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Living as a civilian in the Imperium of Man is either outright horrifying or absolutely boring. A vast spanding, galactic Empire lead by the God-Emperor himself is hard to summarize. To put it simply, we own a considerable chunk of the galaxy, some hive worlds are horrible to live on and others are pretty alright. Criminals write a lot of counter propaganda that paint the Imperium in colours other than its trademark silver, decals of gold, royal reds as maroon as blood and grim blacks with tones of mechanical gray. Truth be told, it is all somewhere inbetween. If we could complain, we would. The wise decision is to not. This is the way of life on my home planet, Jordin. We pretend to work and they pretend to pay us. It is merely a fly on the arm of the God Emperor. It is a small planet very similar to Holy Terra, broken into numerous countries with individual governments that all acknowledge the Imperial rule. We are somewhat locked in a Dark Age of Technology. Couple decades ago, some heretics and worshipers of the Ruinous Powers basically made sex robots for all their ritualistic needs. A lot of them found their way onto the black market, eventually the actual markets and soon almost every household had an artificial boyfriend or girlfriend that had a 1 in 5 chance of having a Daemon residing in it. Couple thousand died, Space Marines came, the Inquisition came and somehow, everything was put back into order after a two year purge.

Funny enough, it was really the first time any of us saw much influence of the Imperium over us. Many of the Jordinites assumed the God-Emperor had forgotten us or conveniently swept us under the celestial rug as we were on the rim of a bunch of nasties. Truth be told, for decades, a few Sanctioned Psykers, accompanied by priests, stationed planetside with our defense forces would have deadly premonitions about an imminent Ork swarm, Tyranid invasion, that the planet was actually a Necron Tomb World or a Tau "liberation". After the sex robot incident, a Psyker had to be put down by a Commissar after he went mad from a vision from the Warp. The vision in particular was that of Jordin being lost in a warp storm for decades, when it would emerged the forces of Chaos would have complete terraformed it in the image of their twisted, evil deities. You may ask, how do I know all of this, with the lexicon of an Inquisitor and without a stutter from my mouth? Simply put, the previously mentioned Psyker was my brother. I was put into the foster care of an Inquisitor for 8 months of my teenage life that I will never get back. I was being investigated around the clock and oddly enough, I began to call my captor "father". Stockholm syndrome, possibly? Who knows, all I know is that my real father and mother conveniently never relocated to Jordin once we were released from custody.

I am of 19 Terran years now. I work 12 hour shifts 5 days a week at a factory mass producing bullets for the Imperium. Trust me, that is considered part time considering the working conditions on other planets. I live in the modest neighborhood known as "Hayley's Hope". It was a mining site back in the days of the Great Crusade. Green grass and small, bunker-like households. This entire block was also once the officer barracks for the Imperial Guard, until said base was moved up north where our current "visitors" have been stationed. These visitors in particular were none other than the Death Korps of Krieg. Unlike your typical Imperial Guard, the soldiers of the 68th Krieger regiment were something out of a Xeno's horror movie. Known for their dark greatcoats and trenchcoats, iconic gasmasked features and their penance to have a suicidal disregard for casualties - they are among the most reveled fighters in the Imperium. What makes them so different from the typical Planetary Defense Force or battalion loyal to the Emperor? These motherfuckers do not even give a shit. When the siege-immune, factory-planet Vraks was lost to the heretics, the Krieg launched a nearly decade long campaign against a planet you could not even orbitally bombard. The Kriegers one the war of attrition with trench tactics, suicide charges and balls made of the hull armour of a Baneblade tank.

The planet Krieg is not one for subtly either. It was once a pleasant Hive World, in fact - not too far from what Jordin is now. The planet's Autarch had the brilliant idea to declare himself and his people independent of the Empire, under the very false assumption that the Imperium would not do shit to counter act him. Chaos and Heresy grew rampant in the following civil war. The loyalists on the planet found it appropriate to regain their honour and planet by sending a nuclear stockpile into the heretic hives, which forever devastated the planet. Krieg is a Death World, with a constant nuclear winter and an entire civilization that lives inside its underground bunkers. Overly reliant cloning via an artificial womb, the modern Kriegers only have two things in mind. Paying back the God-Emperor for their people's drastic heresy and building forts around entrenched positions. Combine these two with some cool gasmasks and helmets, you have the Death Korps of Krieg. Psycho warriors with iron discipline, a seeming vow of silence and deep yearning for the embrace of death. But one must wonder, if the Imperial Guard sit alongside the Emperor in eternal death, where do the Krieg go when they die? The Reserves?

This is where my story starts. Being 19 and working full time, I actually do not have much going for me. If I am an inert Psyker, one day I could be drinking a cup of Recaf and I could randomly see a premonition from the Warp on the surface of the beverage after I add the cream and sugar. My head could explode or my body could become a conduit for Daemons, my corpse becoming the gateway for horrific unmentionables. So, the way I see it - I can either die horribly or I can die horribly as a conscript in the Imperial Guard one day, but with a cool flashlight. Safe to say that as of now, I am more interested in just postponing the inevitable. I signed up for a dating site, hoping to find some other God-Emperor fearing fanatic so we can both huddle for shelter in my bunker-home when the evercoming, manifest doom eventually arrives at my doorstep. To my surprise, I saw a newly created profile from one of our visitors. I could not tell if it was a male or female, because every profile picture was a gasmask or a loving shot of their morning ration. The last picture was of mud-covered, space-black combat boots on what I could tell to be somewhat slender legs. It suddenly made sense to me. Of course the Kriegers had females in their rank, if they could breed or clone men for war, why not women too? I guess it never occured to me because they all look the same. Not trying to be racist here now, or clone-ist.

