Somewhere near United Solar Outpost
"Commander."
A young officer snapped to attention, saluting sharply.
Commander Kaelen Stroud returned the gesture with a curt nod. "Colonel Sternfield," he began, his tone clipped and focused, "you've seen the latest reports. The impact radius of the volatile entity has far exceeded our original estimates."
Colonel Sternfield frowned, his brow furrowed. "Yes, Commander. The fallout stretches further than we anticipated."
"Which team did you dispatch?" Stroud's voice was calm, but his sharp eyes betrayed a keen intensity.
"That would be Alpha Group 1, sir," Sternfield replied.
Stroud let out a low hum, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been a smirk. "That team, huh?"
Sternfield stood firm. "I assumed they'd be best suited for the mission, given that they know each other and their ..... unique nature ."
The commander waved a hand dismissively, cutting him off. "Spare me the justifications, Colonel. What's done is done. Let's hope your assumption doesn't backfire. Dismissed."
Sternfield stiffened but offered a quick salute before leaving the room, leaving Stroud to study the map in brooding silence.
Samuel leaned back in his chair, the faint hum of his modest quarters barely registering over the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. He mumbled under his breath, running a hand down his face in frustration.
"What is Command even doing?" His voice was heavy, tinged with disbelief and bitterness.
A dry chuckle escaped him, bitter and hollow. "What are we even doing now?"
Unable to sit still, he pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to a small, scuffed drawer. From it, he retrieved a photo encased in a worn frame. Holding it in his hands, he stared down at the image, his brow furrowing.
"I wonder how this even started," he murmured, his voice softer now, tinged with something closer to grief.
The photograph was a group shot: his old squad, faces both familiar and distant, flanked by towering combat robots that gleamed with fresh paint and pride. But the lower corner of the photo drew his focus, where the image of a woman, once smiling beside him, was scorched and burned. The edges of the damage curled, as though the fire had licked away the memory, leaving nothing but a void.
His thumb traced the unscorched portion of the photo, lingering over the blurred smiles of his comrades. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling a shaky breath. The memories came rushing back—flashes of camaraderie, chaos, and the searing moments he wished he could forget.
But the woman… Her absence in the image, just like in his life, was a wound that never truly healed.
Samuel set the picture back in its place, though his gaze lingered for a moment longer. Then he turned, his shoulders heavy as if carrying the weight of an entire war.
The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them. "The worst is yet to come."
he scene pans to a ruined battlefield, the once formidable terrain now a chaotic expanse of dirt and debris. Dust hangs heavy in the air, blanketing the shattered remnants of machinery and splintered defenses.
Suddenly, a burst of movement breaks the eerie silence.
PUAHHH
"F*ck!" Samuel gasps, pulling himself free from the dirt. His chest heaves as he gulps down air, coughing to clear his lungs from the choking dust.
He pushes himself to his knees, scanning the devastation around him. His eyes land on the flickering remnants of the shield generator, its protective field long gone. Sparks spit angrily from the machinery, a faint whine signaling its final death rattle.
"Ah, crap," he mutters, brushing grime off his face. "Looks like Field Depo's gonna crunch my salary for this one."
Shaking off the weight of exhaustion, he stands and begins a desperate survey of the battlefield. Scattered equipment lies mangled, and the faint scent of scorched metal and earth fills his nostrils. He searches for familiar faces, for signs of his squad, but what he finds sends a chill down his spine.
Off in the distance stands Churchill Squad—or what remains of them. They're still upright, their stances eerily rigid against the backdrop of ruin. Their armor is dented and charred, helmets cracked, and weapons hang limp in their grasp. Even from here, Samuel can tell they've seen better days.
"Churchill Squad, come in. Are you okay?" Samuel activates his comm, his voice shaky but urgent.
Silence.
"Churchill Squad, respond!" he repeats, louder this time, desperation creeping into his tone.
Nothing.
The static from his comm hisses mockingly, and his stomach sinks. Samuel takes a cautious step forward, eyes narrowing at the squad. Something about their stillness sets his nerves on edge.
