FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

'Forewarned, forearmed; to be prepared is half the victory.'

-Miguel de Cervantes

>The creation of the full body kinesis feedback armature device (named shorthand as 'Auger') represents a valuable insight into the nature of anthropomorphism and attachment that an individual will display towards a valued machine or vehicle. It is already considered perfectly healthy in many circles for a functioning adult to view a personal vehicle with an inordinate amount of attachment and humanizing aspects imprinted onto the object. The 'Auger' system seems to take this phenomenon to a new height. The 'Auger' represents a far more tangible connection between man and machine than any previous method of operation. The subject inputs control with the movement of their own body, and the machine mimics the input near perfectly barring technical limitations or damage. Because of this the imprinted "connection" the operator believes they have with the machine is magnified greatly.

>It is the professional assertion of this paper, and it's author, that such strong dissociative behavior will only do harm. Many pilots I have interviewed hold that the machine feels like a 'second skin'. This is extremely problematic. I have observed in times of duress pilots react with misplaced anger and even very real symptoms of shock even after a stress event should their machine suffer extreme "injury" such as loss of limb. This is all despite the pilots coming out entirely free of bodily injury.

>This journeys naturally into dissociative episodes and rather disturbing degrees of anthropomorphism imprinted onto the machine. Multiple times the subjects refer to the machine as 'she' in loving fashion. There are consistent mentions of 'becoming one' a natural intensifying of the aforementioned 'second skin' statements. This problem only intensifies with the introduction of 'sensory goggles'.

>These items of eyewear use a sophisticated series of hololensed screens and ingrained optics to give the wearer such benefits as a heads up display, status reports, and 'battlenet' connections while operating the 'Auger'. Most importantly, they link in to the machine's own systems through a data port that then displays visual feeds from the external cameras of the machines over the pilot's vision. This very easily allows the subject to fool themselves into believing the machine is their own body.

>This leads further into a whole host of problems including, but not limited too: sociopathic behavior, episodes of extreme violence, dissociative delusions, schizophrenia, and sadism. I will cover these issues with perfect accuracy within this documentation.

>Yet before we began, I must pose a question to the Terran Republic military arm, the reader, and by extension our entire race.

>Even with the threat of extinction should defeat occur: Is it really worth throwing away our humanity for so shallow an attempt to grasp at victory in this war? By discarding the very things that make us human, we are no better than the marauders.

-excerpt from the preface of 'The Kinesis Problem: A Study On the Damaging Psychology of the Auger System', published by Doctor Alexander Koroi, Ph.d, 1986.

-This paper was reviewed in full and declared unfactual and inflammatory by the Republic scientific council. Most copies were destroyed.

Chapter 5: Mask Machine

>Slowly, ever slowly, you came about to the land of the living. Your senses slowly returned to you one by one.

>You were somewhere tight, and warm. It smelled strangely pleasant. And the securing warmth enrapturing you was... breathing?

>Pushing out gently you found yourself restrained on pretty much all sides, and that warmth was becoming a heat that actually may be a bit excessive. As toasty as you were you needed to go, for... some reason.

>Your bleary eyes were no help, opening them all you got was some grey haze.

>You feel along whatever is locking your chest in place. burly, silky, soft.

>Right... Teth'ra.

>...

>It's not like you can shake her grip anyway, and you wouldn't want to rouse her this early. You both need your rest.

>Just five more mi-

-today is the day we die-

>...

>Just gotta ruin everything, don't we brain?

-...-

>The cold shock of reality leaping into your warm mental insulation is enough to push you into a more operational state of mind.

>Guess those five more minutes are up.

>Right on cue the gentle giant begins stirring. A slight tensing of her legs brings you further out of the morning daze as fur brushes against skin.

>The haze over your eyes even lifts away. You realize that you had been staring at the underside of her muzzle as she had done her model best to envelop you.

>Well good morning there beastie, good morning yourself, and good morning rocketmah- woah! wait. shit.

>Either by virtue of your dreams being too pleasant, the inordinate amount of close contact, or the fact you just realized her chest is pressed very firmly against your back; is about to make things awkward.

>You can't break away. You can't get your dog back down in time. And to top it off you have no clue how she will react.

>Take in a great breath of air, go rigid, if she gets mad and slips the hold just book it.

>She yawns greatly and murmurs dreamily. The feeling of her throat humming against your head coupled with her breath pressing her breasts against your back is not doing you any favors.

>"Mornin'" She idly slides one of her arms off you and moves it south.

>You can only lock eyes at the wall in growing horror as she moves to scratch something of hers out of routine. Her furry palm like some foreshadowed meteor of imminent doom as it falls squarely on your dawning forest.

>You choke a whimper in your lungs. It's like if the Tunguska impact actually did more than burn down some trees.

>Her paw cups over your rouge saluter, the warm pressure starting on it making you tense your whole body like a spring.

>She freezes too... makes a few pointed sniffs... and seems to stare straight ahead.

>...

>You have no clue what to do at this point... Come on brain, give us something... anything?

-...-

>That's it, you're dead. You are dead now.

>...

>"... uuuhhhhhhh"

>... fuck it, you have to try something to worm your way out.

"Yeeeeeaaahhh.. I should go..."

>"mhm"

>...

"Teth'ra your not letting go."

>"mhm"

>It was about now your brain decided to finally kick into gear by internalizing a bellicose clashing of confused screaming and random noise like the parkisons' orchestra and the local tourretes shelter had collided in a band march.

>You sucked in air again and started getting ready to scream yourself. You had no real gaging for how she was reacting and the lack of movement on her part was growing increasingly disconcerting.

>But finally the cup over your folded pride was relieved, and you exhaled as you waited for the awkward pause to stretch into oblivion.

>"Sorry..." Your tension recedes a bit.

>Wow. No biting, scratching, or tearing of your pants... Maybe you had panicked a bit, but who wouldn't with knives that close to the family jewels.

>Still wanted out though.

"If you wouldn't mind."

>"I. uh"

"Teth'ra!"

>Finally the other arm unclasps from across your chest and you immediately haul yourself upright onto the floor. It all feels like record time as you shuffle on your full gear, lace your boots, almost vomit swallowing the bad coffee and then bolt out the door. Taking care to stop in the Isolated hallway and get your boy flattened out before anyone else noticed.

>You then remembered you would need your gun today as you were actually venturing into the wild again. So you whirled around, stamped back in and almost had a heart attack when you saw her in the middle of unbuckling her bra.

>Thinking quickly you pull an arm to shield your eyes as if protecting from the heat flash of a thermonuclear blast. You fumbled around in the footlocker, found your gun and ammo pouch, and then bolted back out.

>After the mild panic from waking up to your friend awkwardly cupping your junk subsided, a different kind of panic took over.

>You have to move out today, you have not had time to test your rumbler, and the pre-mission checklist for a fresh load can be hundreds of items long. shit!

>Boots thumping hard on the scuffed hardwood floors you ran full pelt up the hall, slammed open the exterior doors, almost bowled over some random private, and sprinted off to the hanger to get yourself ready.

>Though you had to admit on the run there your excitement was starting to take hold again.

>New mech, new day. And all the bugs you can stomp.

>Plus... maybe... a second shot at a certain bastard.

---

<Teth'ra>

>You've certainly had more stressful mornings... but this?...

>The shame licking at your ears with its heated tongue. That subtle twitch of desire downstairs. Your own uncertainty over how to even handle this.

>The worst part is you had locked up completely... just sat there stone still with a hand over him. Like you were hypnotized.

>All that passing conversation you tuned in on came flooding back. Those skinners and their lust mad ramblings over smoothskin when they thought nobody could hear them working themselves into an early heat.

>You remember something in you jostled in your chest, making you stop and listen to the circling of privates as they poured in watered down liquor rations and giggled amongst themselves.

>'No barbs!', mewled a lynx. You pained for the cats, those things never did sound pleasant.

>'such stamina, I heard with the right.. care. they can go for hours!' chided a mare. Probably frustrated with how many stallions were two pump chumps over-relying on their stigma. You scoffed to yourself remembering what few horses approached you, and were quickly scared off by a flash of your teeth.

>'they are so caring in the afterglow too, I heard they absolutely adore the feeling of fur against their bald little pelts.' confided a doe.

>Then a grey wolf chuckled deeply. 'No knot either, when your done.. you can hold them this way and that. And they're fine with it. The affection they can give even while tired out. pinching, scratching, ear rubbing. mrrrr~'

>You had to admit that got you thinking more than the others.

>Recalling your mind back to the present, you tried to bat down the embers of desire before they fanned into flames.

>You couldn't go thinking of Tom like that... or could you?

>He was just so soft, and small. But he was also tenacious judging by what you heard of how he dealt with Vilka.

>But you had never seen him get angry like that, not outside of that argument in the office, just scared and tired... and sad.

>Seeing him up there on that stage, bearing his heart to the world, shivering as he realized how alone he was.

>You saw flashes of your little brother all over again, and you had to hide away in the back of the crowd as you cried for him.

>Maybe it was the fact that display had you ripping your own heart out that made you hold him so close last night.

>Which, judging by how he was scrambling to get his kit on and leave, may have been the wrong idea.

>Despite tasting the air with your nose the signals are too confused to pick out what exactly is driving him to go.

>Is he trying to hide his own shame from you? Or have you roused some sort of fear in him?

>Or maybe your over aggressive attempts to help are just shocking him back into that 'me or them' mindset.

>The uncertainty pulls your ears low as you watch him dash out.

>You can't deny when you two first met you had fantasies. And when your errant hand brushed his equally rebellious manhood, you had to fight off some part of you that wanted to jump on him. He probably felt violated.

>And you just froze, making it worse.

>You would allow him some space and hopefully both of you can sort yourselves out, assuming you even survive today.

-you're more likely to die than he is, this may be your only chance-

>He trusts you, but definitely not that far. It's been more subtle recently, the way he twitches at the near pass of claws, how he hides his neck, the silent retreat he slowly pulls if your mouth is too close for comfort. He probably doesn't even notice it himself.

>Your fairly sure he would never even think of someone outside his own species like that anyway, doubly so being human.

-His subconscious still reacted-

>...

>You shake it off, no need to rattle your focus before you need it. Your a soldier, not a drama queen.

>You rubbed at a sore spot on your chest, while pressing his back against you for so long wasn't... exactly the most comfortable. Cupping his head between your girls wouldn't be wise, even if it was far easier on them.

>Those carapace vests sure did a damn fine job of making them sore anyhow, it would be worse when you got saddled with the heavy variant, since you were now a squad leader, and an assault squad at that.

>You decided to at least let them hang free while you rode through the morning routine. And allowed yourself to find some excitement, what would your new squad be like? just how much would they be outsiders like you?

>It was a bit of a stretch finding the little plastic clasp but off it came and-

>You bolted arms over your chest to keep the bra from falling away as Tom came racing back in.

>He almost immediately threw a forearm over his eyes as if gazing at the sun. Furiously muttering some bizarre mash-up between apologies and some sort of rambling technical checklist as he retrieved his gun and ammo bag. Blushing a rose red the whole while.

>Then he bolted back out just as fast and you heard the stomp of boots running out of the building.

>Breathing a sigh of relief, you let your shoulders slump back down. Just to be safe you took a good sniff, his scent still hung around but there was no fresh scent wafting back in. you let the bra clatter to the floor.

>...

>Well, he isn't coming back anytime soon, and better now then never to sate that itch before it drives you up a wall.

>You took a nice deep breath, keeping an ear out in case anyone decided to interrupt you.

>And you took your mammaries in your paws and started your massage, easing the soreness as they filled and flowed out of your hands.

>You worked in with the flats of your claws, kneading in to sooth your bruised flesh, your short hair flushing and ruffling as you worked.

>A pert nub flicked through your fingers, you took a small breath with vigor, a momentary spark of pleasure flicked out from the sensitive teat.

>Your thoughts flared with the electric sensation and wandered. How good it would feel for a second pair of hands to help you.

>To sooth over your bumps and gentle hurts, a kneading, soft touch to heal the ails that came with your size.

