[ WP ] Write your favorite part to a story you 've always wanted to write , but never got around to .

The transport skimmer took a direct hit, the black clouds of flak catching it in a lethal net of fire and metallic rain. Something detonated, a fuel line perhaps. Its glass canopy was crisscrossed by a spider's web of cracks, a spray of blood splashed across the window. From his position within the broken remains of a greengrocers', Corporal Silas Veers saw as the skimmercraft's engine sputtered and died, its intake fans whining and shuddering as they tore themselves apart. Like some wounded bird or broken kite it fell from the sky trailing a wake of smoke and burning shrapnel, the pieces hitting the ground and nearby roofs in a rain of metal. 
 
 Veers watch the skimmer clip the corner of a building, throwing up a wave of brick dust and concrete chunks to smash upon the road. The craft dipped lower and lower, its left side wing tilting towards the ground further and further. She was going roll, Veers thought. And there'd be nothing left of it. 
 
 To his surprise the skimmer did n't go into a death roll, its pilot somehow still alive despite the wash of blood sprayed against his cockpit canopy. Veers could n't see that far, but he could imagine his mind the Herculean task, the pilot fighting death itself to keep his transport level and aimed down the massive thoroughfare that was the Imperial Way. Statues standing ten stories high watched with stony features as the skimmer fell below a hundred meters, its engines now fully aflame. All down the Imperial Way fighting ceased as both sides watched the machine descend like a fallen angel. 
 
 Besides him, Private Tylen Mors made the sign of the Aquila. `` Throne... Have you ever seen anything like it?'' 
 
 Veers shook his head, his lascarbine held loosely in his hands. His uniform was bloody and torn, its sand and coral camouflage fabric stained by sweat and seawater. The elastic band on his flak helmet held a pack of Lho-sticks and a lone well-worn playing card, that of the Knave of Diamonds. 
 
 `` Never.'' 
 
 The Skimmer's pilot must've finally given up the ghost, for the heavy craft suddenly plunged down towards the ground, its nose dipping down towards the concrete roadway. The skimmer crashed in a thunderous impact of dust and billowing smoke, a trail of sparks rising and flashing in ecstasy of light as it scraped its way down the canyon of buildings and statues. Veers and the rest of his platoon coughed as the dust cloud rolled over their position, the visibility dropping to a scant few meters. 
 
 Corporal Veers!'' his platoon commander Lieutenant Takin wheezed. `` Search for survivors.'' 
 
 Silas Veers cursed under his breath and nodded. `` Yessir. Tulper, Terradoc, Vilkes on me!'' 
 
 The rest of his fireteam rose from their cover, lascarbines aimed towards the vague gray silhouette of the burning wreckage. Agile as Tree-Skippers they climbed down the broad ramp of broken rubble and splintered office furniture. Behind them, the ruins of the former Departmento Munitorum building leered at them, the empty windows and shattered front doors silently screaming in pain and outrage. 
 
 They scurried from cover to cover like rats, ducking behind burnt out tanks and the shells of tram-carriages. The blackened skeletons of their former occupants still grinned at Veers as he crept past, still seated as they'd been when the forces of Chaos had invaded. The sound of distant lasfire echoed through the canyon streets, punctuated by the deeper, bone rattling shudder of artillery. 
 
 Private first class Haris `` Holy'' Terradoc muttered prayers quietly as they neared the wreck, the flames and burning promethium beginning to die down. That was n't a good thing though. Along with the smoke, the dust cloud thrown up upon impact was beginning to settle, their sight lines, and those of the enemy, returning. 
 
 Veers was first into the skimmer, ducking through a rent in the hull just behind the cockpit. Perhaps a hundred meters long, the craft could have held thousand of people if it'd been laid out in passenger layout. As it was, it still could have carried hundreds at least in more than comfortable style if the rich decor and opulent fittings were any clue. A long wet bar ran down one side of the cabin, the smell of fine brandies and wines wafting through the air and to his nose. 
 
 He gestured to Vilkes, nearest to the cockpit, with Guard sign. *Check it out. * 
 
 As Tytus Vilkes did so, Veers aimed his lascarbine down the narrow aisle towards the tail-end. There was no one, no even bodies. Papers and other trash littered the floor along with a small chandelier, its strands of crystal and brass forming a gilded lump in the middle of the floor. Vilkes emerged from the cockpit, a bit of blood on the cuff of his sleeve. 
 
 *Dead, * he signed. 
 
 Some snapped further down the cabin, and all four snapped their lasguns in the direction of the noise. They were n't alone.