Her "About Me" section was pretty average. 175 centimeters, what I assumed was an enlisted infantry rank, hobbies included: shoveling, trench making, barbwire placement, mechanized and motorized vehicle specialization, marksmanship and chipping paint from the bulkhead and painting it the same colour again. I never dated a military woman, let alone a Krieger, let alone a woman at all as the most contact I have ever gotten from the opposite sex was being fondled and groped at city checkpoint security installations. At least I knew for a fact she was in good shape and only smelled like a trench because she actually worked in one. I decide to check out her quote section, only to find "Animals flee this hell, the hardest stones cannot endure it; only men endure." attributed to a Krieg warrant officer during one of the decisive battles on Vraks. I realized now that my profile had to be tidied up a bit. There is nothing wrong with reaching out to a woman with lies and deception, in fact some of the best relationships start with lies and deception - since that is where most of them eventually end up.

My bio now read "Remember Vraks. Krieger regimental heroes welcome! Xeno scum deserves to be purged. I hate heretics. Praise the God-Emperor!" I pushed the ordinary pictures of me just taking a selfie in front of my potted plant and my front yard into the back of my gallery. My highlighted pictures either showed me in my working uniform at the factory, loading up casings for bolter rounds and I even snuck into the casting shop to get a shot of the lads there making molds for Imperial Guard helmets. My uncle served in the Kasrkin Special Forces when we lived on Cadia. Before he got decapitated in a vehicle roll over, he sent us a battalion flag that I had previously hung up in my room over my bed. Now it was respectfully pinned over my living room couch and my profile picture was me, saluting said ensign with a dramatic filter. "Support our troops." The caption read. I just hope no one mistook it for stolen valor and thought I was claiming to be a Kasrkin or a Guardsman veteran. Pretty sure that is how you get a bolter round to the back of the head from fifteen paces.

I talked to her back and forth for about a week. Well, talk as in she left me on "seen" and I just kept assuming her silence meant "yes". Deep down, I knew it was not going anyway so I took the dive and shined with some courage that would have made my uncle proud. I told her that if she wanted to try this out for real, to come to my house at 1900 on a Friday. I received one affirmative period from her. I was ecstatic. I went into work a few hours early, so I could return from the 12 hour shift at around 1600 and shower. To my surprise, she was outside of my door at about 1840. She had an entire twenty minutes to spare. Suddenly, I was uncomfortable knowing that I gave a Krieger my home address. For twenty minutes I contemplated the horrible things that could go wrong if I failed to impress her. By His Throne, what if I upset or offended her? Could she come to my house and bombard me into submission? I once heard that on their own planet, one of their mountain bases went rogue and to just make a point, the Krieg shelled the mountain side for two years until it was gone.

I opened the door and she rendered a proper salute. I felt unworthy, but I returned the salute and she resumed the position of attention. Ankles together, hands balled into a tight fist and placed her sides with elbows locked in against their ribs. She seemed to have packed relatively light. Great coat, black boots, combat trousers finely bloused near the top of said boots - a trench shovel and pick ax fastened to her back as well as a ruckbag. Her torso did not have any armour, but she did have a satchel of some sort that her gasmask hose went into. She wore some kind of gray, wool hood underneath her gasmask - probably to further conceal any imitation-humanity underneath. Her Imperial helmet was fastened for an exact fit on her head. I started to wonder if she had any hair under there. She had none of the features of a woman that I could see. Yet, I could just tell from the slight curves that were her breasts and ass covered by a cleaned, recently ironed and pressed combat trenchcoat that this was indeed, a female. I think. Hopefully. I tried to speak to her, but every response was merely a mod of affirmation or idle standing at attention. "A-at ease". I muttered, she placed her hands in front of her and cupped them in a certain way that had to be part of regulation. She widened her stance and her slung lasgun swayed for a moment, clicking against her gear.

Once outside of my relatively fake, spray-painted green grass neighborhood was a somewhat barren, industrialized yet modern planet of red sand and bright flora. The Techpriests remarked it resembled Mars with extra, unnecessary organic presence such as foliage openly. The former mining planet still got around via dunebuggies. Mine was a rusted horror show that was put together almost entirely out of scrap, stripped from abandoned posts from decades past. She did not mind, in fact she seemed delighted to jump in and sat as if she was going to jump onto the non-existent topgunner if we suddenly ambushed on the way to dinner. Without any windows on the wirey, framing-based vehicles, I had it padded up with tanned rags and cloths. I drove out of my parking space with a vehicle that appeared to have survived at least one apocalypse and barely made it to this century. Thankfully, the Krieger girl did not seem to notice or at least, did not mind the obnoxious sticker on the dashboard the read "I .|. Shleemies". I do not know why the typical "heart" was replaced with a penis, nor did I know what a shleemy even was. I do not even know who put that sticker there, but for some reason, I never bothered to rip it off.

Since I technically was a worker for the Imperium, or at least - an intentional worker for the Imperium since civilians usually got their assets seized as taxes, I had an alright payroll. Enough to afford this little restaurant called "Bliss and Chitz", ran by a few good, honest locals. I parked my buggy, to be further known as "The Sand Beast" since the engine purred like a dying Tyranid. B and C's parking lot smelled strongly of the aroma of shittily brewed alcohol and day old Recaf. We got a lot of import Styger milk from Fervious, it was really good when mixed with a bit of honey and served warm alongside a meat based meal. I showed my work identification chit to identify myself to the waiter, so that they may find my reservation. Truth was, there was no reservation. It was a sit down diner. But I assumed, correctly at that, the Krieger would not know and probably assume this place was the apex of fine dining. The waiter gave me a strange look and basically told us to sit wherever. To cover my story, I whispered to my date that I had reserved the entire diner for us, thus why we got to choose any of the many unused tables. I think she called my bluff, however - as obviously there were other couples, friends and co-workers eating in sporadic positions around each other.

We got our menus and the Krieger scanned over them like she was reading her next military orders. I sheepishly poked through the menu options. They changed the font size and now the High Gothic was strangely harder to comprehend than before. I think they changed the font itself from Comic Gothic to Papyrus Gothic. I felt like I was reading something from the Black Library. I did not want to get the Grox, that ugly reptilian animal that was found in the Solomon System. Those guys can survive in any condition, on any planet - which made them a great food source to import during the mining days on this reddish, dirt planet. Wherever I go, I usually get a Grox burger and I have probably missed out on so much great food because of it. As I read the menu, I notice that I can barely feel my fingers. The sun has been down since 1500, as it always was on this planet. It was cold even inside the diner. I suddenly envied my date, who wore a heavy coat and gasmask. Everywhere. At all times. I should have grabbed my Imperial peacoat.

