mutilation of your mind? When have you had to do anything more than tally compliances and polish your armour?" "The people of your world named you Great One. Don’t stop now, you damned work-shy sons of acid-grubs, we’re only damn well halfway up." The medics might be able to stick it on him again later.
I didn’t really mean spit at it! You there! Yes you! Pick up Sergeant Creek’s hand. Do I have to do everything myself? See? That ain’t proper armour like you’d see on an Imperial tank – no it’s flimsy, fall-down-in-a-strong-breeze, I-hope-they-don’t-spit-at-me armour. Smells better than breakfast, don’t it? Give me that damn grenade.
That trench, you idiot, not this one! Oh yes, smell those aliens burn. Get that heavy flamer into that trench flush the damned Grox-heads out. I upped and ripped that damned land shark’s damned throat out with my damned teeth! That’s it, Sergeant Reed, give ‘em some Catachan steel. D’ya think I cried like a damned new-born when I lost my arm? Course I damn well didn’t. Medic! Stop whining, Brook, you’ve got another damned leg. Damn it, follow me, I’ll show you how it’s done. I don’t care if there are fifty thousand L’Huraxi up there! Our orders are to take that hill and I’m going to damn well take that hill even if it means I have to kill every last one of the purple-skinned giants myself. "What in the seven hells of Chaos are you waiting for? Personal orders from the Emperor himself? When I say take that damned hill, I mean take that damned hill, not damn well stand around and stare at it! I don’t care if there’s fifty L’Huraxi up there.
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