>Hands without claws, that could work as vigorously as they needed without the threat of pulling your fur or grazing your skin.

>Your own paws wandered forward, squeezing as flesh gorged out between your digits, you rolled your sensitive points delicately between your thumb and index. More feathering shocks of passion rolled through you.

>Your leg twitches as you feel your downstairs start to warm. You breath gently, impassioned.

>Perhaps if you could show him, if he came back, he wouldn't be so scared of you. That trust could go far enough and...

>...

>wait.. what the hell are you doing?

-it's love~-

>No it's not... not when he doesn't even show any signs of genuine attraction.

>So why were you rubbing yourself up over the thought of... Of him walking in on you?!

-you want this, take it-

>No, you had shown just how restrained you could be, and you wouldn't betray his trust like that.

>Your aches were taken care of anyway, you just got over excited in the moment.

-The skinners have a point-

>Absolutely not!

>You were a godsdamned ROYAL JACKAL! THE VERY PICTURE OF RESTRAINT, GRACE, AND POWER!

>The spitting image of the ancient god of death themself!

>You were a noble creature! You didn't rub yourself off playing with your tits over some broken little human!

>... even if he was kind of cute.

---

>You finally managed to calm your little surge in hormones, it was just a natural response to your awkward situation. You smelled arousal in the air, your body responded since spring is the natural breeding season. Nothing. More.

>Just a typical case of spring fever playing with your base desires, daring you to act on them when you really shouldn't.

>At least you weren't in heat. You suppressed a shudder. Your seasonal spells could get really bad. Besides you weren't due for that for another couple months.

>Lyudmilla had always coyly offered that she 'knew some certain places' that could alleviate such a burning instinct.

>You had no idea why your spells got so intense, but you point blank refused to let that nympho bitch act like she could just hand you off like so many high-class tablescraps.

>She offered that she knew more 'personal' methods of relief, if you shared, if you pleaded.

>You will never be brought down to begging like some common house pet, you are better than that.

>You beat away the heat in your ears and straightened yourself out. Your a squad leader now, and today is your first action in that role.

>You have to be on top of your game...

>Okay maybe one peep of excitement won't hurt anyone.

>A few tail wags too, and a smile.

>Oh you can't keep lying to yourself! Your excited as all hell for this!

>Finally! A chance at command. The chance you were waiting for.

>All because of him.

-you know yo-

>No. You're in control of yourself, and today is a day where you need to focus. A single moment of lapsed concentration out there can do more than land you in spiking sexual tensions with your partner.

>Wait. Partner! No! he's... your uhhh.

-future fuckbuddy-

>FUCKSAKE NO!... he's a trusted comrade and personal friend, yeah.

>You can't have your loins tied in a bow when you meet your new charges. You take the opportunity of the morning ritual to steady yourself.

>You're a soldier, a sergeant, and the meanest bitch this side of the atlantic, you don't fawn over boys.

>You don't fantasize about jumping bones on your small human friend.

>And you don't let your tail whip around in excitement.

>This damn heavy vest is even worse than the normal one, at least it doesn't constrict around the other parts of you it shields aside from your bust.

>The crisp morning air greets your nostrils with a flourish, you swear you can smell the over-potent scent of a lilac bush somewhere.

>Reminds you of home.

>You'll have to check in on your folks sometime. Just to let them know you're alive.

>You glance down at the notice slip again, your supposed to meet up before you embark, doesn't say where.

>Guess they'll find you. That's their first test, being able to find their superior in the shuffle on base.

>Lord knows there were more than enough times you had to track down Vilka when even she herself didn't know where she was.

>You posted up at the apc your squad was assigned to ride as you waited.

>Baring the new chevrons on your shoulders with pride, you pretended not to notice the charged glares from the rest of the platoon.

>Let them talk and chide when your back is turned, it just means they're too scared to say it to your face. Scared of you, of your stature, of your skill, of your bearing, and of your resemblance to that old mythos. As they should be.

>The other troopers came and went in the shuffle of bodies. Riflemen of all shapes and sizes squeezing themselves into an armored box that would then tear off down the road. Most of them were human, typical fair.

>You still watched, trying to eye which clustering of figures is your squad. Regrettably you weren't told much about them, just that they were battle-hardened assault specialists that had survived their old unit being cut to ribbons by a combination of bugs and administrative fuckups.

>This meant they were either driven into being emotionally compromised wrecks by survivor's guilt like Tom. Or they thought they could take on the world by their lonesome because they got lucky a few times.

>As much as it would be a pain to keep them in line you hoped they were the latter. Looking after 7 shades of crying mess would be a chore.

>Guilt nipped at you. Looking after Tom wasn't a chore... was it? Then worry bit into you. How is he going to handle being redeployed? especially with the heart tearing yesterday.

>Why did he have to remind you so damn much of Dera'ket? Granted he seemed far more up to task and willing to converse when he was stable. But the pitiful way he would just shut down when his emotions overcame him...

>Fuck, you were becoming like your mother.

>No time to sit around and muse, as a clustering of bodies broke from the embarking crowds and made towards you.

>Their equipment harnesses were loaded for absolute bear, the sort of loadout that speaks volumes about previous mission experience, supply problems, and a healthy dosage of pure paranoia.

>If they were ready for a week long siege without resupply, maybe they wouldn't be as much of a burden as you thought they were.

>One of the corporals, some tawny lioness kitted out with a lmg and a grenade launcher slung over her shoulders and enough grenades to make most squad grenadiers blush, marched up to you with gusto and attempted to stare you down.

>It would have been a site to see if she wasn't comfortably within the realm of a full head shorter than you.

>You rocked forward onto your boots from your standing recline against the hull of the tin box and stared right back down at her. The faintest shine of amusement in your grin as you quirked a brow as if to ask her 'how did you think this was going to go'.

>She had gotten too close for anyone's comfort but your own as you peered straight down the barrel of your muzzle into her eyes, the color of golden wheat in the honeyed radiance of the morning hours. She would be a pretty thing, if she didn't insist on holding her face in a snarl in a quickly failing attempt to intimidate you.

>Her face twitched and softened with uncertainty, you held fast to your bemused smirk. If she were a canid, or really any species with a longer muzzle, you would be touching noses right now.

>The massive swell of your chest, obvious even under the compressing strain of your vest, hung dangerously close near her neck.

>You could just let yourself fall forward and smother the upstart feline. Something she seemed to pick up on as she slowly started to shrink away.

>Some days you loathed your genes, but today you were elated that your size had allowed such a casual upper hand.

>You kept your eyes locked, the classic way for dogs like you to show dominance, if she thought she could walk right over you, she was wrong.

>No growling, snapping, or bristling. Your cold composure and amused temperament more than enough to convey that you thought so little of her would be threat, it was basically nothing. A stellar first impression for a sergeant if ever there was one.

>The lioness stepped back and broke from your gaze, shoulders shrinking a little as she scratched at her forearm with agitation.

>You allowed a slight "humph" to bounce in your throat as she conveyed her nonverbal surrender. Only now did you open your mouth.

"So. This walking armory must be my new E-squad. Correct?"

>"yes ma'm" sighed the lioness. Obviously she was rethinking her stance on you after you had shown to be anything BUT a pushover.

"Sergeant Magual."

>You extended a paw towards the big cat. You were mean, but fair. Hell, she even called you ma'm

>She raised her head, and seemed bewildered that you weren't punishing her for something. She then timidly took your paw into her own.

>"Corporal Feldspar" She wasn't trying to crush your hand in some petty attempt to regain the ground she lost, you extended the same courtesy.

>You allowed a slight smile to wink across your muzzle, pleased that she had fallen into line seeing that you and her may be cut from the same cloth. Internally you were practically giddy, but you had to maintain that bearing of the unmoving royal jackal, at least for now.

>The rest of the squad seemed a little bit easier to work with now that you had disarmed their ringleader's attempt at sedition.

>The other corporal didn't really come forward, she crossed her arms and stood at the back, the Lioness informed you the doberman's name was Duran.

>She was a flamethrower specialist, and according to the lioness, gave everyone the cold shoulder.

>That certainly explained it, what flame troopers you had met tended to be... damaged. You hoped that you would be able to keep any of her more glaring issues that arose in check.

>A grenadier stepped forward, private Matthews, some kind of monitor lizard, bundled up in enough cold weather gear to tarp an MRAP. Not that you could blame the cold-blood, as long as she could still handle her gear through her wool gloves.

>The other of the three grenadiers counting Matthews and Feldspar stepped forward. Private Pliskin, an Ocelot.

>Then the two remaining privates stepped forward in tandem, lugging a giant of a gun between them with the assistance of some sort of sled. Cheerily introducing themselves as privates Mocha and Minna Jorgenson. Sisters, and the gunners that handled the squad's fire support, a 40mm Bofors autocannon.

>The two of them looked to be house cats, the fluffy white fur and the dark points around their faces and extremities made you guess at their breed as Himalayan. If it weren't for the former sister's eyes being a misty blue to the latter sister's shamrock green you honestly wouldn't be able to tell them apart.

>Same mannerisms, same tone of voice, same body language, even the same scent. Twins in more than just appearance.

>You would have liked to take the time for more formal introductions but such things would have to wait, assuming all of you got through today alive. The Lieutenant had called over the radio that the troop was departing within minutes.

>You stopped with an ear quirked to the east as you heard a deep barking clatter. With a few barely audible pops and a grunting whine, it soon became a mechanized howl. Bellowing out of the open maw of a hanger east of you, as if some metallic hellbeast had been woken from a deep slumber to its tail being pulled.

>Tom and his Rumbler. The howl died down as the engines settled into a calmer rate after letting the world hear their guttural voice.

>You couldn't help but watch the hanger as the squad hauled their overabundance of gear into the apc behind you.

>Maybe something about the way his machine moved would tip you off to how he was fairing. That's what you told yourself at least.

>You kept your attention clued in as the deliberately slow steps boomed out of the hanger.

>thump.2.3.4.thump.2.3.4.thump

>You could maybe understand the slow shuffling steps were so the machine's weight wouldn't do any damage to the base's road surfaces or hanger floor, but the anticipation was nipping at your heels.

>But slowly it showed itself, the massive bulk of its body and its two lugging weapon arms peeking around the hanger door. Colored in a fresh coat of drab green, somehow it seemed to be missing something without the faded whites of rock dust clinging to it.

>And there was the unit markings clear as day on the shoulder, well, there were actually 2?

>The more prominent was 606 in the center of the plate, with an... added touch. An anthro version of the battalion mascot, a hellhound, seemed to be sitting provocatively in the zero. The toned orange and chocolate of her legs dangling off like it was a tire swing.

>A simple white toga preserved her modesty, meaning it lay in a heap across her lap. Comically overblown tits hung out as she seemed to howl upwards, framing her muzzle and the small priffing flame that danced on her lips in the center of the zero as the rest of her body lay draped along the inner curve of the digit.

>You weren't sure if it was artsy or tasteless, maybe a mix of both. Then you frowned as you mentally compared breast sizes and found the pinup's bust was actually closer to yours than you'd like, framing that earlier thought about them being overblown viciously.

>You scowled as an annoyed grunt leaked out of your lips, he better not have painted that.

>You flat ignored the clamor of voices, boots, and engines as you called up Tom's frequency. Even as the sisters made a racket dragging the autocannon into the troop compartment you ignored it.

>Why did he flee from you when THAT was on his machine? Was something wrong with you? You can't have been too big for him, not with the knockers on that piece of work!

>It was probably the size of the rest of you at work again, every damn time you thought you had someone, either as a close friend or something more, they would suddenly get all antsy because you could bench press them. Every time some dumbass would waltz up and expect to tame the beast but would quickly wilt and pussy out when you got excited and keyed them in to just how strong you were.

>Finally the static hiss and pop gave way to a clearer channel. You tried to hide the annoyance edging into your voice with sarcasm.

"Tom, your unit marker is a little... exposed."

