It took Iro longer than expected to reach the third line.
Just out of sight around the bend of the perpendicular access trench, a giant crater some thirty or forty feet across tore through the middle of the path, forcing Iro to pick and slide his way down into the crater bowl and scramble up the other side.
His first attempt resulted in a spectacular fall as his foothold gave out and he tumbled twelve feet or so headlong backwards into the dirt. He braced for the impact, but felt nothing but the meaty wet thump of his body plowing into the muddy earth, completely burying his head and shoulders in silt and leaving the rest of him pointing awkwardly up in the air.
After removing himself from the dirt and wiping the lenses of his eyes clear, he'd quickly assessed his physical state. A fall like that previously would have at the very least knocked the air out of him, hurt like hell, and probably broken something. Considering he landed head first, it might have even killed him. But he felt no pain and everything still worked as expected from what he could tell, although he could feel a very slight gritty sensation inside the mechanisms of his neck and shoulders, probably from the mud still stuck inside them. He'd have to find a way to clean those out at some point.
With the walls of the crater slick and loose from the rain, it took Iro several more tries before he could finally manage his way to the top. Cresting the edge, he pulled himself on the floor of the access trench, and clambered to his feet before making his way to the end and around the bend into the third line.
He immediately dove back behind the corner.
He hadn't been able to see it clearly, but something definitely human-shaped sat against the right hand wall a short ways past the bend. He listened carefully to see if he heard any movement coming from that direction, but heard nothing but the steady drumming of rain patter, and the rush of a breeze over the trenchtop. Had his mind been playing a trick on him? After a minute or two of waiting and listening, Iro decided to risk a peek to try and get a better look. At the very least, whatever was there hadn't seemed to notice him. He quietly and carefully edged his head around the corner.
He wasn't crazy. Someone sat with their back against the wall, their feet splayed out in front of them. They were dressed in a uniform of some variety, and Iro noticed the gleaming metal that gave away the presence of armor, though neither uniform nor armor seemed familiar to him. They weren't Austearean or Orzenian, at the very least. The figure also held onto what looked like a spellrifle laid across their lap, based on the object's shape and size.
Iro slid back around the corner. What was he going to do? Even if the shape was asleep, there was absolutely no chance of him making it past without waking them. Not with his new metal feet, anyways. And any effort to leave the trench any other way but a built path out would generate far too much noise as he tried to climb up the metal siding. And with his luck, his weight would cause the entire sheet to tear off and collapse the wall. No. That wasn't an option.
He could perhaps head back to his original location and try the other access trench, but there was no guarantee that path would be clear either.
What if he just walked out and struck up a conversation? He gave the idea only a second's thought before discarding it. While his memory was largely missing, something instinctually told him that a clockwork man without a uniform wandering up to an armed soldier in the dark was not likely to meet with a very welcoming reception, assuming he wasn't immediately shot on site. Things as they were, he'd probably better keep out of sight until such as time as he knew revealing himself wouldn't provoke hostility. While falling clearly didn't seem to harm him, he didn't feel nearly as confident about his durability against the punch of a magicite bullet.
He had to do something, however. Just because the lights were out there a few minutes ago didn't mean they would stay there forever. With his luck, if he waited for this soldier to leave, they might be gone by the time he got out. And that's if other soldiers didn't just come to relieve or accompany him. He didn't want to have to, but he was going to have to ambush him, and hope he could subdue him before he could fire his weapon or call for help.
Iro gathered himself. While he felt a sense of fearful anticipation, the whole experience was far different than what he remembered. He had no heart to slow, no breath to steady, no nerves to calm. Everything was just in his mind, and, comparatively speaking, that felt far easier to deal with. He tried to draw every detail in his mind. Had the target moved? He peeked his head back around the corner. The soldier still sat propped up against the wall, legs laid out, arms draped on his rifle. Good. That meant he was probably sleeping. If that was the case, then, there was a good chance he could sneak up to and deal with him without any resistance, if he was quick and quiet enough.
Alright then. Time to move.
Iro crept gingerly around the corner, slowly lowering one step at a time. While his new feet were significantly louder than boots, the clockwork in his new legs was a lot more precise than muscle, and never seemed to fatigue, so he could move as slowly and delicately as needed to keep his steps from making the slightest sound. To his good fortune, his efforts seemed to be working, and the soldier seemed none the wiser as Iro crept closer and closer to his target.
He was within a few steps before he noticed that something was off.
Well, several things, really.
Three darkened holes pierced the soldier's chestplate. By the scorched impact marks and the melted steel around each puncture, they appeared to be caused by magicite slugs. Conventional weapons just couldn't liquify steel the way that arcane ammunition did. The man's face hung slack, his skin sallow and waxy and fading in some places into shades of green. He'd been dead a couple days, maybe. Iro didn't know whether to feel pity for the nameless soldier, or deride himself for his own stupidity.
Looking down at the dead man, he noticed for the first time the brown satchel beside him. He bent down to inspect the contents. Inside was an extra uniform, as well as general issue items such as rations and a messkit. Most of the bag, however, seemed to be dedicated to field surgeon's supplies and tools.
All the means in the world to save a life, and no means to administer them to yourself. The irony gave Iro a sense of grim amusement.
Since the dead man would have no need of it any longer, Iro took the moments necessary to don the spare uniform, and took the boots from the man's feet. Neither thing fit his new frame very well, but both would help him blend in slightly, at least from a distance. He also went to the effort to unlatch the dead soldier's helmet and try to fit it over his head, but to his disappointment, the opening was too narrow. He tossed it to the side. After loading what few supplies would be helpful into the satchel and dumping the rest, Iro bent down to grab the man's spellrifle.
It took a moment to free the weapon from the dead man's rigid grip, but once Iron had managed to do so, he found the thing loaded and none the worse for wear. It was a clip-loaded bolt action model, and looked barely used. He cycled the bolt chamber a couple times to make sure everything worked smoothly, and then removed the clip to reload the cycled rounds. He checked the barrel and stock before peering down the sights for alignment. Once he was satisfied that everything was in order, he bent down to check the satchel and the soldier's uniform pockets for spare ammunition. Much to his disappointment, however, there wasn't any. Probably had been snatched from his supplies during a retreat.
Iro released the clip again. 8 in the magazine, plus one in the chamber when he loaded, all of which appeared to be long-grain mana rounds, based on the shell shape and the translucent, faintly glowing blue crystal points. 9 rounds wasn't ideal, but it would have to suffice if he got into trouble. He hoped it would never come to that.
After a final once-over, Iro slung the satchel over his shoulders, and spellrifle in hand, continued on down the third line. About a hundred paces past the dead man, a perpendicular pathway branch broke out of the trench to his right, leading a short distance before running into a man-made tunnel. Several more bodies lay scattered around the entrance, lanced with scorched holes and bloating with rainwater. Whatever supplies or weapons they had been carrying, however, appeared to be missing.
Ignoring the grisly sight, Iro pressed on. If his instincts were currect, this tunnel would lead him out of the combat line in the direction of the lights. He had no other choice but to trust that it did.
He held the rifle at the ready, chambered the first round, and walked with grim determination into the darkness.