The soldiers sat in silence, the hum of the ship's engines the only sound as it moved steadily closer to the city of Solspire. The tension in the air was palpable, each man lost in his own thoughts, anticipating what awaited them.
Harold leaned back in his seat, skimming through the intel displayed on his datapad. Beside him, Samuel methodically adjusted the settings on his wrist-mounted data panel, the soft glow of the screen reflecting off his scarred face.
"Samuel, you seeing this?" Harold asked, his voice barely above a whisper
Samuel glanced at Harold before shifting his focus to the data panel. The layout of Solspire unfolded before him: a sprawling megalopolis, its intricate web of towers, tunnels, and transport systems a testament to humanity's once-grand ambitions.
"So, it's a megalopolis," Samuel muttered, his tone laced with irritation. He leaned back, dragging a hand over his face in frustration.
"It had to be the most difficult place to engage in," he added, shaking his head.
Harold gave a grim chuckle. "I know. But look at this," he said, pointing to a section of the report. "According to the data, most of it's abandoned."
Samuel studied the intel, his brow furrowing as he processed the information. He leaned back slightly and said, "I don't know. I just got a bad feeling that what we're walking into isn't gonna be pretty."
Harold kept his focus steady, scrolling through more details as he pieced together the situation. "Yeah, I get that," he replied, his tone more analytical. "But there's something else—look at this." He tapped the screen. "Reports are saying some of the Steel Knights have been spotted near the perimeter, but the Rattlers... it looks like they're nowhere to be found."
Samuel's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Steel Knights. "Steel Knights, huh? That complicates things."
Harold nodded in agreement. "And the Rattlers not being here? That's strange, almost like they know something we don't."
Samuel frowned, his instincts prickling. "Or worse—they're waiting for us to find out the hard way."
Samuel then asked, "Also, what happened to all the civvies?"
Harold put a hand to his chin, mulling it over. "I don't really know. The briefing said we were supposed to negotiate with the Polaris government, weren't we?"
"....."
Both of them fell silent, the weight of unanswered questions hanging heavily in the air.
The silence was abruptly interrupted by the soft chime of their datapads lighting up. Both men instinctively reached for their devices, the blue light reflecting off their weathered faces.
Harold scanned the message quickly, his fingers tightening around the edge of the pad. His expression shifted from surprise to something more serious. "Samuel..."
Samuel's gaze was already locked on his own datapad, his brow creasing as he processed the new orders. He let out a slow, deliberate exhale. "I know," he said, his voice calm yet heavy with foreboding. "Looks like we're heading into the Thermus."
Harold glanced at Samuel, his voice dropping. "The Thermus. A perfect name for that godforsaken place."
The Thermus was a sprawling industrial zone on the outskirts of Solspire, a labyrinth of abandoned factories, derelict warehouses, and towering machinery long past its prime. In its heyday, it had been the beating heart of the city's economy. Now, it was a maze of shadows and rust, rumored to be home to scavengers, rogue AIs, and worse.
Samuel tapped on his datapad, pulling up a map overlay of the zone. The screen flickered as it rendered the fragmented topography of the Thermus—vast corridors clogged with debris, unstable walkways above chemical pits, and massive turbines that still hummed with residual power.
"Navigating this won't be easy," Samuel muttered, his tone grim. "Tight spaces, low visibility, and countless ambush points. It's a nightmare for infantry."
Harold leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms as his eyes remained fixed on the datapad. "And the civvies? What happened to them?"
Samuel shook his head slowly. "The briefing said the Polaris government's still got remnants here, but..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "No one's saying much about them. Either they ran, or..."
"Or they're part of the problem," Harold finished, his tone grim.
Both men sat in silence, the weight of unanswered questions pressing down on them.
The soft chime of the comms broke the tension. "All units, prepare for drop. We're approaching the outskirts of Solspire. First wave goes in 10."
The soldiers around them began to stir, readying their weapons and checking gear as the drop countdown loomed. Harold looked to Samuel, his voice carrying an edge of dry humor despite the grim situation. "Well, here we go. Into the fire again."
Samuel smirked faintly as he tightened the straps of his armor. "Wouldn't be the first time."
As the ship began to descend toward the megalopolis of Solspire, its shadow loomed larger, revealing a desolate wasteland where a thriving city once stood. Towers that had once pierced the skies now lay in ruins, their skeletal remains a haunting reminder of what had been.
The ship descended slowly, its mechanisms chugging rhythmically, each system computing and processing the landing site with precision. Deep within its compartments, raw materials were mobilized, primed for deployment.