>"uuuuuuggh... Blame Vegalta! That's what I get for telling that horned-out dumbass not to paint my nose art!" His annoyance was genuine, and you started to feel a bit guilty as you realized you were about ready to go off on him over some tasteless smut that wasn't even done by his own hand.

>That guilt then gave way to confusion as you thought over what he said.

"Wait... You guys do nose art? Isn't that an airforce thing?"

>Your ears tuned and you glanced sideways as Feldspar waved you over to embark. You kept your ear piece on and listened as you stepped over the awkward shape of the autocannon taking up the space in between the short rows of canvas seats. He continued with a heavy sigh.

>"ACES do nose art... us regular schmucks don't. Being, a survivor doesn't change any of that..."

>You held your response until you weren't so close to prying ears, ducking through the troop compartment up towards the hatch well at the front of the vehicle.

>Managing to squeeze your shoulders and your chest through the hatch wasn't easy given the extra bulk from your equipment, but soon you were stood up out of the hatch behind the driver's compartment. No company except for the open air and a .50 cal on the pintle mount.

>The 8 wheeler's engine gave a hearty groan as your knotting of vehicles slid into motion. A convoy of personnel carriers following the thin spires of the radio aerials from a trio of command pattern IFVs. You watched the rumbler step out forcefully onto the sodden earth outside the base, finally putting its foot down and digging its claws into the dirt.

>The machines stride was immediately longer and heavier as it started its march alongside the road, clawed heels kicking up dirt as it stomped forward. You continued your conversation as you watched it, watched him, confident your squad wouldn't be able to eavesdrop with your head out in the air.

"But with how many bugs you must have killed."

>"If you're talking about the small fry they don't fucking matter. The swarming bugs of all spices, the scarabs, the stags, they don't fucking matter, any dumbass with an auger frame can take those by the boatload."

>Something in his voice belied anger, the way the machine moved seemed to reinforce that. You listened, as that's all you can really do.

>"The difference between an ace and an amateur come out in the wash when you face the bigger targets. The more monstrous varieties of bug, and marauder battleframes, the more dangerous threats. You need at least five victories against targets of those varieties to be considered an ace... I only have one, and even then it's because I got lucky..."

>The tinge of doubt in his voice pursed your frown a bit, how could you be mad over something so petty when he was practically alone with a roiling sea of doubts and second guessing.

>Looking towards the rumbler's nose, you saw a single chalk white marker painted onto the chin of the rumbler's axe-headed bow plate. A stylized skull with razor like teeth missing its lower jaw, 3 hollow eyes, one nested above the other two, glared from it's center. A kill marker for an enemy battleframe.

>Your gaze flicked back to the shoulder, the smaller unit marker made you tinge with worry.

>Nested into the upper corner of the plate was a smaller trio of digits, 512, a small simple cross marker hung off the top corner of the 2. Then there was another skull, hanging above the zero of 606.

>It was far larger than its cousin on the nose, and it was an outline of the skull rather than a complete marker, a bright red sash of scarlet cut across its eyes along a north-west to south-east bearing.

"What's with the marker on your shoulder then?"

>You had a feeling you wouldn't like the answer.

>"That's not a marker, it isn't filled in yet..." He gave a shuddering inhale as if some shot of emotion had just run through his spine.

>"It's a promise. I'm gonna kill that bastard. Or die trying."

>The resolve gripping his voice in tandem with unfiltered anger pushed on your back as you felt yourself tense.

>You sighed as your ears dropped... had he really gone and just accepted his death like that? You tried to swallow the creeping dread crawling up your throat.

"Good luck out there."

>"... Yeah"

>Tom didn't look so small now.

---

>The few hours of relative peace you had during the ride still had a faint tension hung over them. You spent them in silent worry and contemplation.

>You alternated between watching the rumbler jogging alongside the road and watching the sky as you picked out wisping contrails and the glimmer of silver wings between the shuffling clouds.

>The air force had cleared the local sky of threats from above, and now wing after wing of bombers and other ground pounders soared far above your head to drop death on high onto the hoard. You could only imagine that miles to the west, the navy was rolling a non-stop bombardment up the coast line.

>Yet even these silent reassurances of allied power did little to remove that minute knot of tension clinging between your shoulders.

>If Tom got carried away, he would let his buried rage drive. His untamed need for vengeance demanded it. And there was nothing you could do to sooth it, not with how far you were from eachother, in both senses of the phrase.

>You had so clearly broken in your prematurely awakened maternal instincts again, working diligently to smooth over his hang ups, coaxing him away from his fears, keeping him from wandering into his doubts when he was unoccupied, and being the rock for him to shelter under when the tears came.

>But that flooding torrent never came, the closest you got was that heart breaking moment of gravecall, and you couldn't be there for him. Instead you were the one that broke first, spilling over how alone you felt, because those wild eyes he made at you when that idiot Darla set him off made you feel like he saw you as nothing but another threat to his life.

>The way he seemed so morose over what he unintentionally did to you... He was battling himself to see you as a person, rather than some monster that walked off the side of a cartouche. You worried over what sorrows of his own he held behind him.

>How would they eat at him, shake his resolve, and make him doubt if he didn't share them. You wanted to press into him, make him confess what acidic memory was coiled around his heart so you could rip it away from him and crush it. But his fear kept you on a gentler approach no matter how much you ached to bury to the heart of this matter.

>You wanted to ask point blank 'why are you so scared of anthros, scared of me?' But some crippling doubt over what you might uncover or stir within him chained those words back into your gullet.

>Whatever it was, it festered to become a far more ingrained response and instinct than a simple qualm over teeth and claws. It was an outright phobia.

>You had no idea how to approach that.

>But you had no idea how to approach that first night either.

>Improv only gets you so far, and that in particular was a delicate issue.

>The chatter among your squad died off about an hour into the ride, as if the excited deliberations over their change in status dropped dead when that wind of decay whispered in everyone's ears. 'you might all die today' it rasped.

>Eventually you picked out the distant echoes of cannons, and just like that all the preparation came back to you as the flow of vehicles towards the front snaked onwards.

>big gun: check belts: check backup belts: check sidearm: check spare sidearm mags: check grenades: check radio: check earpieces: check heavy carapace vest currently mashing down your proud bust like so much water-weight: double check

>Crippling worry about the definite possibility of death hanging over your every action:

>... check

>You breathed in and shooed away the fear, you had been through quite a lot and still managed to worm your way out of any deadly predicaments. And Tom... well, he may be tougher than he looks, he also has hundreds of tons of armor and an arsenal to shame an entire rifle battalion on his side.

>You couldn't help but worry over him, you really were becoming like your mother.

>Oh wait... your fucking squad, should probably bring up that little item on the list.

>You had spent far too long as a corporal.

>You squeezed your torso back down the hatch, to awkwardly bend over and take a hard look back them while your feet remained planted on the platform for using that pintle mounted .50

"Report ready status."

>No flair or getting personal, not yet. You would prove yourself before you let the mantle of the no-nonsense gal slip.

>"Ready ma'm" Feldspar nodded, she was turning out to be rather stalwart, and you guess that she may have snapped into this loyalty towards you due to maybe seeing some sort of kindred spirit behind your eyes.

>Duran merely nodded slightly, the sisters gave almost perfectly synced thumbs up, Matthews and Pliskin shared a reaffirming look to quench their worry, and gave shaky nods.

>Good enough for you, you gave a curt nod of your own and returned to staring out at the scenery.

>Mountains had risen up on both sides as the road followed the lazy path carved by a humble river as it wound through the narrow valley.

>The old highway kept shooting north as best it could, snaking along the terrain and hugging the mountains after crossing the river at a small village.

>The rumbler was obviously too heavy for the bridge to really hold together between it and the constant traffic, Vilka rather cheekily offered to call an airlift. What slight smile was there faded again when the machine just forded through the river like it almost wasn't even there.

>The valley pass snaked north again and the road followed, Within a few miles the pass leveled out into a genuine valley as that distant echo became far more clear thuds and booms of cannons.

>The valley held the shape of a triangle tapered to the south, a fat hill rose in its core, and you saw the feint outline of a small town squatting by the winding river near the eastern edge of the valley. The quaint small town of Ashcroft.

>At least it would be quaint if it wasn't an abandoned ruin that was left inside the Alaskan cordon with the bugs for two years.

>The town had recently been cleared and now the front had moved up to take the crossroads at Cache Creek, the struck town's northern neighbor that guarded the northern mouth of the valley under the watchful gaze of that fat hill. That was all you were told.

>The lack of information didn't sit well with you, and you looked for any opportunity to get a more in depth explanation of the local front.

>The rolling thunder of cannons grew louder and louder, a din of small arms chatter and the tapping of autocannons joining into that cacophony of full scale battle. soon enough your section of the convoy pulled off the road and came to a halt in the dried ghost of what was once an arable field.

>You hauled yourself out of the hatch, having to shimmy as your hips caught on a latch, and dropped with a crunch onto a bed of pale yellow cereal grasses. Long since dead with no farmers to tend to the fields.

>Ahead of you a clustering of walkers sat on the tawny loam of a baldspot in the land. Fat chrome barrels raised skyward as they punted high gauge cannon shells into the distance. It was the very thing that every infantryman takes as a good omen for the impending fight, an artillery park.

>Your squad shuffled out of the back doors, the sisters hauling out the bofors on its odd collapsible sled. Your best guess was it was some sort of rigging that helped them move and set up the man sized gun so they could actually use it.

>The dead grains crunched and folded under boots, you waved Feldspar over to explain to her that you were going to go have a chat with the local artillerymen to get a better read on the battle at large since they were the ones that spent all day staring at maps.

>She seemed rather puzzled, citing that the pre-mission briefing should have covered everything. That poor, clueless soul.

>The noise hid your disappointment in her well, and you explained the reality of the situation to the lion.

>The brief never covers anything beyond 'go here and take objectives A-Z, we won't tell you why or how. Here's some vague positional data and a snippet from another units report that all is well and bug presence is perfectly manageable. Said unit last went through the area at the start of the war, and all recent intel reports are classified. Good luck, don't die.'

>You also explained that your dear Lieutenant was too fresh and trusting of the system to smuggle in a briefing that wasn't shit. This meant you had to do everything on your own.

>Including gathering enough intel to asses the local tactical situation in order to lessen the chances of all your asses being killed.

>Luckily artillerymen were the rifles' best friend. They killed most everything before you had to go in and deal with it up close, they were always a friendly sort, and very trusting since all of them were half deaf.

>It's only natural you stop by, say hello, and ask to take a look at their very detailed grid maps. And maybe get some pointers as to what enemy positional markers demand a convenient misinterpretation of your orders so you can avoid them.

>Feldspar got the gist that what you were doing was for everyone's survival, so she thankfully stowed her objections and casually helped you defy the chain of command.

>They grow up so fast.

>While your squad marched off to distract everyone with how blatantly new and competent they were compared to the rest of the platoon; you spied the closest artillery officer in his natural habitat, hunched over a map.

>The officer hadn't keyed in to your approach, in between permanent hearing damage and his own efforts to coordinate fire missions over a headset radio, It's rather hard for a poor artilleryman to key in on much at all once the guns get firing.

>You thanked whatever technical genius was responsible for producing the automatic noise dampening for your ear pieces, someone with as sensitive ears as yours couldn't go without it.

>You gave him a short tap on the shoulder with the flats of your claws and motioned to your neck with your other hand as he turned. The signal that you wanted to talk over radio to actually get a word in over the roar of guns.

>He nodded curtly, and held aloft a single gloved hand with a raised index, 'just a minute' he mouthed. He could have been shouting it in actuality, but over the bass strumming pound of the guns you would have never heard a sound from him.

>You took the wait to look around. Tom's Rumbler stood a good 200 feet or so ahead of the rest of the platoon, seeming to stand mid-stride. The weapon arms thrusted forward briefly in agitation. It was uncanny how well the small movements like that conveyed natural body language, but the controls were made to follow the pilot's movements almost exactly.

>By your best guess he had been ordered to halt while the rest of the troop sorted themselves, and wasn't happy about it.

>Your ever-present worry circled around your head again, he's far too eager to draw blood.