"Come on," he mutters under his breath. "Don't do this to me now."
Samuel inches closer, the weight of dread pressing on him with every step. Each movement feels heavier
The silence around him is deafening, broken only by the faint crackle of distant fires and the soft whine of damaged machinery. His heart pounds in his chest, the rhythm growing louder in his ears.
He stops in front of one of the soldiers, reaching out with a trembling hand. The soldier's armor is battered, its surface marred by deep scars of battle. Samuel hesitates, staring at the unmoving figure.
"....."
Without a word, he slams his fist against the side of the armor, a desperate attempt to provoke any kind of reaction. The force reverberates through his arm, but the figure remains unresponsive.
With a hiss of decompression, the armor's hatch begins to open slowly. Samuel leans forward, holding his breath, bracing for what he might find. For a fleeting moment, hope flickers in his chest. Maybe someone's still alive. Maybe—
The hatch opens fully, revealing nothing.
An empty suit.
Samuel stares in disbelief, his hope crumbling. The interior of the armor is charred and lifeless, the faint smell of burned circuits and organic matter wafting out.
"...No," he whispers, his voice barely audible.
He steps back, his legs shaky. His eyes dart to the other soldiers, standing just as still. Dread coils tighter around his chest.
Samuel takes a deep breath and moves to the next suit, banging on it with desperate force. The hatch creaks open slowly, and once again, he's met with silence.
Empty.
All of them are empty.
Samuel falls to his knees, the weight of the silence crushing him. His head hangs low, his breath ragged as the emptiness of the battlefield presses down. His hands tremble, streaked with blood and dirt, bruised but undeniably alive.
"Why…?" he whispers hoarsely, staring at his trembling fingers. His gaze shifts to the vast expanse of destruction before him—a sea of bones and broken bodies stretching endlessly under the flicker of a distant, faint light.
The light pulses weakly, barely visible through the haze, like a dying star calling out. It pulls Samuel's attention, yet the question gnaws at him.
"Why me?"
He clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white. The emptiness around him doesn't answer. It never does.
Suddenly, a realization snaps him back. A jolt of urgency courses through his body. His voice rises, raw and desperate.
"NOBUUUU! DO YOU HEAR ME?!"
The name echoes across the battlefield, swallowed by the smoke and ash. Samuel scrambles to his feet, his balance unsteady but his determination unshaken.
"NOBUU! Answer me, damn it!"
His voice cracks as he shouts into the void, his eyes darting toward the faint light flickering in the distance. It's a glimmer of something
Samuel sprints toward the faint light, desperation driving each step. His voice, raw and breaking, echoes across the ruins.
"NOBUU! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
The silence cuts deeper with every unanswered call. The light grows brighter as he closes in, but dread begins to creep in, clawing at his chest.
As he reaches the source, his pace falters. The ground around him is littered with bodies—soldiers encased in battered Type-70 Naginata armor. The once-pristine battle suits now stand as monuments to their wearers' final moments, scratched, broken, and smeared with ash.
Samuel's stomach churns as he kneels beside the nearest body. His hands move quickly, almost instinctively, to pry open the faceplate. The mechanism groans in protest, but with a sharp twist, it gives way.
Inside, the sight that greets him freezes him in place. The soldier's remains are unrecognizable—flesh long decayed, leaving behind a grotesque amalgam of rot and bone. A hollow skull stares back at him through the remnants of a tattered visor.
Samuel stumbles backward, bile rising in his throat. He fights it down and moves to the next body, his hands trembling now. The armor creaks open, revealing another gruesome scene—another lifeless husk.
"No... no, no, no," he mutters under his breath, his panic mounting.
One by one, he works through the soldiers, clinging to the fragile hope that one of them, just one, might still be breathing. But every faceplate he opens shows the same story: death.
His hands linger over the last soldier. The body is slumped awkwardly, as if frozen mid-motion. Samuel hesitates, his fingers hovering over the release mechanism.
"Please," he whispers, his voice barely audible.
