A rumbling cacophony mixed into the noise of the radio transmission.
"Handler One to Undertaker. Enemy interception force is visible on radar. We've confirmed a battalion-size unit of Anti-Tank Artillery types as well as a force of Dragoon types of similar size."
"Acknowledged, Undertaker. I can sense them from here."
"Command is transferred to the commanding officer on the field, effective immediately. Show gratitude to your homeland with your flesh and blood and defend the Republic with your very life."
"Roger."
"…I'm sorry, you guys. I'm so sorry."
"Undertaker to all units. Handler One has relinquished command. Henceforth, Undertaker will take command of the operation."
"Acknowledged, Alpha Leader. Same as always, right, Reaper? What did our cowardly wuss of an owner say in the end there?"
"That they're sorry."
The voice at the other end of the Para-RAID burst into laughter.
"Ha, those white pigs never change. They drive us out, lock us up, and then plug their ears and say they're sorry? The hell… All units, you heard him. If we gotta march to our deaths anyway, at the very least, it might not be so bad with our trusty Reaper there to guide us."
"Sixty seconds till contact with the enemy… The bombardment's coming. Break through the enemy's bombardment zone at maximum combat speed."
"Let's do this, boys!"
"Delta Leader to Delta squadron! Don't try running around—we're taking them out here!"
"Charlie Three! Hostile on your ten! Dodge it— Shit!"
"Echo One to all units. Echo Leader KIA. Echo One taking over command."
"Bravo Two to all units. Sorry… Looks like this is the end of the line."
"Alpha Leader to Alpha Three! Hold on just a minute longer! I'm on my way! Alpha One, take over command for me."
"Roger that. Good luck out there, Alpha Leader."
"Thanks… Hey, Shin. Undertaker."
"What?"
"You still remember your promise, right?"
"…Yeah."
The officer's voice, mingled with static, issued from his removed headset and disturbed the dusk breeze.
"To…units… Handler One to all units. Do you read? Respond, first unit."
He leaned against his unit's fuselage—an organic-looking thing, similar to a chrysalis—and reached into the cockpit's opened canopy and pressed the radio's transmission button."
"Undertaker to Handler One. Enemy interception force exterminated. We've confirmed the enemy forces' retreat. Operation complete. Returning to base."
"…Undertaker. H-how many will be returning—?"
It was a foolish question with nothing to be gained from an answer. Before the other person could finish speaking, he cut the transmission and returned his gaze to outside the cockpit.
The scene was illuminated by the sunset with a coquelicot glow, casting shadows on a battlefield littered with flickering flames and the remains of crouching metal beasts and quadruped spiders, mechanical viscera protruding from their frames. Those were the remains of friend, the remains of foe, the remains of everything.
Not a single trace of life remained on this battlefield except for him. Look as far as he might, all he would find would be corpses and the ghosts of those who lingered even after death. The silence was unsettling. Across the fields, the sun set into a shadowy mountain range, casting red, level rays of light his way.
In this dying world bathed in crimson, or perhaps dyed over by shadow, he and his unit were the one thing that could still move. The unit's long limbs were designed after an insect's arthropod legs. Its discolored armor was decorated with countless scars, and it was equipped with a scissorlike high-frequency blade and a back-mounted main armament.
Its silhouette was that of a prowling spider, but its quadruped nature and the cannon on its back likened it to a scorpion. Lacking anything that could be considered a head, its form was reminiscent of a beheaded skeletal corpse, crawling along the battlefield, searching for its missing crown.
Sighing a single breath into the air, he reclined against the armored fuselage as it cooled against the dusk wind, turning his gaze up to the terrifying brilliance of the sunset sky.
A distant eastern country once told of a flower born from the blood of the mistress of a great king, who ended her own life. Or perhaps that flower bloomed from rivers of blood spilled from knights butchered by barbarians.
The crimson of those coquelicots that blossomed as far as the eye could see, illuminated by the sunset that burned all to nothing, was as beautiful as sheer madness.