>You distracted yourself by peeling your eyes towards the squat, bulky artillery walkers posted around the patch of dirt.

>A chrome barrel raised skyward, A great plume of fire and smoke followed, even through the noise dampening you heard a dull resounding thump that hit your chest as the gun rocked backwards in its hydraulic cradle. The breach split open, pouring smoke, and spat a smoking casing.

>The legs of the machine were rooted into the earth and compressed with a hissing of steam to counter the recoil as the gun reset into firing position.

>Already, three men shunted another shell into the breach. And with the pull of a lever it clamped shut. Five seconds passed, and another shell flew.

>You watched the artillerymen at work for a few minutes, drinking in the way they hoisted and rolled. Discarded casings piled high in brass mounds.

>You turned back to the officer to find him turning to you, your sense of timing is something else. The two of you thumb the microphone tabs pressed against your necks, you honestly have little clue how they manage to pick up your voice so clearly despite the deafening noise.

>The conversation over the map managed to give you a very good idea of what was going on. The advance was coming in from the south and east as two seperate offensive wings closed in towards Cache Creek, using a clustering of fire support elements sat high on the ridgeline of the hill dominating the north of the valley, to cover both wings as they closed in.

>The bugs seemed to have congregated in these mountains however, and astounding numbers of the monstrosities swarmed to meet the advance head on. Taking this valley had proven to be the first real roadblock on this league of the offensive.

>Advancing north from Ashcroft along the main highway was a collection of armored elements with light infantry support. The tankers had been shunting fire at their front cordon for hours and still the swarm piled in, held back by constant artillery barrage, air support, and the definite range advantage the tanks' various long barreled cannons gave them.

>But the armor officers were getting impatient and demanding that the town and it's crossroads be taken by nightfall with an armored blitz up the highway. Reinforcements were certainly arriving fast enough to facilitate a push, and the infantry officers were trying to calm the armor corp into a more reasonable rolling fire advance at a walking pace.

>While the more common armored units with their groupings of light and medium tanks were content to sit still and slug it out, the agitators were the so called 'landship men'. Heavy tank commanders too trusting of the invincibility their larger hulls assume, wanting to just wade in to the bugs and start grinding them under tread.

>The worst agitator was a unit of three Goliath superheavies sitting at the front of the line. Getting rather tempered when mechs started moving in to the area to 'steal all the glory again'. The fact that one of the incoming pilots was a rather well known ace wasn't helping matters.

>The infantry officers had correctly told the tread heads they were full of shit, and that advancing too far forward would just have them getting acid spitters on their flanks.

>According to every good rifleman the correct response is to sit tight and just have the airforce level the town before moving in to coupe de gras any surviving bugs. The issue being that command wanted the town and its crossroad highways roughly intact to ease further advance into the Alaskan exclusion zone.

>Regardless of the concoction of battle-stress and inter-branch animosity clinging to the air, a plan had been formed. It wasn't a work of tactical genius or even the best plan that could have been executed on notice, but it was a plan.

>The eastern wing of the offensive, which largely consisted of infantry elements backed by some vertical tanks and light armor such as IFVs would dig in and draw the bugs to them using seismic hammers to agitate the swarm into shifting its focus off the tanks.

>The bugs would have to funnel out of the chokepoint between the hill and the northern border of the valley that made the eastern exit out of town. Once out in more open terrain of the few fields hugging the narrow end of the hill off the highway, the artillery and airforce could comfortably pound the hell out of them. Without the worry of collateral.

>This would allow the armor enough breathing room to kick in the advance they had been clamoring for, so they could roll through town and secure the northern mouth of the valley.

>Up on the hill itself, the mixing of snipers, gunnery and mortar teams, at-guns, and mechs would creep forward, providing fire support as necessary to either side.

>The mechs would be split between the hill and more direct support of the armor until they got to town, at which point the mechs would break off and swing around to pincer the bugs between themselves and the infantry. Allowing the infantry to sweep in and clear the town of any stragglers.

>The plan was solid, and it's not like you could think of anything better on the spot. That's why you had never been shuttled off to some ritzy officer's school to be talked at and play grab ass. One thing seemed to stick out plainly to you though.

>Before the prattling of the officer rattled on further, you leveled a claw over the marker for a bunker complex sat squarely at the northern head of the ridge.

>Labeled as 'Complex H37', The commanding view this place held over the crossroads and the surrounding town was no accident, and depending on how deep into the ridge it was buried, it could be an active nest. Compromising the flanks of both wings as they moved forward.

>You caught the slight malting of surprise and satisfaction on the artillery officers voice, It was a little patronizing for him to be impressed with you pointing out this obvious strategic point as the problem it is.

>The bunker was too deep in to split open with anything short of a dedicated bunker buster, something the air force didn't use much of anymore, usually preferring napalm and old fashioned high explosives to specialty munitions outside of those crazy tunneling bombs they use to collapse nest tunnels.

>With so many abandoned machine gun nests and AT posts dug into the northern corner of the ridge, bug acid spitters could have any number of naturally fortified positions to attack the armor from. Not to mention the other swarmers pouring out of the deeper reaches.

>The officer confirmed your fears as he explained H37 was built 13 years before firefall, and part of it's construction included an extensive barracks and command post buried into the hill, but the bunker also held something important.

>recessed into a crater of concrete on top of the ridge was a hellfire battery, a battery that still had ammo.

>It was obvious H37 was a lynch-pin objective for securing the valley, it would deny the acid spitters concealed firing positions, clean out a minor nest, and that hellfire battery could devastate the advance of any further swarms moving towards the area.

>It was at this point you had a dreadful premonition, H37 isn't just THE objective in the area, it's YOUR objective.

>You would be in the center of the battle, underground, with the bugs, in the DARK.

-told you we would die today-

>You try to shake away the fogging miasma of doubt, the officer not noticing your momentary shiver and the loss of your front of the unflappable royal jackal.

>The dread started its creep back up as he explained there were really only two viable entrances to the complex, first was a motorpool on the north face of the ridge, connected to the eastern highway by an access road, the other was an airlock on the south face of the ridge, only accessible by a narrow path that clung to the south of the hill's more severe slopes.

>The infantry would be sent out along that path to make a run at clearing the bunker while the swarm outside was distracted. They would be making the push without any direct fire support. They would be hidden from the support elements on the hill, and artillery couldn't assist for fear of destabilizing the ridge face and cutting the access points down to one.

>Close air support wasn't in the books either, due to the terrain and the mess of bugs. Fighters couldn't get low enough for strafing runs and gunships wouldn't hold up well to the amount of ranged bugs mixed into the swarms.

>This sounded more and more like certain death by the second. You tried to restrain the wilt of your ears and the shaking starting on your breath.

>Not everything is against you, just because this sounds like the most dangerous assignment a rifle can be flung into doesn't mean it's your assignment.

>You're better than this! you don't quake and cower just because a tight spot may come along.

>You're a royal jackal, the very image of dignity and strength in both senses of the word.

>You don't run, you square your shoulders and stand high.

>You don't flinch, you bear your teeth and stand your ground.

>You don't hesitate, you lunge and strike down your opponent before they can mount a resistance.

>Your larger, faster, and stronger, you resemble the old ideal of death personified, and this is no coincidence.

>All that's missing is a ceremonial lance and the eye of Ra painted over your own. But your new weapon is more than enough.

>The promotion up to sergeant had granted you the capacity to get your claws on something that was typically reserved away from grunts.

>An M2 Browning, modified in a.. semi-official capacity to function as a 'rifle' for troopers of inordinate size, like you.

>Now it wasn't a full scale M2HB, even you may have some trouble handling that in reasonable fashion, despite being able to lift all 83 pounds.

>The barrel was shortened for maneuvering the gun, many of the parts had been lightened or re-forged using lighter metals than the standard issue, and an over sized rifle stock and trigger were fitted to the rear with some internal adjustments so you actually had something comfortable to hug under your arm or press to your shoulder.

>The chop job had shed 35 pounds off of the big mother, still leaving a more than healthy 48 pounds for you to heft around, something lesser women would fold like paper under.

>On the front was the handle of a rubber chainsaw style grip fitted ahead of the feed port to ease handling the weapon as the wide square of the machine gun's body wouldn't work well to keep it steady, and only a complete idiot would think grabbing hold of the barrel with a damp rag would possibly work.

>You guess being so big has its advantages. The 'rifle chop M2' as it was semi-officially cataloged was even originally put together when a Caucasian Shepard gunner with a surprising amount of gunsmith education had just decided to take her Ma Deuce off it's tripod and use it as a rifle.

>Her little story even got on national tv around a year before firefall. As the reporters interviewed her, she cheerily shared that 'Soldier of Fortune' magazine had inspired her to do it, while flashing a big K with her fingers. It was a salute for some fan club of gunsmiths and hobbyist shooters that were avid readers of that old magazine series.

>Seeing such a large anthro up on screen with pride in her eyes over her story made you feel more secure back then.

>There was one more personal touch you had snuck in with your feminine wiles, damn it felt good to think you actually charmed someone like that.

>The quartermaster on duty at the time you got the gun with your fresh promotion was apparently rather flustered with the sight of you.

>shameless thespian you are, you laid it on thick and pretended not to be sent reeling by the sight of his neckbeard and fatbody cheeks. At least he washed unlike that little prick Tom had to deal with.

>A little hip sashaying here, a stretch there, playing up what you remembered of your parents' accents, and making a show of 'accidentally' busting open your jacket zipper left the idiot a mess of bright red putty to squeeze through your paws.

>It felt downright evil, and shamefully good, to have that rare chance to work some magic. Guess it was elements of that mischievous trickster stereotype loaded onto 'lesser' canids like you, and species like dholes and especially coyotes.

>But the more tangible reward was worth it, all ten of the hundred round belts you were issued carried an extra kick, explosives.

>Still only .50 cal, but the extra kick could make a mess out of a bug's soft tissues and fracture their natural armor.

>The weapon is there, anchored to you. It is a wordless promise of strength, you'll make it out alive.

>You are a genuine article Nubian, you aren't scared.

>Time to rock.

>Before you could leave the artillery officer clarified that the job of taking H37 was going to a fresh infantry unit that had just arrived to the front.

>They were the 606 Hellhound rifles, they even had a mech attached to one of their platoons, not that such a thing mattered with the bunker, poor bastards.

>...

>Oh god

>That killed the mood

>You took a shaky breath as the officer finished deliberating over his map.

>You thanked him for the briefing on the local tactical situation and walked away before he could catch the way your tail curled or the way you attempted in vain to swallow the growing lump in your throat.

>Running a hand along the barrel of your bulky gun, you tried to ground yourself before anyone caught sight of you fighting the instinct to hug your tail and whimper like a pup.

>NO!

>you aren't some stupid kid anymore, you wouldn't honestly consider running from your duty, you don't jump at an oversized tick in a broom closet, you shoot it in the face.

>...

>You shunt in a deep breath, remembering that trick your DI taught you in basic.

>inhale, count to four, exhale

>Can't remember where he said he learned it from, best you got was mentions of some stormtrooper built like a fridge in Norway.

>You Gave the barrel shroud an affectionate pat, time to go to war.

>Still it reeled in the back of your head, and you were more worried about your own survival than Tom's. At least he had the Rumbler.

>You swallowed the lump again, managed to regain your stone mask, and met up with your squad. Nobody else had noticed your little intel gathering session.

>Sure enough, your platoon was selected to follow the captain himself up the ridge path.

>Vilka had agreed whole heartedly to this glorious suicide mission.

>This is it.

---

<Tom>

>You hadn't even killed anything yet and your dander was already up.

>First of all, while you had initially been relieved that you were even assigned a sub-gunner, he was some fuckwit slacker from a thumper unit where the lazy shits came in pairs and barely had to do their jobs because thumpers barely move.

>You had to snap at him multiple times to watch his damn screens, and you were fairly sure the motherfucker was a stoner on top of that.

>If he dared to try and defile your machine with a puffing of mary jane, you're pretty sure at this point you would just fucking strangle him.