I eventually settled for a Gantha-Root Rollup with a side of Nafar Biscuits with gravy. Feeling my stomach growl, I remembered that I did not each much of a healthy lunch at the dining facility today. I ordered an additional, small Ambull burger. The meat came from a subterranean, insectoid predators. They were native to our planet, as well as the sand covered death planet Luther Macintyre IX. If I remember right, they followed onboard the mining equipment from IX and grew happily accustomed to the similar conditions on Jordin. They were impossible to domesticate so the Planetary Defense Forces, sometimes in coalition with the Imperial Guard, frequently went on bug hunts to kill them. Their meat had the same texture and flavour of Grox, but was far more filling. It also came with a nice sauce, made from secretions of the beasts' protective shells and exoskeletons. By the time I finished ordering, I noticed that not only had my date already ordered, she had gotten her food. I forgot the Krieg were stationed alongside a small unit of Valhallans. My date ordered a Valhallan style Tanna tea, specifically from a tankboard samovar that Bliss and Chitz actually provided. On her plate was an order of Birri Truffles, Caba Nuts, a few fruits and an oozing, from the oven pastry. I did not take Kriegers for having a sweet tooth. I did not see her eat, but it seemed that whenever I raised my head from my own meal something from her's was gone.

After the dinner, we went out for a movie. I am not much of a movie goer, I usually spent my time watching the state-broadcasted news however. It was nice to see what was going on outside of my little rock. I would not call myself a patriot per say, since I had a great admiration for what other planets such as Cadia had done and had going for them overall. I saw a lot of campaigns take place through the television set, from exciting excursions into Chaos territory, long range sniper wars with the Tau, lots of propaganda in all of it - but that did not bother me in the slightest. In a way, I had an appreciation for the Imperium that sort of made me want to enlist. But, then again - I did my part by making bolter rounds at the factory. I made a lot. Whenever I saw where the Imperial Guard or Space Marines deployed somewhere, fighting the Emperor-knows-what out in the fringes of the darkest parts of the galaxy, I always wondered if one of my bolts was going to splinter a xeno in two.

I had to find a compromise. I found that in the late night premiere of "Battle of Macragge". As always, it was more propaganda than film - but damn did I genuinely enjoy it. Ultramarines gunning down Tyranids. I could tell my date was enjoying it too, even if she did sit at a position of attention with her lasgun between her legs, barrel up - stock down. Her back was straight at all times, even with her ruck bag placed beneath her seat - she maintained a military discipline I never have seen before. Even in the field interviews that were broadcasted to my television set, the most motivated Imperial Guards failed to maintain such a rigidness as her. Everything she did was professional, clean cut. I wish I could see the look in her eyes, but her lenses were tinted in a way that it reflected the field of view in front of them. It was the perfect metaphor for a Krieger. The glory of the Imperium flashed in drastic images and cut shots in her "eyes". I found myself watching her more than the movie, even if it was mostly trying to imagine what womanly featured she hid under cloak and dagger. I did not notice she drank all of my Recaf.

Mid way through the movie, the warm Styger milk hit me. I rushed to the restroom and she managed to tear her way from the screen to follow me. I did not notice until I heard the marching pace of combat boots behind me. For a trench warfare specialist, her boots glistened from a shine so bright that it would make the sigils and medals of Inquisitor uniforms blush. The Krieger stood guard outside of the restroom door as I rushed into the stalls. I burst through the door as if I was about to combat drop into an Ork battlefield. While I "launched the Exterminatus", my date scared away anyone trying to get into the restroom themselves. She had a perimeter set up and I doubt anyone was going to breach it. This was convenient for me, as I was recreating a warp storm with my organs and I let out a yelp or two of pain. Note to self. Styger milk does not go well with Ambull. That Chitin sauce was to die for though.

In between my organ-orbital bombardments, I brought out my Vox-phone and went to the dating app I found my date on in the first place. Originally, I had used my actual legal name on the site, which was Donovan Merrick. But, for some strange reason, the app had updated sometime during the dinner or movie and my name was reset to my vox-mail account. I hoped my Krieger date did not see my profile under "LovesToSploodge" at any time during our date, so I quickly reverted the account back to my actual name and checked her's for any activity. My heart dropped when I saw she was on messenger exactly 20 minutes ago. Just about when my restroom adventure started. I scanned her profile hastily to find that she had changed her quote section to read "Can love bloom on the battlefield?" Whatever I was doing, I guess it was right. Perhaps it was my short buzzcut, kept within the Imperium's factory worker standards so I did not catch a ponytail and ergo, the rest of my head - in a giant cog or something. However, after watching a solid hour or so of that movie, maybe I should get a military regulation cut for the new, potential girlfriend.

After a solid five minutes of scrubbing my hands and a splash or two of water on my face, I emerged from the restroom and the Krieger snapped to attention. I was used to it at this point, so without a word we walked back to the movie theater. She matched my pace and walked in step with my rhythm. We returned to the movie and thankfully, had another two and a half hours of it to go. It dragged on a bit toward the end, but everyone loves Space Marines. I think that is what the director Mattheus Ward thought, at least. Half of the movie was about how great the Imperium was and how shit the Tyranids were. In fact, I really doubt "Tyranidders" is an actual racial slur, but it was creative, I will give them that. The second half of the movie, which I remember the most - is blatant Ultramarine masturbation for nearly three hours. I think they used real Tyranids in this movie. I think they used real Space Marines as well. Was I watching a film or a documentary? I have no idea.