The faceplate opens with a hiss, revealing the inevitable. Decay. Emptiness. The last flicker of his hope extinguished.
Samuel drops to his knees, his body trembling. He clutches the edges of the helmet, his breath uneven. "Why?" he croaks. "Why am I the only one left?"
The flickering light, now just above him, casts long shadows across the field of the dead. It feels like an accusation, a reminder of his isolation.
"AHHHH WHYYYYY WHYYY MEEE!"
Samuel's scream pierced the desolate battlefield, raw and guttural, echoing through the void. He collapsed to his knees, fists pounding the dirt in anguish.
Breathing heavily, he dropped his head into his hands, fingers digging into his face as he struggled to process the overwhelming despair. His chest heaved, his body shaking with grief and exhaustion.
The silence around him felt deafening until—
CRUNCHHHHH!
Samuel's body jolted as something clamped around his leg. Before he could react, an unrelenting force yanked him off the ground, flipping him upside down.
"WHAT THE—"
His words were cut short as he stared in shock at the source: a skeletal arm, clawing its way out of the dirt. Its bony fingers were locked around his ankle like a vice. The rest of its body followed, emerging from the soil in a grotesque, unnatural motion.
Samuel flailed, trying to shake himself free, but the skeletal grip was unyielding. "LET GO YOU FUCKING FOSSIL!" he shouted, kicking at the creature's arm with his free leg, but the blows seemed to have no effect.
The skeleton's empty sockets stared up at him, its jaw opening and closing in a silent, eerie mimicry of speech. As it hoisted Samuel higher, the dirt around them shifted, and more figures began to stir beneath the surface. Their armor, like that of the fallen soldiers, was battered and decayed, but their movements were anything but lifeless.
Adrenaline surged through Samuel as he twisted his body, reaching for the sidearm holstered at his hip. His fingers fumbled for a moment before gripping the cold metal of the weapon. He aimed down at the skeletal arm and fired.
BANG! BANG!
The bullets slammed into the skeletal creature's face, but it didn't flinch. The shots ricocheted off the hardened bone, leaving barely a scratch. The skeleton's grip on Samuel tightened, lifting him off the ground, its bony arm raising high, ready to crush him.
"Ah, crap..." Samuel muttered under his breath, realizing he was about to be pulverized.
But before the skeleton could bring him down, a sharp BANG echoed across the battlefield. The skeletal head exploded into a mass of bone fragments, disintegrating into the dirt.
The monster's arm released Samuel in a violent swing, sending him crashing to the ground with an oOF. His back ached, his muscles screamed, but his mind barely registered the pain.
Samuel groaned, trying to push himself up. "What the hell just happened?" he grumbled.
He turned his head, searching for the source of the shot, his vision blurred from the shock. He squinted, blinking to clear his eyes.
Through the haze of smoke and dirt, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows.
"You're alright, Captain?"
It was Harold. Standing there, looking like he'd seen better days, his uniform torn and dirty, but with that unmistakable confidence in his posture. A rifle hung loosely at his side, the barrel still smoking from the recent shot.
Samuel blinked, disoriented for a moment. "Harold?" he muttered, shaking his head
Samuel blinked, still trying to process the sight in front of him. "Harold?" he muttered, shaking his head as if clearing a bad dream.
A wave of relief crashed over him, pulling a laugh from deep within his chest. "You son of a bitch, you're alive!"
He stumbled forward, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as he laughed harder than he had in what felt like years. Harold approached him, and the two men embraced like long-lost brothers. The kind of embrace that spoke of shared battles, shared pain, and the simple miracle of surviving one more day.
Harold gave Samuel a firm pat on the back before stepping back, his face shifting to a somber expression.
"Anyone else with you?" Samuel asked, his voice carrying a flicker of hope.
Harold hesitated before replying. "Good news, I guess... The men injured from the crash are still alive. They're holding on, but that's about all the good news I can give you."
Samuel's eyes drifted toward the field of bodies, the lifeless forms of their comrades strewn across the battlefield. His laughter died in his throat, replaced by a heavy silence that settled between them like a weight.