>The second mark was Vilka being a precocious little bitch again, acting like something that's leagues taller than a house can't ford some shitty little stream.

>The next was you being ordered to do naught but sit on your hands for what felt like half an hour straight while the bugs were just up the road, waiting for a good stomping.

>Test after test rose against your patience today, it was approaching its limit. Migrant swarms of the enemy were right there, just out of reach, taunting you. Why don't they let you kill them?

>"So the hero of the 606 shows himself. What great and terrible secrets does the lone survivor hide?"

>THEN THERE'S THIS ASSHOLE!

>Of all the fucking people to butt in and test your newfound reputation it has to be him.

>Orville Redenbacher, the crowing loon of a dancer ace that lifted the title of The Red Baron off of Manfred von Richthofen's bloated corpse.

>It didn't fucking matter he had twenty five confirmed kill markers. Far as you were concerned, he was just another annoyance goading your blood into a boil. The clincher was that ludicrous accent he wore like so much cheap makeup.

>You choked in the growl building in your throat. Maybe you had been hanging around anthros too long, you caught yourself growling more than usual.

>The naturally low cadence of your voice seemed to just fit with ease into such an animalistic expression.

>Regardless it's best to at least humor the idiot with a response.

>Breath, there's no need to force an incident despite your fuming state of mind. Redenbacher is just living up to his assigned stereotype of the rambunctious officer, you still despise anyone trying to pry in to your assumed mental hangups however.

>"Hey man.. is that The Red Baron? Love that dude, he's a great personality."

>This would be easier if your sub-gunner knew when to shut the hell up.

"Well if it isn't Monty Python and the crawling circus. What can I do ya for Manfred?.. oh wait, your *cough* British."

>All the things you thought you might do today, and sarcastically talking shit to a well recognized ace was not an item on the list.

>Life finds a way.

>The pause before his response is lengthier than expected, either he's taking your insult in good spirits, or your venom is more potent than ever.

>"I do see they haven't lowered your spirits any." That angry thing buried in you warmed, as if in agreement.

>Burning, shaking, thrashing needs are what boils in you, a want for blood.

>You ignored the chipper ace, pulling up the local battlenet while you sat still.

>Just behind you was the unit marker for that artillery troop, happily responding to fire missions pinged onto the map by unit commanders from both sides of the advance. Armor was driving north along the highway while infantry cut around the north of the hill by the highway that led off into the east.

>A simple pincer maneuver to crush the bugs between two fronts. At least on the grand scale.

>With armor concentrated towards one front and infantry on the other the two sides were far from equal.

>Best guess on your end was the armor would advance first while the infantry dug in, than cut the swarm in two and crush the half not pushed out of the valley by the armor against the infantry. But the plan hardly matters since it's bound to go wrong.

>You noted other mech unit markers in the area, Redenbacher and his 3 ace wingmen moved along the west side of the highway, likely using the slope of the mountain to advance hard north and get good flanking shots on larger targets in the swarm.

>A thumper unit sat on top of the hill, ready to turn their guns to assist either side of the attack. Although it didn't say specifically, your suspicions pointed towards that unit being Vegalta's.

>Then there was a half strength unit of Rumblers on the east highway, only two machines, nothing about their unit name or number rang any bells with you.

>And finally you. Labeled rather flatly as 606-B2R, the only machine on their lonesome.

>You spied two main problems on the map, first was that clustering of markers labeled as some abandoned bunker, which would be a pain in the ass once you got far enough ahead.

>Then there was a unit of three Goliaths parked up at the head of the front.

>Goliath commanders were never cooperative in your experience, just because the dense fuckers had similar tonnage to a mech didn't mean they got to act like one.

>Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't get ahead of themselves and pull something stupid because they get too damn competitive with the mechs for their own good.

>"Say old bean, how about some friendly competition?"

>The internal whiplash from being snapped out of your grim deliberations on what would go wrong by the chipper offering of the ace caused you to blank for a moment.

>"Let's see just how much your willing to give ol' jerry a wallop! See who between us can take down the most marks today. Spirit of vengeance and what not!"

>This walking caricature can't be fucking serious. A proven ace thinking that a one-mark nobody will even have a chance?

>But something inside you pulses your blood with heat, and a snarl decorates your countenance. It's that same feeling from when you stumbled out of the landslide, bloodlust. You readied to indulge it.

>If this was the spirit of vengeance, it edged you on with anger to forget about your weak-willed worries and doubtings. And to show this prancing gadabout priss what vengeance fucking looks like.

"Your on motherfucker!"

>Your subgunner let out a prolonged sigh to say something. "Ya know ma-"

"Screens!"

>You snapped at him while thumbing the transmitter off, then back on again as Redenbacher spoke with a chuckle.

>"Spirits are definitely high there chap. But surely you know that this dance will be mi-"

"Keep prancing sir Robin. I will mash enough of these goddamned bugs to fill the fucking canyon!"

>With that you cut the com. Your teeth slowly ground as your breath came heavy from pursed lips. Waiting, just waiting for the chance to cut loose.

>You decided to reign in the heated edge of your hatred until you needed it up the road. And you started running down the mental pre-battle checklist to keep your immediate focus off of visions of ultra-violence. Soon, soon enough you could indulge that madcap instinct to destroy.

>Munitions are topped off, fluid levels look good, power is flowing normally, engine temperature is stable, and your fuel reserves are still high. The long trek north barely dipped into your reserves as you were mostly coasting along on minimal power.

>You only really started burning through your reserves once combat began, where you needed to squeeze out every ounce of power the engines could give.

>You check over every weapon system for a second time. Still the heat nips at the back of your skull.

>Some ancient mantra winds upwards from the deeper pits of your psyche. You think on something else to ignore the words, not yet, vengeance will come. It's just up the road.

>And so your mind wanders to the first subject of engagement it can pull up: Teth'ra.

>You realized with a slight flick of embarrassment you had been thinking of her a lot recently, but could it really be helped?

>She was the only solid friend you had out here, and the way she acted was vexing to the lurch and roll of your tumultuous emotions.

>There was something else there between the two of you, you can't keep ignoring it. The question was what?

>She approached you aggressively and seemed to disregard your personal hangups about space, but at the same time she seemed to give you distance whenever you showed your discomfort.

>If she wanted you in... THAT measure, surely she would keep pressing in the offensive rather than backing off.

>At the same time she teased and smiled, but after you had shown your fear she was so damn careful, while still keeping close by.

>If it were anyone else you would assume they were just fucking with you.

>Teth'ra was far from a normal woman though, even barring the species which just confused you further.

>Just walking around, some of the old flings you had in highschool probably would have accused her of being a dyke just from appearance. That girl was massive and the fact anthros can only really grow out their head fur to simulate hair, provided they have the inclination and genetics to do so, didn't help her boyish appearance.

>She also acted so different to most of the romantic interests you fruitlessly chased after in your youth. She fit the niche of that ever-absent tomboy you fantasized about after graduation, when your love life just crashed and burned.

>She came to you, she knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was to get close to you. But the sticking point was still: why?

>If she was a more socially graceful creature your inclination would tilt towards her wanting your kibble and bits, but she wasn't.

>There was no mindgames, no schemes, no double-think or purposeful double entendre. Just her over-aggressive approach and her blunt charm along with an earnest friendship.

>Really it was damn lucky circumstance and the hypnotic color of her eyes left you so receptive that you didn't immediately panic at the thought of that giant jackal dragging you out on a little excursion that by all accounts should have raised the alarms in your head that she wanted you inside her and wouldn't take no for an answer.

>The very things she spilled in front of you when the damn burst concerning her past made those assumptions fold in on themselves.

>The isolation, the sadness, the blatant inexperience with matters of love; Maybe she just had no real idea how to correctly approach someone and just struck lucky with you.

>But still, why?

>Did your heroic stunt set her loins ablaze or did your sorry state just remind her so much of her brother that it overwhelmed her better judgment?

>Likely the answer was somewhere in between, then a third musing occurred to you. To anthros, humans are exotic, and taboo. Interspecies relationships triply so, and that was another factor drawing her towards you.

>Still, she obviously wanted companionship out of you, and she got it. You were out here ready to trust your lives to eachother, and the two of you had developed a solid rapport.

>But what flavor was she after? romantic? platonic? commitment? some selection of two or all three with a dash of happiness?

>Then there was her species, anthros went into regular seasonal heats and you had heard somewhere they got more frisky in the spring. It's spring, and that just added a layer of complexity onto the query.

>Topping it all off was how she didn't seem to make a big deal out of close contact through genuine ignorance of the effect it had on you, or some instincts telling her to bury you in her fur, or yet another option: she knew perfectly and was teasing again.

>Tapdancing Christ this was confusing.

>You were an engineer, you solved practical problems.

>Women were not practical problems.

>Perhaps this is why you didn't enjoy any real success back home.

>Even if you did have more experience, Teth'ra was so different, so unique, that you still had little idea what it was burgeoning between you two.

>You would ask her, that was it.

>She was blunt, you would be blunt too. Assuming the two of you survive the upcoming storm, you can sit down and have a real talk about what it is that's going on between you as something about her behavior led you to believe she was confused about it too.

>She wasn't petty, and wouldn't abandon you just for sweeping aside the fog and mystery and asking point blank if she genuinely wanted more than friendship, unlike that cunt Jessica.

>As for your end, you weren't far enough along the path yet for it to hurt just to be around her if she said no.

>That train of thought had run its course, and now you stood twiddling your thumbs waiting for the halt order to be lifted so you can move up towards the front and watch bugs explode.

>You thought about the possibility of marking Teth'ra's location on your map in order to keep an eye on her, but no specific marker for her squad was available, just the marker for her platoon as a whole, and theres no telling how a platoon's squads can split and spread out.

>No go on that front, best just do your job. If the fucking captain would let you!

>You groan and flit your fingers along the trigger bars nestled below your palms in agitation, the cadence of a chant tries to sneak in your mental back door. But you try to keep yourself occupied to bottle the rage up until you can use it to incinerate the bugs with the fire smelting in you.

>All of those little hand triggers are there as you feel the aluminum caps through your gloves and...

>There's one extra?

>It's something to do, and your curiosity seizes on the anomaly that was there under your fingers the whole time without you even having noticed.

>Wonderment settling onto your mind in the place of the earlier confusion and the building fury before that; you Tapped at the side of the new trigger cap to bring up its assigned weapon on your screens.

>A stat panel flicked into the left side of your vision... Fang missiles?

>When the hell did you get these?

>Why didn't Vegalta, or anyone else, tell you of this new weapon?

>Why didn't you even notice you had a new system?

>And what makes these missiles so special compared to the regular HEAT warheads you racked in the forward launchers by the hundred?

>They were larger bore, came from 4 tubes nestled next to the nose plate, 2 to each side, and they came loaded in quad-packs. 16 shots.

>High velocity, minimal guidance, a hell of a lot of space dedicated to the warhead.

>And something about the warhead itself seemed a bit-

>"Master Sergeant McWhicky, you are to take the rumbler and move forward to assist the armor corp with their breakthrough which is starting in about ten minutes, any further orders from there are to help the striders drive the bugs towards the infantry once breakthrough is achieved and the northern mouth of the valley is secured. Do you copy?"

>The deep tenor of captain Lyon's voice cuts in on your musing over these strange new missiles that just appeared from nowhere.

>You blinked hard three times, the sensory goggles registering the ocular command and dispersing the info panel and expanded battle net map from your view. Leaving you with the crisp image of the cluttering of treads milling about to either side of the highway ahead. The mountains rising high on your left, and the forward ridge of the hill on your right.

"Copy, anything else?"

>You regretted the question as it escaped your lips on reflex. Captain Willard always had a plan, and you had grown a habit to key in and ask for details since they were usually rather good.

>"Negative. That is all."

"Roger."

>You breathed a sigh of relief, the infantry officer hadn't taken your unintended invitation to tell you exactly how to do your job today.

>The mystery munitions could wait, it was time to go to war.

---

>Walking with this new gearbox was equal parts incredible and disconcerting.