BAM
A massive, dark metal slab slammed into the ground, unfolding and reshaping itself into a fortified landing port. Around it, segments of the ship extended and morphed, forming automated turrets, reinforced bunkers, and towering laser cutters.
The laser cutters roared to life, slicing into the ground with meticulous precision. Their beams moved in calculated arcs, carving defensive trenches and assembling compact shelters with mechanical efficiency. Every component fell into place, the AI orchestrating the construction seamlessly, adapting each feature to the terrain and the needs of the mission.
The soldiers moved with practiced precision, each taking their positions and setting up their equipment in the newly formed trenches and emplacements. The hum of machinery and the occasional metallic clang filled the air as they worked.
Tap... tap... tap...
The sound of footsteps echoed faintly across the clearing.
Instantly, every soldier froze. The quiet buzz of activity ceased, and hands moved instinctively to weapons as they sought cover behind turrets and barriers. Eyes scanned the shadows beyond their defenses.
In view, a figure emerged from the haze—a man, or something resembling one. His movements were uneven, almost staggering, as though he carried the weight of death itself. His tattered military uniform bore the insignia of a Solar Naval officer, though it was stained with grime and streaks of dried blood.
"HOLD!" A captain's voice cut through the tense air, sharp and commanding. His rifle was trained on the approaching figure, his stance firm. "STATE YOUR RANK AND REASONS FOR BEING HERE!"
The figure stopped, his head tilting slightly as if processing the demand. The faint sound of labored breathing reached the soldiers' ears. For a moment, no one moved, the air thick with tension.
The captain's grip on his weapon tightened. "This is your final warning! Identify yourself!"
The figure raised a trembling hand, pointing toward the trenches. His voice rasped, hoarse and broken. "I... I need... to warn you..."
he figure's outstretched hand trembled as he gasped, his voice strained. "I… I need to warn you…"
Before he could finish, a deafening WOPE! shattered the silence. The man exploded into a violent cloud of flesh and debris as a high-velocity projectile slammed into the outer shield encasing the emplacements.
The shockwave rippled outward, wobbling the men nearest the front.
"F*CK!" someone shouted as the force threw soldiers to the ground.
Then it began.
WOPE WOPE WOPE WOPE WOPE WOPE!
A relentless barrage of projectiles rained down on the outer defenses. Alarms blared, and sparks flew as the shielding absorbed the brunt of the initial assault. Soldiers scrambled for cover, shouting orders over the chaos.
"IT'S AN AMBUSH!" the captain roared, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of incoming fire.
The outer shield, strained beyond capacity, emitted a high-pitched whine before erupting in a blinding explosion.
BOMMMMMMM!
The blast rocked the emplacements, sending shards of energy and fragments of metal flying through the air. Soldiers shielded their faces, some thrown back by the sheer force. Smoke and debris filled the trench lines as the men struggled to recover.
Through the haze, shapes began to emerge—hulking, metallic figures advancing in coordinated formation. Their sleek, predatory designs reflected the eerie glow of plasma weaponry, their movements precise and mechanical.
"CONTACT FRONT!" a soldier yelled, opening fire. The rattle of gunfire joined the chaos as the defenders retaliated, bullets and plasma bolts streaking toward the enemy.
Samuel and Harold ducked behind a makeshift barrier, their faces grim.
"Looks like they were expecting us," Harold growled, snapping a fresh magazine into his rifle.
Samuel's eyes were fixed on the advancing hostiles, his mind racing. "This isn't random," he muttered, readying his weapon. "They knew exactly where we'd land."
Explosions tore through the trenches as the attackers unleashed their firepower. The defensive turrets came alive, swiveling and firing streams of energy that lit up the battlefield, but the enemy seemed unrelenting.
"FALL BACK TO SECONDARY POSITIONS!" the captain bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Soldiers began retreating in an organized frenzy, dragging wounded comrades and hauling essential gear as they moved to the secondary lines of defense. The trenches became a chaotic blur of smoke, sparks, and shouted orders. The air was thick with tension, the sound of boots pounding against the makeshift shelters drowned by the constant thunder of explosions.
Then, as if cutting through the madness, a distorted voice echoed.
"To thy bidding for thy lord…"
It was unnatural, reverberating from no discernible source, yet filling the air as though the battlefield itself had spoken.
The soldiers faltered, some freezing in place as the voice grew louder, more insistent.
"For thy blood of man gives thy soul suffrage…"
The words seemed to seep into their very bones, carrying an oppressive weight. It was neither human nor machine
Samuel stopped dead in his tracks, his hand tightening around his weapon as he scanned the smoke-filled horizon. "Harold," he called, his voice low but urgent. "Tell me you heard that."
