Just a short story:

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Club! - Lasgun's stock stroke a young guardsman's nose, smashing it. The soldier recoiled, dropped his lasgun, squeezing his bleeding nose and, finally, lost his balance and fell on solid rockrite of the training ground. He sat on a cold rockrite, trying to stop blood dripping from the smashed nose and wincing - because of pain and of his sparring partner's laughter.

- Lennox, just try not to stare at my boobs next time - Jenit Sulla reached out her counterpart, sweeping her ponytail. - I don't want to see my aide-de-camp carrying his bayonet like a pitchfork when we'll encounter tyranids or orks....oh you, fraking liar! - captain barely avoided Lennox's fist. Soldier, using Sulla's hand like a lever, went on the attack, refusing to admit his defeat. Second later, captain and her aide stand opposite to each other in a compat position with lasguns in their hands.

Sparring of the 597th Valhallan went on...