>Full-motion wasn't just some cheap label tacked on for a 5% increase in response time, the difference was night and day.

>The first step almost had you keeling over as the machine's leg suddenly moved way too far, too quickly.

>Despite this the near perfect ratio of synchronization between your legs and the rumbler's made it easy to regain your balance despite the flailing protest of your new subgunner.

>After that you made sure to be careful with how you moved. You had to fight all of your old training that taught you to exaggerate your movements to get more motion out of the gearing on the legs.

>Accounting for input delay and compensating for differing ratios was out of the window.

>You relearned those slow, tepid steps to edge your way off the tarmac.

>Walking came next as you felt more secure with the machine's clawed feet burying into the dirt.

>Then marching as you started getting the hang of this bizarrely natural feeling of control over the machine.

>With the new gearbox, the melding between pilot and machine was that much closer. You could operate the machine without having to really think too much on how you moved rather than where you moved.

>But how much of your old skills in the original rumbler would be without use now? How many of those little tricks to smooth over the bumps in the auger system were useless now that so many of those bumps had been flattened?

>How much would old guard pilots like you have to relearn from scratch?

>Old Guard...

>Already thinking like that, and with only a single kill mark. A sign you were growing bitter in their absence?

>You sure snapped at Redenbacher and your subgunner like a bitter old veteran. And you were only twenty five.

>Guess the war makes sure you grow up fast.

>Today you relearned how to crawl, how to walk, and how to march, soon, you would start running.

>The forward cameras broke over the top of the incline that obscured your view of the battle, your objective, some hodunk little place called Cache Creek, stood on the crossroads.

>Just looking at the black, smoldered branches of the town's broken lines confirmed your running confirmation of what happened to settlements left behind in bug territory. It was utterly thrashed.

>Only a few buildings were in enough of a shape to remain standing, some warehouses, a few compact apartment blocks, no higher than 8 stories. A house or two.

>The rest was the twisting black and grey of ruin, mounds of concrete rubble and wilted steel beams choked the narrow streets off of the 2 highways coming together in a T-junction at the base of the ridge.

>It wasn't leveled completely, there was enough infrastructure still standing that there was a remote possibility of it being used as a major supply depot. Guess that's why your briefing folder included standing orders to keep as much of the place intact as you could.

>If it came down to a choice between your life and some ratty, shell cratered apartment blocks, that choice had already made itself.

>Still you doubted if this battle would test you far enough to disregard your orders in the endeavor of self preservation.

>The dulled report of cannons bounced into the hull from every direction around you. The tanks were on all sides of you, mostly sheltering under what sparse cover they can find off the road.

>A Correlian MBT hid its hull in an irrigation ditch, its smoothbore 140mm cannon launching a shell towards the shifting mass of targets skittering everywhere through the town and along the open ground.

>The mainline tank's remote gunnery station buzzed a clustering of bug warriors with a humming stream of .30 caliber rounds.

>The shifting mass of bugs seemed to end at round about 400 meters in front of the armored wall, and tanks of all shapes and sizes punched shells and bullets into the tide to keep it locked back.

>Even now a few heavy tanks crawled forward towards firing positions alongside the forward-most elements, that trio of Goliath superheavies that sat lackadaisically on the breadth of the highway. You check the unit marker for the trio again, you've never heard of them.

>It has to be a fresh unit, the same for half of the heavies, the idiots wouldn't sit out in the open thinking their invincible if they had seen what out there can pose a threat, even to a Goliath.

>Greenhorn tankers aside, your at too much of a range to really cut loose, you'll let the tank corp keep slugging until the charge comes. Best to conserve your ammo for the important part.

>Just this little bit longer of waiting for the charge to sound, at least being able to see the enemy is helping you to reign it in.

>The engines thrum and tick, cannon report beats from every angle, your own steps are a powerful war drum as you creep slowly towards the edge of the formation.

>You can tell that around you the shots are becoming less frequent, the tankers coordinating to give the bugs less reason to view this wing of the advance as a threat.

>The air is pregnant with the smells of heat, oil, cordite, and smoke. The smell of battle, it calls you.

>This is where you should be.

>You feel it rattling up through the legs, a deep pulsing in the land itself, the bugs take notice too.

>The swarm's movements shift direction like water, as a great rumbling starts distantly on the other side of the hill.

>The east wing must be using seismic hammers to draw in the bugs, opening their throats to the readied fangs of the north wing.

>And the dumb animals are falling for it perfectly. It's hard to keep your feet from drifting forward, from just lunging at this sign of weakness.

>Just a few more minutes, you flex your hands over the trigger bars. just. a little. longer.

>You turn your head, the view from the external cameras shifting in perfect sync to gaze off of your left side.

>Far over the tops of the Goliaths, almost posing on the slope of the mountain are the four striders of Redenbacher and his little circus troop.

>They seem determined to keep up the shtick of roleplaying as the flying aces of the first world war.

>Redenbacher's machine is painted the exact shade of signal red as that ancient fokker tri-plane, rounded white highlights frame black silhouettes of defunct national symbols. A few house animate tracings of machines in motion, or the female form striking a pose.

>Not as trashy as Vegalta's handywork, the poses are surprisingly tame and theres no detail beyond the flat black.

>The hawkish nose of the machine is bordered off in stark white as you recognize the barrels of a 20mm rotary cannon peeking out from the nose plating. And the torso missile block is capped in white as it hangs off the right side of the main body.

>Of course the strider's main feature is always on proud display. A dorsal mounted 80mm railcannon, this weapon uses a sleeve of electro-magnets to propel a ferro-magnetic slug at ludicrous velocities. It's said to be one of the few weapons that can readily destroy a battleframe if aimed right.

>Because of this striders always skirt around the fringes of a battle picking off targets as they please.

>The right weapon arm of Redenbacher's machine differed from the standard pattern, it carried a single frag cannon and... some sort of sword?

>That was just downright insulting, it's not like the ponce would ever use that for more than decoration, or making a show of an enemy that was already dead.

>Fucking propagandists. You turned your attention to the 3 other striders, one was dressed like a Sopwith Camel, RAF roundels and all.

>Another was painted black with tan flecks seemingly scattered on at random and wore kaiser-era german crosses. The third machine wore the same crosses and was painted a vomit-inducing shade of mustard yellow.

>Vegalta may paint borderline porn on machines, but at least he knows how to pick colors that aren't an absolute eyesore.

>You turned your attention back to the thinning flow of bugs turning east, the mission clock in the corner of your vision ticked down the 2 minutes remaining until the assault got underway.

>Agitation, that's what smothered every thought in your mind like the clinging blankets of an oil spill. Tapping your toes inside your boots you watched the seconds tick by, you could swear they were going slower just to taunt you further.

"Just a little longer."

>It repeats again and again, Rolling in your head to keep your composure until the leash is slipped, a mantra with no tempo.

>You will win this battle, even if you have to smash down what little remains of Cache Creek and choke the valley entrance with bodies.

>You have to win, for your own sanity. Anything but victory and you may feel the spirits of the damned staring daggers into your back.

>It was their departure that stirred this primal heat in your core, you had to make the most of it to honor them, and to protect what you have now.

>The one person you have now, she's too close for either of you to willfully abandon eachother, and you would protect her as needed.

>You were the one that had that strength now.

>It didn't matter if some armored bug showed itself on the road ahead, you would tear open its plating and maim its innards.

>There was no concern if a super swarm broke over the hill like an ocean of darkness and hunger, you would burn them to cinders.

>Even if Redenbacher himself fell to some glint of silver held aloft by wisping ethereal string, you would kill every marauder machine you could lay your fire on.

>Ten seconds left. nine. eight. seven. six.

>"Ready!" Barked an order over the general channel.

>Five. four. three. two.

>"All units, commence firing!"

>One.

>Sound and fury, The world itself seems to cough a great rumbling of smoke as every cannon fires at once. The horde is smashed.

>Engines flare their growling song to the chorus of industry, every shot a beat on the drum, every splattering death ahead of you a note in the chaotic symphony.

>The music of battle, it propels you forward as you start in with long strides. The shuddering steps providing your own tempo to the dance of death.

>You're still not sure if you can fully cut in, but as you step over a light tank, your finally closing in enough to start.

>Beyond a massive sprawling of twitching limbs and bleeding, mangled corpses caught by the initial frenzy of cannon fire, The swarm shifts to attempt to cover against the renewed threats driving headlong into their exposed flanks.

>The Goliaths move to your left, rumbling down the road like mountains set into motion, exhaust pipes disgorging great trails of dark smoke, Their great many weapons batteries disgorging just as thick a volume of shell and shot.

>Heavies and mediums surge forward alongside the road, the heavies streaking onward boldly as the mediums dash serpentine into the fields and sparse trees.

>The lights race along the flanks going from cover to cover, their diminutive hulls allowing them to shelter behind fallen redwoods or boulders.

>A bash-beetle springs from it's place of hiding in front of a Correlion, the smoky grey titan responds with the main cannon, blowing a hole through the armored beetle's head, with a lurch it settles, blood leaking from it's chitinous plates as the medium tank rolls over its body.

>Now it's your turn. You zoom in on the hoard ahead, largely warriors scrabbling towards you. Compensate for travel time and fire.

>Six reports echo from above as the shoulder cannons add their bite to the orchestra. The shells find their mark within the clustering of warriors. How many bodies are sent skyward? 7,18,20? The count doesn't matter too much.

>You see one warrior stricken down by the shrapnel, one of it's proud spearing claws sheared away at the shoulder as its remaining five limbs scrabble in blind panic.

>A monster bred for death, mewling and screaming like some pathetic cur as its life blood leaks from it. Let THEM suffer. Let THEM die in agony! It's the only just course of retribution for every life they snuffed!

>A manic grin finds its way onto you, fire runs through your veins, you exhale vapor and venom, the smoke of fury burns behind your eyes, your legs will thrust you across mountains to smite the devils and choke every ounce of baleful light from what hollow, inhuman things pass for their eyes.

>Even as you keep pace with the rumbling of the tanks it isn't fast enough. You need to get close, to take satisfaction is seeing what tiny shrivel of intelligence these inhuman husks may hold leech out of them as they die.

>Your hatred burns for it. Something sadistic twists for it. Vengeance demands it.

>Time to run.

>Engines howl, strength coils, your voice raises. With a lunging step forward your pace more than doubles, you will be the vanguard for the wave of iron and fury to crash into them.

>The feeling of man and machine intertwined is electrifying. The diesels roar with fury matching your own as every one of your steps slam into the dirt, pushing you hard at speed neither you or the machine have been graced with on the field before.

>Now your close enough. Green pips appear above active targets as you trace your eyes over them, narrowing into red diamonds as the radar achieves lock on. Once all the pips have flowered into diamonds you depress the triggers for the forward racks.

>Missiles fly on fiery wings and smoking tails. Arcing into the sky as they shriek outwards and then flit downwards just as a falcon would dive onto its quarry.

>You witness another warrior burst into viscera as the warhead strikes into its chest from above. A quartet of its fellows are caught by shrapnel and frenzied tongues of fire.

>Chattering lines of tracers zip into stragglers and outliers as your remote weapon stations open up with their small caliber snare.

>You see about 3 cut down in the span of 8 seconds, your old subgunner was way faster. This is unacceptable.

>You're close enough now, and you raise the weapon arms as you warm the barrels of the twin rotary cannons.

>They growl and roar. Two metal lions issuing their challenge.

>You sweep upwards, scything a road ahead of you, and then sweep to either side with abandon, no friendlies are anywhere near your line of fire.

>The way the warriors burst and crumple in on themselves as they're struck by the enormous energy of the tandem GAU-8s brings a malting of satisfaction to you.

>Now they actually scatter like ripples as you close further and further towards the charred refuse of the dead town.

>Then a counter to the roar of your rotaries rises from the north behind the pitted face of a scorched apartment block.

>Three challengers step over their smaller cousins in the scattering hoard, stags.