The buggy ride back was awkward. The engine still coughed and belched like a starving Ork and I pretty much rammed the front end into my garage shutter-shield. I do not know why they have the brake and gas pedal so close together on this thing. I popped it into parking hear and turned off the engine, which died harder than an Imperial Guardsman disobeying direct orders from a Commissar. By His Throne, I hope there is not a Psyker neighbor reading this heretic thoughts right now. La la la la la, get out of my head! Anyways, my date circled around the vehicle in a formation similar to a squad movement and came up to my side. She snapped to attention, clicked her heels and maintained her footing at a perfect 90 degree. Her two primary fingers on her right hand nudged the front rim of her helmet in salute. I saluted her back and without a word, she walked away. I sighed. I do not know if I just relieved her of duty or left the door open to dating. I was a bit exhausted from the entire night and I was still reeling back from the early morning at work, so I ran to bed and managed to get in before the sun rose at 0300. In my sleep, all I saw were bolter casings, being molded, filled and fastened. Even in my work I made bolt rounds.

0600, my alarm clock for work was not reset - so of course it blasted loudly and woke me from my three hour sleep. I wanted to bury myself forever in my pillow and bed, covered from the martian-like cold from my Imperial wool duvet. My breath visible, I knew it was only a matter of time before the sun would bring its full heat as it passed over the planet. I opened up my shutter blinds slightly and my eyes felt like they just witnessed a supernova get sucked into black hole. I made breakfast and took a luke-warm shower. As always, the pipes froze over night and I could not afford another Techpriest plumber, especially after the last time when he spent most of his paid-on-the-hour afternoon performing a ritual for my kitchen sink. With nothing better to do on my weekend, I went and got a haircut.

As the Imperial Guard running cadence went, "I sat right down in the chair, when I stood up I had no hair." I went from a short buzz cut to an even more bare one on the sides and with only a bit of a jarhead style cut on top. A single patch of 1-2 cm hair on the crown of my head. No face, just straight naked from the sides on down. I believe my exact words to the barber, of course after looking both ways, up, down and under the counter, was none other than "Make me look like one of those Lord Inquisitor fuckboys." I admired myself in the mirror for a bit. I looked decently in shape from lugging equipment around the factory and with my haircut, I looked like a proper military wannabe. By the Throne, however - if anyone tried to acknowledge this or assume I was actually in the IG, I would deny the glory and valor immediately. I just make the bullets, I don't fire them. Huh, that should be our shop motto actually. I doubt it would get past the cogboys at the factory though, everything to them had to be fancy sounding and respectful to the Machine Spirits, whatever that meant.

I returned home and unlocked my front door. I slipped off my boots under my jacket rack and stepped into the living room. My Krieger date from the night before was there. She stood and admired my Kasrkin flag, signed by several members of my Uncle's unit. With the same last name, my uncle signed it just at the top in High Gothic. "SGT MERRICK Fifth-Twenty Fifth". She turned to me in a parade moment, an about-face, I believe it was called. The Krieger rendered a salute and I returned it. Her ruckbag was filled to the brim and there was an additional duffel bag laid ontop of my sofa. She was moving in, as it seemed. I have not really had anyone around in awhile so I admit that I was pleasantly surprised and happy with this. For the time being, at least. I smiled and she fortified her position at the lunch table a few hours later. She did not talk, she barely seemed to breathe and everything was a nod or intense, long silences at the position of attention. It was fucking weird.

At night, she slept in my bed. Craddled with her lasgun and their foldable trench shovel leaned against my wall. My room was to the right of the living room, immediately after entering the household. It had no lights and was dark, only steel shutters for ventilation and light. It must have reminded her of a trench or motorized troop transport vehicle. I half expected her to sleep on the floor or fall asleep, leaned up against one of my walls as if she was some suit of armour on display. That first night, I was never sure if she was actually asleep. But as I climbed into bed, she did not protest or push me out. I guess she was used to sleeping with people in such close proximity. It was a tad claustrophobic, tucking myself in besides her with a lasgun against my back. Most men are used to being spooned with a pair of breasts tickling the ribs. Me? I had a cold gasmask hose against my neck, a jagged helmet pressed against the back of my head and her steel-plated knees digging into the back of my thighs. Her rifle was ice cold and chilled my spine. Strangely yet, I fell asleep quick and woke up without much problem. I felt absurdly well rested. She was no where to be found in my bedroom. I hopped up and neglected to make my bed, as I always left it a mess.

A week later, I wake up at 0600 to find a ration with about 3,000 calories waiting for me each morning. An additional one would be stuffed inside an Imperial issue ruckbag that I now carried to work. Every night I came home, the trench that was being build around my house grew deeper and more fortified. It looked more like an actual bunker by the hour. She had a patrol routine in and out of the trench, around the perimeter of my house and even did in-room inspections and inventories. Everything I owned was suddenly organized, folded, stored and rationed in a way that it could ensure my survival for the next 8 years if I just decided to stop working one day out of the blue. It became a common routine. 0600, wake up. Ration waiting for me at the dinner table. One of three possible morning meals with minor alterations and additives to each. 3,000 calories and high carbs. Go to work, ration in bag, 5,000 calories to make up for the 5,000 I burned making bolt casings all day with minimal breaks. Go home, 3,000 calorie meat ration tin with a poundcake in a steel box. Burn off an additional 300 calories shivering.

One morning, I realized that my muscles were more defined and that I had bulked up considerably from my wirey, lean frame. Was she conditioning me? Who knew. Who cares. I was saving so much money on food that I could take her out to Bliss and Chitz once or twice a week, sometimes consecutively. Was this a typical relationship? Not at all, but for my first one, it was the most interesting so far. I cannot really describe what it is like to have a girlfriend who is a Krieger, in fact it is pretty absurd saying it at all. Girlfriend. Krieger. Krieger-Girlfriend. I did not know they even had any kind of relationships, let alone romantic ones. Her way of showing affection is unique in the way that I never know and I don't think I ever will. Even thought it became vastly apparent I was a civilian and not the man my uncle was, she was still there. Day after day. She was a trooper and holding on, riding it out. With my long hours, my sometimes less than enthusiastic attitude and my weekend weariness. I am unsure if I have a live-in girlfriend or a live-in soldier. Maybe both. But for the time being, this is working out fairly well.

