Warhammer 40k:The Lone Star

**Chapter 3: Shadows of the Past**

*POV: Varn*

*Current Location: Bandit Camp*

"Shit, shit, shit—please be alive, Leon."

The thought burned in my mind as I sprinted through the ruined warehouse, weaving through corpses and debris, heart hammering in my chest. My breath was ragged, my hands shaking as I gripped my rifle, eyes scanning every shadow. The smell of blood and scorched flesh thickened the air, a grim testament to the slaughter we had wrought here.

Then, I found him.

Leon lay crumpled near a shattered pillar, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, his chainsword still embedded in the ruined corpse of the abomination he had slain. Its guts continued to churn and slough apart, torn by the blade's relentless bite, as if even in unconsciousness, Leon refused to relinquish his vengeance.

I winced as I crouched beside him. His back was a ruin of torn flesh and jutting bone, his armor shattered and useless. Deep lacerations covered his body, and the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest was the only sign he yet clung to life.

"Damn it, Leon…" I muttered under my breath as I pulled out my medkit, my fingers working with desperation. The bio-foam hissed as I sealed his wounds, doing what little I could to stabilize him.

Grunting with effort, I hauled him up, slinging his arms over my shoulders. He was heavy, but I carried him regardless, his weapons strapped to my back. I had to get him somewhere safe.

The room he had stormed into before the fight… That would do.

I stumbled inside, nearly dropping Leon as my gaze fell on the two women wrapped in his cloak. Their eyes were empty, hollow pits of suffering that made my skin crawl. The carnage in the room—two brutally slain bodies—spoke volumes of what had happened here.

I took a breath, steadying myself, then addressed them. "Hey, you two. I need your help. Watch over him while I free the others."

They only stared at me, silent and unmoving. But when I laid Leon down on a relatively clean cot, they shifted slightly, one reaching out hesitantly, as if to reassure themselves he was real. That was enough.

I turned and headed back to the main chamber. The prisoners remained trapped above the pit, skeletal figures huddled in their cage, staring at me with desperate, sunken eyes. The mechanism holding them aloft was rusted and broken—the winch could only lower them all the way, straight into the beasts below.

I gritted my teeth. There was no easy way to do this.

Sighing, I pulled out my crude radio. The battered device crackled to life as I switched it on, knowing full well who would answer.

"Boss… We need help."

---

*POV: Mr. Jacob*

*Current Location: Survivor Camp*

The radio flared to life in my hands, the voice on the other end taut with urgency.

"Boss… We need help."

Varn. His tone was wrong. Too shaken. Too tense. And if he was calling me on *this* frequency, that meant one thing—Leon was down.

I didn't hesitate. "On my way. Hold the line, son."

Shoving the radio into my coat, I turned and strode through the camp, barking orders. "Everyone up! We move, *now!*"

The survivors stirred from their meager shelters, eyes weary, bodies weak not from hunger but the growing guilt they harbour inside. They watched me with the same haunted looks they always did. Guilt. Shame. The weight of powerlessness crushing their backs like an iron yoke.

They had suffered so much. The bandits had raided us time and time again, stealing what little we had. We had held on, barely, but we *had* held on. Because of Leon. Because of Varn. Because of *me.*

And now Leon needed us.

I picked fifteen of them. Many we're eager to go, to fight. Makeshift spears were pressed into their hands, their grips

resolute. A few old laspistols—half-charged, unreliable—were distributed among those who could shoot straight. They weren't warriors. But unity was our strength. And today, we would wield it like a blade.

As we set out, my thoughts drifted back—back to *him.*

Varkas. The man who had saved my life. The man I had *failed* to save.

His son lay wounded out there, and by the Throne, I would not make the same mistake twice.

We marched into the ruins, weapons clutched firmly. Every step felt heavier, the weight of responsibility pressing down on me. These people—these broken, hollow souls—followed me not because they believed in victory, but because they could not *do nothing.*

I would not let them falter.

We reached the bandit camp in silence, the smell of blood thick in the air. The bodies of the fallen littered the ground—scavengers already picking at the remains. I tightened my grip on my laspistol and motioned for the others to spread out.

Then I saw him.

Leon, unconscious, barely breathing, his wounds crudely patched. Varn standing over him, his expression one of barely restrained fury and desperation.

"Boss," Varn breathed as I approached. "We need to get the prisoners down, but the mechanism's broken. If we drop them, they're dead."

I took a breath. Looked at the cage. Looked at the pit below.

Then I made my decision.

Turning to my people, I pointed at the supports holding up the cage. "We break it. Bring it down safely. Whatever it takes."

No hesitation. No question. They obeyed without a word, setting to work immediately. With determined hearts. We pried at rusted joints, wedged debris beneath the frame, built a structure to slow its descent.

Minutes stretched into eternity, sweat dripping down their resolute faces as we *fought* against gravity itself.

Finally—*finally*—the cage tilted, the mechanism groaning in protest as we guided it, slowing its fall. With a final heave, we lowered it to the ground, its prisoners tumbling out, too weak to even cry out.

It was done.

Leon was safe.

The captives were free.

For now, that was enough.

I knelt beside Leon, brushing blood-matted hair from his face. "Hold on, kid," I murmured. "You're not leaving me. Not yet."

Then, with a weary sigh, I turned to Varn. "We take what we can carry, then we go. We're not staying to see if these bastards have reinforcements."

Varn nodded, silent.

I looked at my people. They were exhausted, shaking—but they had *done* something. They had *helped.* And that… that meant something.

For the first time in a long while, there was hope.

And in this Emperor-forsaken hellhole, that was the rarest currency of all.