>Slavering bipedal monstrosities about four stories high. A quartet of squat limbs supported an equal number of curving blades shaped from excessively hardened chitin. And a six eyed head curved upwards in a large branching horn.

>These things served as some sort of small scale swarm leader, and the bug's own pathetic biology attempting to match the strength of human industry.

>Stags regularly clashed with mechs, but given a rumbler was already larger and likely eight to ten times their mass, they were always at a severe disadvantage.

>The plus sized arthopods were a menace to infantry and lighter vehicles, but with pilots like you around they fell to be such a non-issue that the mech corp stopped counting them as kill marker material a few months into the war.

>A shame since they were still a problem if they attacked in number, and the trio of them issued a counter charge.

>Righteous fury flared, even if you were caught ahead of the armor, you would not show weakness.

>You issued your own challenge against the disgusting trollops, striking the weapon arms against eachother thrice-fold with a loud clanging. As if some ancient god struck hot iron onto an unmoving anvil.

>They roared in response and closed in as you continued your own charge forward. You would best them head on, holding the advantage in mass and firepower, you could not lose.

>Your subgunner said something, the words don't reach you but the tone does. His strength falters as he shouts out his fear.

>He doesn't matter, not here, against opposition that won't fold under his wilting effort.

>You lead in with the monster on your left, panning the rumbler's torso to orient your big guns as your opponent charges.

>The stag is incoming with a low head, attempting to use its horn. You answer with the right side frag cannons, the spread blows apart the insect's head with a spraying of gore and fluids as it falls forward mid stride.

>Sweeping right as the remaining two get even closer, you clamp the trigger for the left side frag cannons at the center stag and keep the momentum of your rotation going.

>The center stag kilters to the side as it catches the bulk of the spread to the chest. The remaining threat opens all four arms to attempt in attack as it closes in to melee range, but you've already accounted for this.

>The auger tenses and hugs into your body as you push against it. The engines howl with fury as you use the momentum of your torso sweep and step in with your left, keeping the left weapon arm deflected outwards at about stomach height.

>The left hook sweeps past the stag's wide open guard and crashes into the side of its head.

>Wailing in pain, its head is cracked and leaking dark ichor as shreds of soft connecting tissue dangle like frayed wired from shattered chitin plates. The momentum of its charge carries it forward and it falls, skidding along the pavement and coming to a halt under you.

>Already it still attempts to stand back up, such tenacity is a human virtue, and your blood curls to see this horrid cur trying to usurp your rightful place.

>You bring the clawed foot over its head as it shakes and pushes, and you slam it down.

>Once for a warmup, twice for good measure, thrice to make certain.

>You rake the clawed heel backwards, shredding and crushing whatever is left of that thing's head as you rake dark streaks and shreds of viscera along the broken asphalt.

>Panning your optics back towards the fallen form of the beast that took center stage, you see it has managed to pick itself up and lurches towards you unevenly.

>Probably thinking in whatever slurry passes for a synaptic organ that it can catch you offguard while your front is panned away from it. But you are the beast of a hundred eyes, nothing escapes you.

>Its fractured chest leaks blood and shreds of soft tissues, utterly ravaged by the frag cannons' explosive shot. Still it meekly calls a lowing howl as it steps in towards you.

>You bring the left weapon arm forward with an underhanded swing that catches it in the chest. The monster stumbles backwards, its reactions and strength already dulled by its injury.

>Pathetic alien, it cannot fight on through thick and thin the way you can, the way humanity has always done.

>It gives a mournful scream as its upper right arm breaks away from it, the tendons snapping as it sloughs off, dragging a tail of gore with it.

>Still it advances, accepting of its death even as its strength fails. Good, it knows its place, but you are not merciful, not with the fire of ages screaming under your breast for more. More blood, more death, let them know fear. Let them know they made a mistake attacking the rightful owners of that black sky.

>Even as its limbs falter it still attacks, trying to lunge forward with a bite from its bizarre four part jaws.

>You counter with a forward thrust from both weapon arms, jamming both into the beast's mouth as it weakly attempts to do anything more than scratch paint.

>It pauses and emits some sort of lowing sound as its strength continues to bleed from it. Your core rumbles to make it suffer.

>With a growl you depress the triggers for the flamers, and napalm streams into the inhuman monstrosity's innards.

>You shove it away and it wavers backwards, screeching as its limbs attempt to bat down flames it cannot reach.

>Smoke billows from the creatures openings as it sways and staggers drunkenly. You cross the right weapon arm over its chest and heave its burning body to the right, lifting the creature off of its feet.

>It careens into the ruins of a house and lays there squirming, too weak to do anything but suffer. Pathetic.

>If the bugs do operate as a hive mind as many say they do, some grim part of yourself hopes the creatures can feel eachother's pain as the stag cooks from the inside out.

>You continue your press forward as the armor catches up, you have work to do.

---

<Teth'ra>

>Cordite and smoke clung over any scent in the air like film, the chatter and thundering of guns in all directions drowns out the slighter sounds your ears may pick up as they swivel to and fro.

>Once again, you don't have the option of falling back on your other senses beyond sight, and once again you pang with sympathy over what humans must have to live with.

>At least once you were actually in the bunker maybe the outside confusion would be muffled enough to bring your other fundamentals back in line.

>But you aren't sure which option is worse right now. Out in the chaos of a larger battlefield you have the distance and time to engage, but so many things outside of your control can go wrong and bring about your end through no fault of your own.

>Inside, you may have your senses about you again, but in those claustrophobic corridors and dark chambers you wouldn't see the enemy until they were already too close. Plus there may be hundreds of them hiding within that death trap.

>You can only hope your superiors allow you the time to be methodical and exceedingly careful about this, or at least put your squad in the back so you are the first out when the retreat is called.

>Suspicions whisper that it won't be that way.

>Your neck bristles, and you try to flatten down the ruff of your neck before anyone notices your nerves surfacing again as you continue marching.

>The air is cold and fouled by the battle as you step in behind the shallow tread marks of the IFV ahead of you.

>You would follow behind the three light vehicles on your way up to the bunker, hopefully without the bugs taking notice of you. As being out in the open with only a trio of autocannon tugs that ditched the TOW launchers for better radios keeps your fur on end.

>Your squad keeps step in front of you, so they can't see your weakness peeking out of your back, but you can see theirs.

>Duran strides at the head, her pace is measured and habitual.

>Her shoulders seem to fade but the way her ears sag suggests some brand of tired acceptance. As if the comparatively stunted trooper simply doesn't care if her death comes instead of being fearful in its anticipation.

>The flamer's armored fuel tanks cling onto her back as the wand is stowed loosely on its hook at the pack's right side. She carries an smg tucked in front of her rather than the napalm caster.

>You wonder if she's anticipating an attack outside of the thrower's effective range or maybe she isn't an unapologetic pyromaniac the way other flamer specialists are, but you can't be certain that she doesn't at least have a streak of that temperament.

>The doberman's stub of a tail gives you nothing so you turn your attention to see how the others are faring.

>The twins keep in stride as they drag along the bofors, easier going over the smooth grass of the strip of green dipping down to the side of the road.

>While to a casual glance they would seem at peace, the ways their ears swivel and the inferring flicks of their tails at any unusual noises that edge over the distant battle clamor betrays how jumpy they are.

>At least they're keeping the outward mask of composure. You're not the only one feeling the tension in the air.

>Matthews and Pliskin have to be the newbloods in your outfit, they seem to visibly jump at just about everything.

>The lizard constantly tastes the air in some effort to smell the bugs over the overpowering scents of gunpowder and fire. And the ocelot scans the nearby trees with eyes and ears and sometimes turns to face towards a particularly close booming of a nearby tank gun.

>Likely the poor girls are thinking any allied shots nearby must mean the bugs are right on top of them. With that much it's obvious how new they are to this sort of situation.

>Feldspar walks at your side and you consider turning your head to evaluate her, but she must have had the same thought concerning you.

>"Scared, aren't ya sarge?"

>For all of your practiced composure, the fur on your neck and tail refused to flatten out, and she saw right through you.

"That obvious is it?"

>The creepings of doubt itched under your ears, already you failed to present the beacon of strength your men were supposed to rally under.

>Soon you would be labeled as a failure in command. You only had six to look after, and circumstance was shaping to destroy them.

>You were too scared to think of a way to ensure that didn't happen.

>"I'm scared too ma'm, it's alright if you're a bit antsy." Looking over you could tell she wasn't lying. The minute twitches of her tail and her own fur standing at attention along her spine gave it away.

>"Some days I can't get over the pre-action jitters either. You hide the ears and tail well, but the fur is kinda obvious with it being that short and all."

>It wasn't the typical pre-battle nerves pitching you closer towards panic, it was the dread of being thrown at a near-impossible objective.

>The inference that you were so inexperienced as to be wilting to a simple case of nerves was insulting considering how the lioness challenged you earlier.

"I could say the same about you corporal. Besides.. I'm more worried over the objective than the battle."

>That seemed to get her attention. Feldspar's ears flick and momentary worry dresses her eyes. If the big bad queen bitch that is her sergeant is worried over something, it must be terrifying.

>Such a little reassurance that the lioness is feeling more of that terror than you helps to re-secure your confidence in your own authority.

>"What would that be ma'm?" You can pick out the worry floating on her voice, another reassurance she thinks more of you than as just some uptight NCO.

"This path we're following? It leads up into a bunker complex at the head of the ridge..."

>"So that's where we're going..."

>Her silence conveys more than words ever could.

>The IFVs ahead of your troop narrow into single file from their three abreast formation before. The path up to the bunker is too narrow for the vehicles to pass one another.

>But that means if your forward IFV takes a hit, your armor support is completely stalled for the rest of your advance to the insertion point.

>Yet more possibilities outside of your control to worry over.

>Looking around you count the rest of second platoon as well as Alpha company's first platoon.

>More bodies between the bugs and you, all in all a little over a hundred being sent in this side of the bunker.

>The steady thumping of the armor corps bombardment slowly winds down, and you feel a different kind of thumping through your boots.

>Seismic hammers are pounding away at the east wing of the advance, drawing the bugs away for the armor to ready a charge.

>The clowns commanding the Goliaths gun their engines as they sit in place, waiting. Looking over to your left, you see Tom's Rumbler has posted up at the leading edge of the formation, and seems to entirely ignore the tankers' boasting.

>On the other side of the hill, that low chattering of machine gun and autocannon picks up as the jokers over there throw just about everything they have at the agitated bugs.

>Stuck in the middle, is you.

>As your advance crawls forward along the narrow path it's bizarrely quiet. Without the rolling fire of all those big guns you can hear the wind shift and whistle as it rustles through the tawny grass.

>You make the most of this and direct your ears forward, trying to clue in on anything approaching over the low hum of the IFVs' engines as they crawl ahead.

>Nothing about the noise ahead of you seems out of place. The anticipation of some sort of attack while your out in the open like this is maddening, especially as nothing comes up as a sort of forewarning.

>By your mental pacing, the troop is about halfway towards the bunker, and still your anxiety climbs, squeezing your heart and raising needles out of your skin.

>You're not sure which is worse at this point: the heart straining tension from expecting an attack at any second or actually being under fire.

>Still nothing.

>And then everything.

>Five minutes on the dot after the seismic hammers started, a cataclysmic explosion of noise from the left pins your ears down and sends you diving against the ground on instinct. Half the troop joins you.

>Checking over yourself, nothing seems amiss. You ignore the dull throbs from your chest pressing into the earth and that sore spot from your chin scraping across the dust.

>You aren't bleeding, nothing is jutting out of you, and nothing feels like it's broken. That or you haven't noticed anything like that.

>A quick headcount turns up your squad. Feldspar is almost on top of you, the Jorgenson sisters are hunkered behind the bulk of their cannon, Matthews and Pliskin have practically fallen over themselves, and finally Duran squats low, seeming to trust that her relative proximity to the vehicles will shelter her.

>Looking around everyone seems to be in possession of all their limbs, your focus cuts back to Duran.

>Hauling that fuel tank really filled out her legs, and she about looks fit to burst out of her very worn and threadbare pants, that's a uniform violation waiting to happen.