Description
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Living as a civilian in the Imperium of Man is either outright horrifying or absolutely boring. A vast spanding, galactic Empire lead by the God-Emperor himself is hard to summarize. To put it simply, we own a considerable chunk of the galaxy, some hive worlds are horrible to live on and others are pretty alright. Criminals write a lot of counter propaganda that paint the Imperium in colours other than its trademark silver, decals of gold, royal reds as maroon as blood and grim blacks with tones of mechanical gray. Truth be told, it is all somewhere inbetween. If we could complain, we would. The wise decision is to not. This is the way of life on my home planet, Jordin. We pretend to work and they pretend to pay us. It is merely a fly on the arm of the God Emperor. It is a small planet very similar to Holy Terra, broken into numerous countries with individual governments that all acknowledge the Imperial rule. We are somewhat locked in a Dark Age of Technology. Couple decades ago, some heretics and worshipers of the Ruinous Powers basically made sex robots for all their ritualistic needs. A lot of them found their way onto the black market, eventually the actual markets and soon almost every household had an artificial boyfriend or girlfriend that had a 1 in 5 chance of having a Daemon residing in it. Couple thousand died, Space Marines came, the Inquisition came and somehow, everything was put back into order after a two year purge.

Funny enough, it was really the first time any of us saw much influence of the Imperium over us. Many of the Jordinites assumed the God-Emperor had forgotten us or conveniently swept us under the celestial rug as we were on the rim of a bunch of nasties. Truth be told, for decades, a few Sanctioned Psykers, accompanied by priests, stationed planetside with our defense forces would have deadly premonitions about an imminent Ork swarm, Tyranid invasion, that the planet was actually a Necron Tomb World or a Tau "liberation". After the sex robot incident, a Psyker had to be put down by a Commissar after he went mad from a vision from the Warp. The vision in particular was that of Jordin being lost in a warp storm for decades, when it would emerged the forces of Chaos would have complete terraformed it in the image of their twisted, evil deities. You may ask, how do I know all of this, with the lexicon of an Inquisitor and without a stutter from my mouth? Simply put, the previously mentioned Psyker was my brother. I was put into the foster care of an Inquisitor for 8 months of my teenage life that I will never get back. I was being investigated around the clock and oddly enough, I began to call my captor "father". Stockholm syndrome, possibly? Who knows, all I know is that my real father and mother conveniently never relocated to Jordin once we were released from custody.

I am of 19 Terran years now. I work 12 hour shifts 5 days a week at a factory mass producing bullets for the Imperium. Trust me, that is considered part time considering the working conditions on other planets. I live in the modest neighborhood known as "Hayley's Hope". It was a mining site back in the days of the Great Crusade. Green grass and small, bunker-like households. This entire block was also once the officer barracks for the Imperial Guard, until said base was moved up north where our current "visitors" have been stationed. These visitors in particular were none other than the Death Korps of Krieg. Unlike your typical Imperial Guard, the soldiers of the 68th Krieger regiment were something out of a Xeno's horror movie. Known for their dark greatcoats and trenchcoats, iconic gasmasked features and their penance to have a suicidal disregard for casualties - they are among the most reveled fighters in the Imperium. What makes them so different from the typical Planetary Defense Force or battalion loyal to the Emperor? These motherfuckers do not even give a shit. When the siege-immune, factory-planet Vraks was lost to the heretics, the Krieg launched a nearly decade long campaign against a planet you could not even orbitally bombard. The Kriegers one the war of attrition with trench tactics, suicide charges and balls made of the hull armour of a Baneblade tank.

The planet Krieg is not one for subtly either. It was once a pleasant Hive World, in fact - not too far from what Jordin is now. The planet's Autarch had the brilliant idea to declare himself and his people independent of the Empire, under the very false assumption that the Imperium would not do shit to counter act him. Chaos and Heresy grew rampant in the following civil war. The loyalists on the planet found it appropriate to regain their honour and planet by sending a nuclear stockpile into the heretic hives, which forever devastated the planet. Krieg is a Death World, with a constant nuclear winter and an entire civilization that lives inside its underground bunkers. Overly reliant cloning via an artificial womb, the modern Kriegers only have two things in mind. Paying back the God-Emperor for their people's drastic heresy and building forts around entrenched positions. Combine these two with some cool gasmasks and helmets, you have the Death Korps of Krieg. Psycho warriors with iron discipline, a seeming vow of silence and deep yearning for the embrace of death. But one must wonder, if the Imperial Guard sit alongside the Emperor in eternal death, where do the Krieg go when they die? The Reserves?

This is where my story starts. Being 19 and working full time, I actually do not have much going for me. If I am an inert Psyker, one day I could be drinking a cup of Recaf and I could randomly see a premonition from the Warp on the surface of the beverage after I add the cream and sugar. My head could explode or my body could become a conduit for Daemons, my corpse becoming the gateway for horrific unmentionables. So, the way I see it - I can either die horribly or I can die horribly as a conscript in the Imperial Guard one day, but with a cool flashlight. Safe to say that as of now, I am more interested in just postponing the inevitable. I signed up for a dating site, hoping to find some other God-Emperor fearing fanatic so we can both huddle for shelter in my bunker-home when the evercoming, manifest doom eventually arrives at my doorstep. To my surprise, I saw a newly created profile from one of our visitors. I could not tell if it was a male or female, because every profile picture was a gasmask or a loving shot of their morning ration. The last picture was of mud-covered, space-black combat boots on what I could tell to be somewhat slender legs. It suddenly made sense to me. Of course the Kriegers had females in their rank, if they could breed or clone men for war, why not women too? I guess it never occured to me because they all look the same. Not trying to be racist here now, or clone-ist.

