"Great. Just %$#@* great! Stuck again behind chunks of old foam, bits of balsa and glue," spat the Imperial Guardsman," at least it counts as cover." He longed to get out of the eternal flat-footed pose he was given.

In the distance the white cubes with their obscene black spots bounced, shaking the soft green ground under him. He did not like them. Usually something bad happened. Sometimes, he was able to shoot those ugly green idiots. Sometimes, he seemed to get placed elsewhere, out of the battle. But always, in the end, into the void with the lid turning his world black.

The Guardsman's thoughts were interrupted as a new guy was placed beside him by the "pink crane." His contemporaries called it the "hand of God" or at least Azreal's marine squad did - the religious fools. The new guy had slightly different markings and a brand new weapon he had not seen before.

"You're looking the worse for wear," stated the new guy contemptuously.

The guardsman looked at himself reflected in the glossy shine of the new figure's varnished coat. Yeah, OK he thought, I have a few spots of silver showing, and my clothing is a little dull. But what did you expect after three years of campaigning. He looked back at the newcomer. His uniform was brighter; his pose was more dramatic. He was even a bit larger. The new ones always seem to be that way, all that extra detail the old guys lack.

The veteran frowned. This did not look good. The new guys were the privileged ones. They got the best padding in the boxes and were shown first to the other giants. The rules were always changed to make them tougher. They were removed from battle only after the old boys were taken off the table.

"Incoming!" a voice as overhead thunder boomed. The white cubes rumbled again and the veteran knew his fate. He saw the sheepish grin from the newcomer; a smile he once had given a plastic trooper years ago.

"The way of the world", he thought, as the hand of God dumped him into the box.