Harold, who had been helping a wounded soldier into cover, straightened, his face pale. "Heard it? Felt like it's in my damn Bones," he muttered, his eyes darting nervously.
Suddenly, the ground beneath them rumbled, a low, guttural tremor that sent vibrations up through their boots. The distorted voices shifted, blending into a chilling inhuman roar that seemed to echo from every direction at once.
"ROWWWAAHHAHAAHHHHHHHHAHAHAAHHA!"
It was deafening, a cacophony that shattered the fragile stillness and sent a wave of dread coursing through the men.
One of the soldiers, clutching his rifle tightly, broke the silence with a shaky voice: "Is that... the sound of tanks?"
The noise grew louder, now accompanied by the unmistakable grind of heavy tracks and the synchronized, bone-chilling march of countless feet.
Then, they appeared.
A tidal wave of grotesque figures surged through the smoke, their movements unnaturally swift and deliberate. The front line reeled at the sight. These were soldiers—once. Their armor bore the insignias of the Polaris army, but their humanity had long since been stripped away.
Eyes once sharp with purpose were now hollow sockets, covered by grotesque patches of fused flesh. Their teeth jutted out in jagged shards, sharp like predatory beasts. Their bodies were twisted amalgamations of flesh and metal, their armor fused into their sinew in grotesque patterns.
From their chests, where their hearts should have been, glowed a sickly yellow hue, pulsating with an unnatural rhythm. Their bodies twitched as if animated by some unseen force, each movement accompanied by a faint, nauseating squelch.
"Goddamn it," Harold hissed, taking a step back. "That's not an army. That's a nightmare."
Samuel's jaw tightened as he raised his weapon, his voice calm despite the rising chaos. "Whatever they are, we don't let them through. Hold the line!"
The twisted soldiers didn't march—they charged, emitting guttural roars that sounded more animal than human. The earth trembled under their stampede, their once-uniform movements now devolved into something savage, primal, and utterly relentless.
"OPEN FIRE!" Samuel bellowed.
The trenches erupted in a storm of gunfire and explosions as the defenders unleashed their full arsenal. But the abominations barely slowed, their mutated bodies absorbing bullets like sand in a tide. Limbs were blown off, but they kept coming, dragging themselves forward with single-minded determination.
Behind them came the tanks—or what remained of them. These were no longer machines of war but horrific amalgamations of steel and flesh, each one a grotesque mockery of the technology they once were.
Their treads were fused with sinewy muscle that pulsed with each rotation, propelling them forward with unnatural speed. The hulls, once smooth and industrial, were warped and jagged, patches of flesh growing over metal like a parasite consuming its host. At their front, where a machine gun port should have been, gaped a wide, tooth-filled maw that snapped and snarled like a feral beast.
The turrets, no longer mechanical precision instruments, were grotesque barrels of pulsating flesh and bone. They twitched unnervingly as if alive, oozing viscous fluid from their malformed seams. Each shot fired was accompanied by a sickening screech, a mixture of mechanical discharge and organic agony.
Atop one of the tanks, the silhouette of a figure emerged from the top hatch. It was the tank officer—or at least what remained of him. His face was twisted into a permanent grin, skin stretched too tight across his skeletal frame. His eyes glowed with the same sickly yellow hue that pulsed in the soldiers below.
As the tank rolled forward, the officer threw his head back and unleashed a laugh—a distorted, echoing sound that sent chills down the spines of the defenders. It was the laughter of something utterly devoid of sanity, a chilling mockery of joy that seemed to mock the very concept of hope.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" a soldier screamed from the trenches, his voice cracking with terror.
Samuel's gaze locked onto the advancing nightmare, his mind racing. "It's not a tank anymore," he muttered, leveling his rifle. "It's something worse."
"Focus fire on the tanks!" Harold barked, his voice cutting through the rising panic. "Take them down before they hit the line!"
The soldiers scrambled to obey, redirecting their fire toward the abominable machines. Explosions lit up the battlefield, and chunks of flesh and metal were torn from the tanks. But they didn't stop.
One of the tanks let out a guttural roar of its own, its maw opening wide to reveal rows of jagged, rotating teeth. It surged forward, smashing through debris and emplacements as though they were paper. Its turret spasmed, firing a shell that screamed like a banshee as it tore through the air and obliterated a section of the trench.
The front line braced for the inevitable impact, knowing full well that this battle would be unlike any they had ever faced.