The vast expanse of the void loomed outside the reinforced windows of the Thunderhawk, occasionally pierced by the streaks of distant stars. Within the gunship's dimly lit interior, the Crimson Defenders, in their hulking Terminator armor, talked and shared tales of past battles. The warm crimson glow of the control panels illuminated their faces, revealing the battle scars and insignias of their many victories.

Brother-Sergeant Raphael Sanguinar leaned against a metal bulkhead, his crimson armor gleaming in the ship's faint light. "I still recall the time Brother-Israfel almost mistook an ork squig for a medical herb on Adrastapol," Raphael said, a sly smile hidden beneath his helm.

Brother-Cassiel Mortalis let out a low chuckle, his deep voice echoing in the confined space. "A mistake he's yet to live down. Though, given his talent, I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to make a stimulant out of it." The other terminators joined in the banter, their laughter contrasting with the ship's low hum. It was a rare moment of camaraderie, a brief respite from the relentless war that the Imperium of Man waged against countless enemies.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion rattled the Thunderhawk. Warning klaxons blared, and the ship's internal lighting turned a harsh red. The laughter was abruptly replaced by shouts and the sound of warriors preparing for an emergency.

"By the Emperor!" Brother-Corvus Tenebris shouted, gripping a nearby handrail as the Thunderhawk shook violently.

"We're hit!"

"We're descending too fast!" another marine yelled, consulting the ship's instruments. "Thrusters aren't responding!"

Raphael braced himself, locking his armored boots to the floor, trying to maintain some semblance of balance. The ship lurched, tossing marines around like ragdolls. As the Thunderhawk's damaged engines whined and sputtered, smoke began to fill the cabin. Brother-Cassiel activated the distress beacon, his voice filled with determination.

"We hold on. For the Emperor and for Sanguinius!"

The jungle planet loomed large on the viewing screens, its lush green canopy rapidly approaching. Trees and vegetation turned from green smudges to clearly distinguishable entities.

With a thunderous roar, the Thunderhawk crashed through the treeline, uprooting massive trees and carving a path of destruction. Raphael felt a sharp pain as he was thrown against the bulkhead, his vision blurring.

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The world outside was a dizzying blur of green and brown as the ship plowed through the jungle, snapping trees and creating a scar upon the verdant land. With one final, jarring impact, the gunship came to a screeching halt.

Raphael's world went dark, his mind filled with the echoes of shouts, alarms, and the harrowing screech of tortured metal.

Silence enveloped the jungle, save for the distant call of alien birds and the soft rustling of leaves. The wreckage of the Thunderhawk lay sprawled across the forest floor, a metal leviathan, scarred, and burning in patches. Plumes of smoke rose from its torn hull, and small fires danced in its underbelly, painting the immediate vicinity in a haunting orange hue.

From the twisted remains of the cockpit, Brother-Cassiel Mortalis managed to pry open a hatch and emerge, his armor scorched and dented. The weight of leadership weighed on him heavily as he surveyed the devastation.

"We are Astartes," he whispered to himself, repeating the mantra that had seen him through countless wars. "We stand, always."

He stumbled over to the rear of the gunship, where most of the squad had been stationed. He found two marines, their armor cracked open, lifeless. Each death felt like a personal blow. Cassiel took a brief moment to offer a prayer to the Emperor for their souls, and then turned to the task at hand.

Several meters away, groans of pain emanated from the undergrowth. Cassiel followed the sound, pushing aside thick ferns and underbrush. He found Brother-Damos, pinned under a piece of wreckage, his helmet split open revealing a bloodied face.

"Hold on, brother," Cassiel said, gripping the metal shard and, with a grunt of exertion, lifting it off Damos. The wounded marine coughed, his eyes fluttering open. "Brother-Cassiel... the others?"

Cassiel’s face was grim. "I've just begun the search. We need to regroup and find Brother-Sergeant Raphael."

Near the edge of the crash site, movement caught Cassiel’s eye. Two terminators, covered in mud and foliage, were helping each other up. One was Brother-Titus, the other Brother-Agathon. Their armors bore the marks of the crash but were largely intact.

"The distress beacon," Agathon rasped, his voice strained. "Is it active?"

"It is," Cassiel nodded. "But we're deep in Ork territory. We need to move and find Raphael."

A hissing sound drew their attention. From the depths of the jungle, primitive arrows soared through the air, embedding themselves in the Thunderhawk's hull with muted thuds. Faint battle cries, a mixture of ferocious roars and alien tongue, filled the air.

Orks.

The realization hit Cassiel like a thunderbolt. The crash had attracted attention, and they were vastly outnumbered.

Forming a defensive circle, the Crimson Defenders readied their storm bolters, chainfists, and power weapons. The jungle's edge rustled as Orks, their green skin in stark contrast to the dark foliage, emerged from the shadows.

"Defend this ground, brothers!" Cassiel commanded, his voice echoing with determination.

"For the Emperor!"

The Orks charged with a savage cry, and the Crimson Defenders met them head-on, a small beacon of defiance amidst the sprawling, untamed wilderness.