Да вообще самая большая несправедливость, то что превозносят в основном имперскую гвардию, а почти всю работу в империуме делают СПО. Без запасных миллиардов призывников, тяжелой артиллерии и комиссара, эти люди с чем император пошлет не по сезону и не по размеру, потому что местный лорд опять все спиздил и  заперся на верхнем уровене города-улья, противостоят ордам хаоса, оркам, некронам и всей прочей поебени пытающейся уничтожить Империум. А потом под конец прилетают гвардейцы и фотографируются на фоне выжженой планеты и...улетают, а разгребать оставленный ими хаос, недобитков, местных партизан и всё остальное остётся опять кто? Правильно, СПО.  Космодесант не прилетает вовсе.

Как говорится в нетленке: Pity the guardsman.

A weak sack of flesh destined to die for a dead god that never cared, it spends its pitiful, brief life alone in his foxhole with nothing more to keep him company—or to keep him safe—than the cheapest, most disposable equipment.

Me? As a servant of Chaos I enjoy all that this universe and the warp has to offer. Power courses through my veins.The gifts of the chaos gods will soon overtake me, and one day I may ascend. What has the guardsmen to look forward to but a grim life, and if he is lucky, perhaps he will feel nothing as my axe sends his soul to Khorne.

He lives for a corpse god and he shall join his god.. as a corpse. And I shall spare a second to think of his kind. Then I shall only laugh. Hail CHAOS!

You would laugh monster. But let me remind you.

Within this weak sack of meat and bone, uncared for by his god and wept for by none, beats a heart. A human heart, that carries with it the strength and courage of all mankind. Within that sack of meat is the hope, the will, and the fury of every man women and child from every corner of the Imperium. Within that weak sack of meat, festooned in thin armour and weapons only powerful in numbers, beats the heart of a man. And for ten thousand years, the hearts of men have beaten, strongly, in defiance of your so called "powers".

For ten thousand years, your black crusades have been pushed back, beaten down, and made a mockery of, by weak sacks of flesh with cheap weapons and disposable equipment.

For that weak sack of flesh that you so gleefully mock is no supersoldier, no immortal warrior, no creature cursed by chaos like you. He is a man, an Imperial Gaurdsman drawn from some forgotten corner of the Imperium to fight for his species and for the safety of the people he loves. He is a factory worker. a farmer, a storekeeper, a father, a brother, a son, a mere man. And against creatures like you teeming and numberless, powered by the wills of thirsting gods... He holds the line. He has held the line for ten thousand years.

So what is your excuse, monster?