Her "About Me" section was pretty average. 175 centimeters, what I assumed was an enlisted infantry rank, hobbies included: shoveling, trench making, barbwire placement, mechanized and motorized vehicle specialization, marksmanship and chipping paint from the bulkhead and painting it the same colour again. I never dated a military woman, let alone a Krieger, let alone a woman at all as the most contact I have ever gotten from the opposite sex was being fondled and groped at city checkpoint security installations. At least I knew for a fact she was in good shape and only smelled like a trench because she actually worked in one. I decide to check out her quote section, only to find "Animals flee this hell, the hardest stones cannot endure it; only men endure." attributed to a Krieg warrant officer during one of the decisive battles on Vraks. I realized now that my profile had to be tidied up a bit. There is nothing wrong with reaching out to a woman with lies and deception, in fact some of the best relationships start with lies and deception - since that is where most of them eventually end up.

My bio now read "Remember Vraks. Krieger regimental heroes welcome! Xeno scum deserves to be purged. I hate heretics. Praise the God-Emperor!" I pushed the ordinary pictures of me just taking a selfie in front of my potted plant and my front yard into the back of my gallery. My highlighted pictures either showed me in my working uniform at the factory, loading up casings for bolter rounds and I even snuck into the casting shop to get a shot of the lads there making molds for Imperial Guard helmets. My uncle served in the Kasrkin Special Forces when we lived on Cadia. Before he got decapitated in a vehicle roll over, he sent us a battalion flag that I had previously hung up in my room over my bed. Now it was respectfully pinned over my living room couch and my profile picture was me, saluting said ensign with a dramatic filter. "Support our troops." The caption read. I just hope no one mistook it for stolen valor and thought I was claiming to be a Kasrkin or a Guardsman veteran. Pretty sure that is how you get a bolter round to the back of the head from fifteen paces.

I talked to her back and forth for about a week. Well, talk as in she left me on "seen" and I just kept assuming her silence meant "yes". Deep down, I knew it was not going anyway so I took the dive and shined with some courage that would have made my uncle proud. I told her that if she wanted to try this out for real, to come to my house at 1900 on a Friday. I received one affirmative period from her. I was ecstatic. I went into work a few hours early, so I could return from the 12 hour shift at around 1600 and shower. To my surprise, she was outside of my door at about 1840. She had an entire twenty minutes to spare. Suddenly, I was uncomfortable knowing that I gave a Krieger my home address. For twenty minutes I contemplated the horrible things that could go wrong if I failed to impress her. By His Throne, what if I upset or offended her? Could she come to my house and bombard me into submission? I once heard that on their own planet, one of their mountain bases went rogue and to just make a point, the Krieg shelled the mountain side for two years until it was gone.

I opened the door and she rendered a proper salute. I felt unworthy, but I returned the salute and she resumed the position of attention. Ankles together, hands balled into a tight fist and placed her sides with elbows locked in against their ribs. She seemed to have packed relatively light. Great coat, black boots, combat trousers finely bloused near the top of said boots - a trench shovel and pick ax fastened to her back as well as a ruckbag. Her torso did not have any armour, but she did have a satchel of some sort that her gasmask hose went into. She wore some kind of gray, wool hood underneath her gasmask - probably to further conceal any imitation-humanity underneath. Her Imperial helmet was fastened for an exact fit on her head. I started to wonder if she had any hair under there. She had none of the features of a woman that I could see. Yet, I could just tell from the slight curves that were her breasts and ass covered by a cleaned, recently ironed and pressed combat trenchcoat that this was indeed, a female. I think. Hopefully. I tried to speak to her, but every response was merely a mod of affirmation or idle standing at attention. "A-at ease". I muttered, she placed her hands in front of her and cupped them in a certain way that had to be part of regulation. She widened her stance and her slung lasgun swayed for a moment, clicking against her gear.

Once outside of my relatively fake, spray-painted green grass neighborhood was a somewhat barren, industrialized yet modern planet of red sand and bright flora. The Techpriests remarked it resembled Mars with extra, unnecessary organic presence such as foliage openly. The former mining planet still got around via dunebuggies. Mine was a rusted horror show that was put together almost entirely out of scrap, stripped from abandoned posts from decades past. She did not mind, in fact she seemed delighted to jump in and sat as if she was going to jump onto the non-existent topgunner if we suddenly ambushed on the way to dinner. Without any windows on the wirey, framing-based vehicles, I had it padded up with tanned rags and cloths. I drove out of my parking space with a vehicle that appeared to have survived at least one apocalypse and barely made it to this century. Thankfully, the Krieger girl did not seem to notice or at least, did not mind the obnoxious sticker on the dashboard the read "I .|. Shleemies". I do not know why the typical "heart" was replaced with a penis, nor did I know what a shleemy even was. I do not even know who put that sticker there, but for some reason, I never bothered to rip it off.

Since I technically was a worker for the Imperium, or at least - an intentional worker for the Imperium since civilians usually got their assets seized as taxes, I had an alright payroll. Enough to afford this little restaurant called "Bliss and Chitz", ran by a few good, honest locals. I parked my buggy, to be further known as "The Sand Beast" since the engine purred like a dying Tyranid. B and C's parking lot smelled strongly of the aroma of shittily brewed alcohol and day old Recaf. We got a lot of import Styger milk from Fervious, it was really good when mixed with a bit of honey and served warm alongside a meat based meal. I showed my work identification chit to identify myself to the waiter, so that they may find my reservation. Truth was, there was no reservation. It was a sit down diner. But I assumed, correctly at that, the Krieger would not know and probably assume this place was the apex of fine dining. The waiter gave me a strange look and basically told us to sit wherever. To cover my story, I whispered to my date that I had reserved the entire diner for us, thus why we got to choose any of the many unused tables. I think she called my bluff, however - as obviously there were other couples, friends and co-workers eating in sporadic positions around each other.

We got our menus and the Krieger scanned over them like she was reading her next military orders. I sheepishly poked through the menu options. They changed the font size and now the High Gothic was strangely harder to comprehend than before. I think they changed the font itself from Comic Gothic to Papyrus Gothic. I felt like I was reading something from the Black Library. I did not want to get the Grox, that ugly reptilian animal that was found in the Solomon System. Those guys can survive in any condition, on any planet - which made them a great food source to import during the mining days on this reddish, dirt planet. Wherever I go, I usually get a Grox burger and I have probably missed out on so much great food because of it. As I read the menu, I notice that I can barely feel my fingers. The sun has been down since 1500, as it always was on this planet. It was cold even inside the diner. I suddenly envied my date, who wore a heavy coat and gasmask. Everywhere. At all times. I should have grabbed my Imperial peacoat.

