Under different circumstances, the fact that everyone in the army had been so synchronized towards one goal might've been considered a good thing. If a group of humans agree on something, there is little that can stop them.
Unfortunately, a bullet was one of them.
Previously, their front was more or less protected by the heavy armored unit. But seeing as how they were on the front lines of the charge, the moment those gas canisters landed, their whole team had taken the brunt of it's effects.
In a matter of seconds a whole division of the army had been rendered incapable as one by one they began to strip off their biggest advantage, their armor. Once that happened, they were infinitely more welcoming to the bullets, making sure they came to stay, snug within their flesh, unlike the thick plates of metal which previously adorned their body.
Once they were free from their own protection, their demise was swift and brutal. Amongst the hail of bullets were ones that had their names written on it, delivered as soon as their side began to move.
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His breath had become ragged without him even noticing. It was funny how despite his absence from the front lines, he seemed to be the one who was gasping for air the most, losing to only those who's lungs had been perforated by one kind of bloody weapon or another.
At some point, when man takes a life, it becomes too much to handle. It didn't necessarily need them to kill those lives personally, letting the grief and indignation build one by one. Sometimes just having their actions lead to a death can send the mind reeling.
It starts with something flawed, their first taste of blood. Premeditated or accidental, doesn't really matter. Mistakes were made, they weren't prepared to do it, it shouldn't have happened in one way or another. Either way they reaped their first life.
And maybe at first they were appalled by the waves of nausea that came with the feeling of a body going cold, that is until their next kill. Their first is usually forced on them by whatever circumstance is currently affecting them. But in their next, this same reason becomes an excuse they use to justify their actions. From then on, it's down the rabbit hole.
It would build, seldom does it end. The price of a sin is much heavier than just the place it reserved in hell, once held it wasn't something one could let go of no matter how they tried to atone. They would either continue on an escalating path of carnage leading to the culmination of their deaths under the hands of another, or they break. There is no end to misery, as the only penance to life is life itself.
It seems that for Mototsune, the latter was coming. Sure he was the strategist, and in his way he had brought a win at least for now to his side. But there was no escaping the fact that his orders had culminated in such a 'success', maybe one that he had the least intentions of achieving.
As much as possible, he wanted to end it at the gas grenades. Seeing their men suffer such a fate should be a deterrent for any of them to stand forward. Of course he did not take into account how a cornered rat might've reacted. Well, he did, but he didn't have the stomach to bear it's weight.
Along the back, elevated on some of their transports were some snipers he had brought along for specifically this purpose. He gave them a simply order, if at this point of the battle, the other side continued their hostility against them, take out the heavy armored squad.
His plan though, was only for them to take off their helmets due to the effects of tear gas, not something like this. By the next charge, the snipers gave the struggling men their mercy shot.
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In a matter of seconds, scores of warriors were filled to the brim with bullets. Many of them mowed down in the volleys of lead, but many more ran even faster.
To the modern military men, these crazed berserk looked like the walking d*ad series incarnate, complete with it's shot of steroids. Despite bleeding all over the battle field and dropping flesh, limbs and organs all over the ground, they continued to rush forward until such a point that their existence quite literally could not handle the strain anymore and they dropped down dead.
Even those who had lost their eyes charged towards the rattling guns like starved children to the sound of an ice cream truck. Their goal was one things and one thing only, to get even one of their men into enemy lines, for that, whoever was at the front would use their bodies to receive as much punishment as it could handle to save those behind him a few more seconds on their run.
Once he went down, the next fastest person would use his flesh and armor to take that spot and continue the chain. At some point, the soldiers switched from confidence to pure horror. Their original faith in their weapons shaking. It's powerful thumps which originally should be able to mow down men like grass now seemed almost pitiful.
Without orders from the higher ups, they began to unload all the weapons in their arsenal. From the same poisonous gases they had just released seconds before to frag grenades and rpgs, trembling as more surged through the smoke of every explosion, their skin ripped apart by flying dirt and shrapnel, their viciousness unwavering senselessly like that of a rabid dog.
The enemy was getting all the more closer to their defensive line with each passing seconds. They had watched as these men ran to cover the distance, but it seemed almost all too sudden that they had arrived only several meters away.
The unfortunate thing about guns is that they weren't capable of more death than they were manufactured to produce. Despite it's devastating capabilities, the thousands of bullets and canisters and warheads being launched into the enemy ranks felt far too slow.
Inch by inch the men began to move backwards, pushed by the immense pressure this wave of zombie-like men brought upon them, but still the distance closed. Little by little, those bloody, decrepit arms seemed to draw towards their necks, ready to wring the life out of them.
They could only scream wildly as they sprayed into this horde, hoping they would die out first before they had to reload. The finger on the trigger frozen in place from fear that if they let their rifles stop shooting for even a second, it would be a second too much for the enemy to grab a hold of them.
Just a little more. One side thought as they ran themselves ragged in this sprint, their enemies just several steps away.
Just a little more. Another one thought as they hoped that their guns would keep firing with each passing second, dreading the moment their weapons needed a reload.
Just a little more. Just a little more.