Harold followed his gaze and sighed deeply. "We've been through hell, Captain. But this..." He gestured toward the fallen soldiers. "This is something else."
Samuel nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. "They didn't deserve this. None of them did."
"No, they didn't," Harold agreed, his voice low. "But we can't help them now. What we can do is make sure their deaths mean something."
Samuel looked at Harold, then at the battlefield. The resolve in his eyes began to harden. "Then let's make it count."
Harold gave a small nod, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips. "That's the Captain I remember."
Samuel's grip tightened on his weapon, and he took a deep breath. "Alright. Lead the way."
As they turned toward the flickering light in the distance, the haunting quiet of the battlefield was interrupted by the faint sound of bones scraping against metal. Harold froze.
"You hear that?"
As they turned toward the flickering light in the distance, the haunting quiet of the battlefield was interrupted by the faint, grating sound of bones scraping against metal. Harold froze mid-step, his grip tightening on his weapon.
"You hear that?" he whispered, his voice taut with unease.
Samuel exhaled sharply, his humor surfacing as a defense against the dread. "Ah, fudge sticks. The Rattlers don't stop coming, do they?"
Harold raised an eyebrow, glancing at him sidelong. "That's a good name for them."
Samuel smirked. "Oh, do tell me, Mr. Poet. Should we add it to the field manual?"
Both of them chuckled, their laughter carrying a strained edge as they tried to suppress the ever-growing tension.
Then Samuel's tone shifted, more serious now. "Harold, can you get one of those Tn-150s to start working? We're going to need all the firepower we can get if we have to hold out."
"Deal," Samuel replied, taking position and scanning the area with his rifle at the ready.
Harold sprinted toward the nearest wreckage, crouching beside a half-buried Tn-150. Its massive chassis was battered, its once-imposing frame now riddled with scorch marks and dents. Harold pried open a panel, his hands working feverishly as he muttered, "Come on, baby, don't let me down."
The scraping sound grew louder, echoing ominously in the distance. Samuel's eyes darted across the horizon, his finger hovering over the trigger as adrenaline surged through his veins.
"Harold," he said, his voice low but firm. "Whatever you're doing, do it faster."
"Yeah, no pressure, right?" Harold shot back, sweat beading on his forehead as he hotwired the armor's core systems.
Suddenly, a low growl joined the scraping—a chilling, guttural noise that sent shivers down Samuel's spine. The faint glow of hollow eyes emerged from the shadows, advancing with an eerie, unrelenting purpose.
"Harold!" Samuel barked, urgency thick in his tone.
"Got it!" Harold shouted as the Tn-150 hummed to life, its systems flickering online. The hulking armor shifted with a mechanical groan, its servos and actuators whirring back into action.
The Tn-150's weapon mounts swiveled toward the encroaching skeletal figures, locking onto them with a sharp beep.
"Say hello to my little friend," Harold quipped as the Tn-150 unleashed a deafening barrage of gunfire, its autocannons shredding through the advancing horde with ruthless efficiency.
Samuel grinned grimly, adrenaline surging in the chaos. "Now that's poetry," he muttered, pivoting to take down a straggler with a precise shot.
The battlefield erupted into a symphony of destruction as man and machine fought side by side, carving out a fragile foothold against the relentless tide of death.
Harold slammed his fist against the control panel, frustration etched on his face. "F*ck! The data panel's glitching out—guns are offline again!"
Samuel glanced back, his mind racing. "Open the chassis. I'm going in!"
Harold hesitated for a split second before nodding. "Got it!" He quickly hit the manual override, and with a hiss of compressed air, the Tn-150's armored cockpit creaked open, revealing its interior.
Samuel bolted toward the suit, climbing into the pilot's seat as the exosuit's system interface flickered erratically. "Let's see what's got you in a knot," he muttered, his fingers dancing over the manual controls.
The cockpit enclosed around him, the heads-up display (HUD) flashing warnings: CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE – FIRE CONTROL DISCONNECTED.