I eventually settled for a Gantha-Root Rollup with a side of Nafar Biscuits with gravy. Feeling my stomach growl, I remembered that I did not each much of a healthy lunch at the dining facility today. I ordered an additional, small Ambull burger. The meat came from a subterranean, insectoid predators. They were native to our planet, as well as the sand covered death planet Luther Macintyre IX. If I remember right, they followed onboard the mining equipment from IX and grew happily accustomed to the similar conditions on Jordin. They were impossible to domesticate so the Planetary Defense Forces, sometimes in coalition with the Imperial Guard, frequently went on bug hunts to kill them. Their meat had the same texture and flavour of Grox, but was far more filling. It also came with a nice sauce, made from secretions of the beasts' protective shells and exoskeletons. By the time I finished ordering, I noticed that not only had my date already ordered, she had gotten her food. I forgot the Krieg were stationed alongside a small unit of Valhallans. My date ordered a Valhallan style Tanna tea, specifically from a tankboard samovar that Bliss and Chitz actually provided. On her plate was an order of Birri Truffles, Caba Nuts, a few fruits and an oozing, from the oven pastry. I did not take Kriegers for having a sweet tooth. I did not see her eat, but it seemed that whenever I raised my head from my own meal something from her's was gone.

After the dinner, we went out for a movie. I am not much of a movie goer, I usually spent my time watching the state-broadcasted news however. It was nice to see what was going on outside of my little rock. I would not call myself a patriot per say, since I had a great admiration for what other planets such as Cadia had done and had going for them overall. I saw a lot of campaigns take place through the television set, from exciting excursions into Chaos territory, long range sniper wars with the Tau, lots of propaganda in all of it - but that did not bother me in the slightest. In a way, I had an appreciation for the Imperium that sort of made me want to enlist. But, then again - I did my part by making bolter rounds at the factory. I made a lot. Whenever I saw where the Imperial Guard or Space Marines deployed somewhere, fighting the Emperor-knows-what out in the fringes of the darkest parts of the galaxy, I always wondered if one of my bolts was going to splinter a xeno in two.

I had to find a compromise. I found that in the late night premiere of "Battle of Macragge". As always, it was more propaganda than film - but damn did I genuinely enjoy it. Ultramarines gunning down Tyranids. I could tell my date was enjoying it too, even if she did sit at a position of attention with her lasgun between her legs, barrel up - stock down. Her back was straight at all times, even with her ruck bag placed beneath her seat - she maintained a military discipline I never have seen before. Even in the field interviews that were broadcasted to my television set, the most motivated Imperial Guards failed to maintain such a rigidness as her. Everything she did was professional, clean cut. I wish I could see the look in her eyes, but her lenses were tinted in a way that it reflected the field of view in front of them. It was the perfect metaphor for a Krieger. The glory of the Imperium flashed in drastic images and cut shots in her "eyes". I found myself watching her more than the movie, even if it was mostly trying to imagine what womanly featured she hid under cloak and dagger. I did not notice she drank all of my Recaf.

Mid way through the movie, the warm Styger milk hit me. I rushed to the restroom and she managed to tear her way from the screen to follow me. I did not notice until I heard the marching pace of combat boots behind me. For a trench warfare specialist, her boots glistened from a shine so bright that it would make the sigils and medals of Inquisitor uniforms blush. The Krieger stood guard outside of the restroom door as I rushed into the stalls. I burst through the door as if I was about to combat drop into an Ork battlefield. While I "launched the Exterminatus", my date scared away anyone trying to get into the restroom themselves. She had a perimeter set up and I doubt anyone was going to breach it. This was convenient for me, as I was recreating a warp storm with my organs and I let out a yelp or two of pain. Note to self. Styger milk does not go well with Ambull. That Chitin sauce was to die for though.

In between my organ-orbital bombardments, I brought out my Vox-phone and went to the dating app I found my date on in the first place. Originally, I had used my actual legal name on the site, which was Donovan Merrick. But, for some strange reason, the app had updated sometime during the dinner or movie and my name was reset to my vox-mail account. I hoped my Krieger date did not see my profile under "LovesToSploodge" at any time during our date, so I quickly reverted the account back to my actual name and checked her's for any activity. My heart dropped when I saw she was on messenger exactly 20 minutes ago. Just about when my restroom adventure started. I scanned her profile hastily to find that she had changed her quote section to read "Can love bloom on the battlefield?" Whatever I was doing, I guess it was right. Perhaps it was my short buzzcut, kept within the Imperium's factory worker standards so I did not catch a ponytail and ergo, the rest of my head - in a giant cog or something. However, after watching a solid hour or so of that movie, maybe I should get a military regulation cut for the new, potential girlfriend.

After a solid five minutes of scrubbing my hands and a splash or two of water on my face, I emerged from the restroom and the Krieger snapped to attention. I was used to it at this point, so without a word we walked back to the movie theater. She matched my pace and walked in step with my rhythm. We returned to the movie and thankfully, had another two and a half hours of it to go. It dragged on a bit toward the end, but everyone loves Space Marines. I think that is what the director Mattheus Ward thought, at least. Half of the movie was about how great the Imperium was and how shit the Tyranids were. In fact, I really doubt "Tyranidders" is an actual racial slur, but it was creative, I will give them that. The second half of the movie, which I remember the most - is blatant Ultramarine masturbation for nearly three hours. I think they used real Tyranids in this movie. I think they used real Space Marines as well. Was I watching a film or a documentary? I have no idea.

The buggy ride back was awkward. The engine still coughed and belched like a starving Ork and I pretty much rammed the front end into my garage shutter-shield. I do not know why they have the brake and gas pedal so close together on this thing. I popped it into parking hear and turned off the engine, which died harder than an Imperial Guardsman disobeying direct orders from a Commissar. By His Throne, I hope there is not a Psyker neighbor reading this heretic thoughts right now. La la la la la, get out of my head! Anyways, my date circled around the vehicle in a formation similar to a squad movement and came up to my side. She snapped to attention, clicked her heels and maintained her footing at a perfect 90 degree. Her two primary fingers on her right hand nudged the front rim of her helmet in salute. I saluted her back and without a word, she walked away. I sighed. I do not know if I just relieved her of duty or left the door open to dating. I was a bit exhausted from the entire night and I was still reeling back from the early morning at work, so I ran to bed and managed to get in before the sun rose at 0300. In my sleep, all I saw were bolter casings, being molded, filled and fastened. Even in my work I made bolt rounds.

0600, my alarm clock for work was not reset - so of course it blasted loudly and woke me from my three hour sleep. I wanted to bury myself forever in my pillow and bed, covered from the martian-like cold from my Imperial wool duvet. My breath visible, I knew it was only a matter of time before the sun would bring its full heat as it passed over the planet. I opened up my shutter blinds slightly and my eyes felt like they just witnessed a supernova get sucked into black hole. I made breakfast and took a luke-warm shower. As always, the pipes froze over night and I could not afford another Techpriest plumber, especially after the last time when he spent most of his paid-on-the-hour afternoon performing a ritual for my kitchen sink. With nothing better to do on my weekend, I went and got a haircut.

As the Imperial Guard running cadence went, "I sat right down in the chair, when I stood up I had no hair." I went from a short buzz cut to an even more bare one on the sides and with only a bit of a jarhead style cut on top. A single patch of 1-2 cm hair on the crown of my head. No face, just straight naked from the sides on down. I believe my exact words to the barber, of course after looking both ways, up, down and under the counter, was none other than "Make me look like one of those Lord Inquisitor fuckboys." I admired myself in the mirror for a bit. I looked decently in shape from lugging equipment around the factory and with my haircut, I looked like a proper military wannabe. By the Throne, however - if anyone tried to acknowledge this or assume I was actually in the IG, I would deny the glory and valor immediately. I just make the bullets, I don't fire them. Huh, that should be our shop motto actually. I doubt it would get past the cogboys at the factory though, everything to them had to be fancy sounding and respectful to the Machine Spirits, whatever that meant.

I returned home and unlocked my front door. I slipped off my boots under my jacket rack and stepped into the living room. My Krieger date from the night before was there. She stood and admired my Kasrkin flag, signed by several members of my Uncle's unit. With the same last name, my uncle signed it just at the top in High Gothic. "SGT MERRICK Fifth-Twenty Fifth". She turned to me in a parade moment, an about-face, I believe it was called. The Krieger rendered a salute and I returned it. Her ruckbag was filled to the brim and there was an additional duffel bag laid ontop of my sofa. She was moving in, as it seemed. I have not really had anyone around in awhile so I admit that I was pleasantly surprised and happy with this. For the time being, at least. I smiled and she fortified her position at the lunch table a few hours later. She did not talk, she barely seemed to breathe and everything was a nod or intense, long silences at the position of attention. It was fucking weird.

At night, she slept in my bed. Craddled with her lasgun and their foldable trench shovel leaned against my wall. My room was to the right of the living room, immediately after entering the household. It had no lights and was dark, only steel shutters for ventilation and light. It must have reminded her of a trench or motorized troop transport vehicle. I half expected her to sleep on the floor or fall asleep, leaned up against one of my walls as if she was some suit of armour on display. That first night, I was never sure if she was actually asleep. But as I climbed into bed, she did not protest or push me out. I guess she was used to sleeping with people in such close proximity. It was a tad claustrophobic, tucking myself in besides her with a lasgun against my back. Most men are used to being spooned with a pair of breasts tickling the ribs. Me? I had a cold gasmask hose against my neck, a jagged helmet pressed against the back of my head and her steel-plated knees digging into the back of my thighs. Her rifle was ice cold and chilled my spine. Strangely yet, I fell asleep quick and woke up without much problem. I felt absurdly well rested. She was no where to be found in my bedroom. I hopped up and neglected to make my bed, as I always left it a mess.

A week later, I wake up at 0600 to find a ration with about 3,000 calories waiting for me each morning. An additional one would be stuffed inside an Imperial issue ruckbag that I now carried to work. Every night I came home, the trench that was being build around my house grew deeper and more fortified. It looked more like an actual bunker by the hour. She had a patrol routine in and out of the trench, around the perimeter of my house and even did in-room inspections and inventories. Everything I owned was suddenly organized, folded, stored and rationed in a way that it could ensure my survival for the next 8 years if I just decided to stop working one day out of the blue. It became a common routine. 0600, wake up. Ration waiting for me at the dinner table. One of three possible morning meals with minor alterations and additives to each. 3,000 calories and high carbs. Go to work, ration in bag, 5,000 calories to make up for the 5,000 I burned making bolt casings all day with minimal breaks. Go home, 3,000 calorie meat ration tin with a poundcake in a steel box. Burn off an additional 300 calories shivering.

One morning, I realized that my muscles were more defined and that I had bulked up considerably from my wirey, lean frame. Was she conditioning me? Who knew. Who cares. I was saving so much money on food that I could take her out to Bliss and Chitz once or twice a week, sometimes consecutively. Was this a typical relationship? Not at all, but for my first one, it was the most interesting so far. I cannot really describe what it is like to have a girlfriend who is a Krieger, in fact it is pretty absurd saying it at all. Girlfriend. Krieger. Krieger-Girlfriend. I did not know they even had any kind of relationships, let alone romantic ones. Her way of showing affection is unique in the way that I never know and I don't think I ever will. Even thought it became vastly apparent I was a civilian and not the man my uncle was, she was still there. Day after day. She was a trooper and holding on, riding it out. With my long hours, my sometimes less than enthusiastic attitude and my weekend weariness. I am unsure if I have a live-in girlfriend or a live-in soldier. Maybe both. But for the time being, this is working out fairly well.