"Harold, cover me while I get this thing operational!" Samuel shouted through the external speaker as he navigated the mess of corrupted data streams and rerouted power to the weapon systems.
"Yeah, sure," Harold yelled back, firing his sidearm at a group of advancing Rattlers. "Because I have so much ammo to spare!"
Samuel ignored the quip, focusing on bypassing the fried circuits. Sweat trickled down his temple as he worked against the clock, muttering to himself, "Come on, come on..."
The Rattlers grew closer, their hollow eyes glowing ominously as they charged forward with unsettling speed.
Harold let out a curse. "Uh, Captain? Not to rush you, but we're about to have a lot more company!"
"Almost there!" Samuel growled, slamming a lever into place. The HUD blinked, then stabilized: FIRE CONTROL ONLINE.
"Got it!" Samuel bellowed as the Tn-150 roared back to life, its weapon mounts spinning up with a high-pitched whine. He aimed the autocannons, unleashing a devastating volley that mowed down the incoming horde.
Harold let out a whoop. "Hell yeah, Captain! Now that's what I'm talking about!"
Then BOOM—the ground shook violently beneath them, a deafening explosion ripping through the air. Both men staggered as dust and debris filled the battlefield.
"What the hell!?" Harold shouted, shielding his face as he stumbled backward.
Samuel turned, his jaw tightening as the tremors subsided, revealing a hulking figure emerging from the chaos. A skeletal monstrosity, towering like a mountain, stepped forward with the groaning screech of cold metal grinding against itself. Its frame was a grotesque amalgamation of rusted iron and decayed flesh, glowing fissures of molten energy coursing through its massive form.
ROAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!
The creature let out an ear-splitting roar, its hollow eyes glowing with an intense, malevolent light that seemed to pierce into their very souls.
"Captain..." Harold's voice cracked, his earlier bravado vanishing. "I—I guess this is it."
Samuel stared up at the monstrosity, gripping the controls of the Tn-150 with white-knuckled intensity. His mind raced, calculating their next move.
battlefield suddenly echoed with a low, pulsing WUM WUM.
The towering skeletal monstrosity staggered, its molten core flickering violently. In a split second, the creature was cleaved in two, its massive halves collapsing with a thunderous crash that sent shockwaves rippling through the ground.
"What the—?" Samuel muttered, his disbelief etched across his face.
A deafening BLARE erupted from a loudspeaker overhead, the voice laced with static but unmistakably smug.
"LOOKS LIKE YOU BOYS NEED SOME HELP!"
Both Samuel and Harold turned toward the source. Emerging through the dust and smoke was a mechanized war machine—a towering mech, sleek and deadly, its armor shimmering with the unmistakable sheen of advanced alloy plating. The mech's weapon systems glowed faintly, still humming from the devastating strike it had just delivered.
Harold stumbled out from cover, his jaw slack. "No way..."
Samuel narrowed his eyes, his grip loosening on the Tn-150 controls. "Who...?"
The mech's visor lit up with a neon blue glow as its pilot, hidden behind layers of reinforced cockpit shielding, raised an arm in greeting. "You miss me, Captain?"
Samuel's eyes widened. "It can't be... Azrael?"
The voice laughed, full of cocky confidence. "In the metal. You didn't think I'd let you handle this party on your own, did you?"
Samuel allowed himself a small grin despite the chaos. "You always did have a flair for timing."
Harold, still gaping, gestured wildly at the mech. "Am I dreaming, or did that thing just save our asses?!"
"Shut it, Harold," Samuel said, his focus locking back on the battlefield. "Azrael, you got any more tricks up your sleeve?"
Azrael's mech shifted, its servos humming as it readied its arsenal. "Plenty. Let's finish the job, Captain."
The mech raised a massive plasma cannon, its barrel crackling with energy. Samuel couldn't help but smirk. "Let's see what you've got."
As the mech unleashed its fury, Samuel's Tn-150 sprang back into action, the two machines working in tandem as the battle roared back to life.