>Wait...

>Were you really snapping into the NCO role so casually?

>The adrenaline shot must be forcing you into the rut of routine and drill since you can't confirm any immediate danger.

>The cacophony earlier was just the armor opening up with every gun they have at the same time. Without saying anything first.

>assholes

>You're unsettled, but alert. The initial panic has flown away and carried the anxiety with it, now that something actually did set you off.

>The march picks up again as everyone dusts themselves off.

>As of now you are combat ready, your fears have been shunted out of you, and your body is more than ready to either attack or retreat.

>Captain Lyons pokes his head back out of the hatch he dove in, the prideful creature apparently can't be bothered with walking when theres a perfectly good IFV to stuff his mane into.

>And to hide in when the shooting starts and there's no point in keeping at that game officers play where they pretend to lead from the front.

>The day an officer actually uses a rifle for more than decorum is the day you have officially died and been sent to hell to be tormented for all eternity by visions of things that are blatantly impossible.

>Impossibilities like Tom thinking of you as anything more than the strange, headstrong, maladjusted woman that crashed into his life, and alternated between fixing his ills and setting him on edge all over again, as well as depressing him with your own issues.

>With no present threat, your adrenaline addled brain starts running down any solid chain of consciousness it can muster.

>Namely how you're already sinking and muddling your relation with Tom.

>You never learn, and here you are doing it again, going in too strong and too fast.

>Your increasingly lonely heart decided to latch onto the first hint of genuine companionship it could get its focus on, and it drove you to override your better judgment.

>Looking back, you can't even explain your rationale behind that first night. In that jittering afterglow of combat, slowly climbing down from the restless impulse of adrenaline, some passion stirred violently towards your savior.

>You restrained yourself throughout the day, through the debriefs and check ins on those that had been wounded.

>And you learned more about him as you eavesdropped on that conversation between the Lieutenant and that trio from central.

>Perhaps it was there that your instincts had identified him as a risk for self-harm, and your memories of your brother drove you to act fast before it was too late.

>Then there was the way he appeared from nowhere and saved the lot of you, striking some chord within yourself that resonated on a fanciful note.

>If this was a storybook tale, the wounded hero had to get his... reward~ from the princess right?

>You had managed to talk yourself down from that ludicrous fantasy and settle for just trying your model best to help him using whatever came to mind.

>Even then you couldn't think on why your aggressive approach actually worked, or why you thought it was the correct idea other than it 'feeling right'.

>Once your excitement had petered out and that lust subsided, you were left with that nagging question.

>What even DO you want from this?

>The confusion of the situation and your own anxiety over your mistakes mask the answer from you.

>You're dead certain you at least want to maintain a friendship and camaraderie, But you feel as if something is pulling you in towards him.

>It's not some base lust, even as your instincts ride high due to spring fever.

>Your 'jackal only' gold standard left you a long time ago, and as an outcast you always had an easier time of accepting more taboo things like that particular idea.

>So you hadn't tied yourself up lying to yourself over being attracted to him or not.

>You're fairly sure humans have maintained much more solid species boundaries than your own kind anyhow.

>There was also his phobia to consider, it was lessened around you, a sign of your success in forging a genuine connection. But it was still there, lurking, and keeping you from getting too close.

>You want to help him understand, to try and ease down his fears so something like that incident in the rain doesn't happen again.

>If he would stop distancing himself from you, and if you could practice some restraint as to not harbor a repeat of this morning, you could draw him close to you and give him some true peace.

>But did you want him that close so you can finally have a friend of comparable fortitude to shelter under, or because you want more?

>Already he bore some of your secrets, and he didn't run off on you considering how pathetic you must have looked.

>How pathetic you are, scrambling for attention and care despite your pride. But is it wrong to clamor for someone that would understand you? That can finally look past what you are and instead into who you are.

>Someone who would agree with who you are.

>Whether as a friend or that distant hope of something more. Maybe once you had given him time and space to think, and you had reigned yourself in, you could talk over this and figure yourselves out.

>Once you get out of this alive.

-if-

>It doesn't matter how small that chance of survival is, you'll force it to be higher until you don't have to distract yourself with worry.

>By now your column is far forward of the advancing armor. The captain makes the obvious clear in that the objective is to silence any acid spitters hiding in those gunports before they can get a shot on the armor corp's flank.

>Judging by the murmuring under the hum of the vehicles, not many were happy that they were being sent in to clear out a bunker nest in the center of the field.

>You weren't happy either, but your squad was at least prepared for an eventuality like this.

>Between all seven of you, you had more than enough explosives and automatic firepower to hold your ground even in the short narrows of the bunker's tunnels.

>There was also Duran's flamethrower, which would be more than capable in the choking confines of the complex.

>For now you kept your eyes peeled down towards the town. The steep sides of the hill were hopefully enough to keep the bugs off your flank as you crept out along the path.

>That distant roaring of engines, punctuated by the intermittent drumbeats of big guns, swallows any noise over your shoulder.

>You wonder if they would even hear or see any of the signs of your own struggle within that concrete tomb.

>For all the world cares you may as well just vanish once you step inside.

>You continue stalking forward, keeping your stride short and balanced as you cradle the weight of your big gun.

>You scan every patch of grass and every tree above you on the slope, expecting for a bug to be in any one of them.

>The captain calls a halt, the entry point is within site, but there's bugs.

>A hundred-fifty meters ahead, they seem to scrabble and mill about a dull concrete archway. You count around fifty from this range.

>You wish you had binoculars or some sort of scope to see them more clearly. What shapes do border themselves against their fellows suggests warriors.

>The most common of the swarming bugs, some five hundred pound, hell-spawned crossbreed between a cockroach and a mantis shrimp.

>Awful dumb but they would keep charging unless you tore them into pieces, and those spearing claws were nothing to scoff at if they got close enough.

>One of the first things every grunt learns in basic is to never let them get close.

>Everyone creeps forward to form some manor of disciplined fire ranks before the shots start flying. The sisters get a choice pick, settling their Bofors just to the left of the lead IFV.

>The front runners of the sled rig are folded outwards and the twins break open latches to let the skids hang forward as stabilizing legs. The cats use their boots to softly drive short pins into the dirt.

>The rear of the rig folds into raking claws meant to dig into the earth at the gun's back to counteract the recoil. All in all, it takes them around 15 seconds to set up.

>Obviously they've had a lot of practice at it, and it must take another 3-5 seconds for them to line up the gun with the targets.

>You kneel over a bump in the road and shoulder the mass of your gun, and the training comes back to you.

>Shoulder the weapon, steady your breathing, align the sight picture, choose your target, move the sight picture over the target, and focus.

>You level the sights onto your chosen shape within the mass and press the stock against your shoulder. The forward grip makes it awkward to hold up at a high angle like this, but your kneeling stance helps.

>You keep your breathing measured and mechanical and focus on your target, just waiting for the order.

>The M2 can reach out and touch someone at almost two klicks away, provided you aim right.

>You fold your ears down, so as not to damage one of your sharpest senses with the imminent firefight.

>Captain Lyons walks tentatively along the right side of the road, holding a closed fist upward in the signal to hold fire.

>He's playing that game again. The hill's curvature hides him and the right edge of the path from the bugs as once again he pretends to lead the charge.

>The anticipation from hovering your index over the trigger is driving you up the damn wall.

>Come on idiot, we don't have all day!

>These damn bugs aren't going to stop you now that your rolling closer towards something to live for, the sooner they're gone the better.

>He moves his hand forward in a chopping motion, and before he can even finish the motion you act.

>It's perfect muscle memory at this point, inhale, squeeze, and exhale.

>Your M2 is the first to bark as you watch the bright streak fly, connecting the mg's muzzle to the center mass of a warrior, with a wet burst of gore it screams and retreats behind its broodmates. Your 3 consecutive shots scatter into others within the clumping of targets.

>The rest of the troop cracks off, rifle fire enfilading into the enemy as the Bofors suddenly comes to life to your right.

>The cracking THOOM of the autocannon sounds four times, striking down an equal number of warriors in violent squalls of viscera.

>The violet of their sanguine fluids almost seems to sparkle as high flying droplets are caught in the sun's light.

>Maybe there is still some beauty to be found in these war-torn wastes once the bugs are cut down.

>You breath in again and concentrate on controlling the buck and kick of the .50 cal more as you squeeze into another burst.

>Five rounds this time, three hit their mark in a warrior's center mass, and it crumples. One hits another warrior, and the last round dives into the dirt.

>The AC on the IFV joins in now, the 25mm bushmaster rattles off 8 shots, killing 5.

>More warriors fall to concentrated bursts of rifle and smg fire, a pack this small can't hope to close in on your line without being shredded.

>The Bofors bellows again, eviscerating three and missing a fourth shot. That damn autocannon is making you look bad.

>You didn't get these HEIAP rounds for show, and you focus in on landing a burst into a warrior's core.

>The first shot flies wide, the second hits a warrior square between the eye stalks as it instantly falls dead.

>Acting more on an idea of how to handle such a large weapon, you keep the trigger down and use the kick of the recoil to walk your fire onto a second target.

>the third round flies into the shifting hoard as they try to cover the gaps, the following three strike into the upper body of that same warrior you hit once with an earlier burst, killing it.

>You keep the chain going and walk onto a third, then a fourth, and a fifth. Stopping as you lose count of how many more shots you fired, and because your hair is on end.

>The feeling of this much power in your hands is exhilarating! Maybe this is a taste of what being a pilot is like.

>The AC's bang on again and the bugs turn about and start making back towards the bunker, thinned to about a dozen or so at this point.

>But you aren't going to let them get away that easily, and you aim again on the one that looks the most wounded.

>Noticing the rising wisps of steam snaking off of the barrel, you think to restrain yourself to a short burst.

>You can't afford to over stress the barrel when you are only carrying a single spare.

>Three rounds, three hits, and the retreating warrior falls. Ya still got it. The rest fold in short order to allied fire.

>The discordant orchestrations of automatic fire cease, leaving echoes and local dead air. It would be dead air if it weren't for the dying hisses of a few bugs, but they quickly fade away.

>You keep your aim trained on the dark portal of that scarred concrete entranceway for a short while longer.

>Nothing pokes its head out to get blasted. Either the monsters are getting clever and hiding in there where they have the advantage, or perhaps the dim animals are rightfully terrified of the biting sting of powder and led.

>Regardless, the initial excitement seems to be over.

>You had bagged seven, and at the cost of what you estimated to be around a third of your current belt. If you had stuck with the old carbine, swapping mags would have been a necessity halfway in to the fight.

>It was a quick and dirty engagement, with every advantage handed towards you.

>The range that any EDF rifleman preferred and trained to work with, your overwhelming wall of fire, the enemy only being able to threaten you from a single direction, and all that time you were gifted to get into position.

>Of course, the rest of today can't possibly go that well.

>You raise your ears slowly, nothing ahead seems to be screaming or moving.

>There isn't any obvious sign of how many could be hiding within that concrete maze, and every corner could hold new, life ending surprises.

>You pang for however gets the unenviable position of pointman.

>Feldspar strolls up to your side with a low whistle, well, the best wheezing of air a cat can excuse as a whistle with those lips.

>"Hell sarge, bit of a crack shot aren't chya?" You note the slight drawl that slips in towards the end, but for now you reflect on how right she is.

"It's not like I'm out of practice."

>That much was true. Looking over, the lioness seemed skeptical, she must be testing you. Trying to see how full of yourself you are when riding high on victory.

>"Really now?" she said, arching a brow.

>She definitely thinks your stroking your own ego at this point. So you deflect the credit towards the weapon rather than the talents of its operator.

"With the weight this girl has it's easy to control the kick. From there it's just point and shoot."

>That sounded a bit more high and mighty than you would like, so you pat the lump of metal behind the feed port to append your point.

"She's a good gun."

>Somehow it felt right calling the block of iron a she.

>"She? Are you gonna name it now?"

>...

>That actually sounded like a good idea to you, but what the hell could you even come up with?

>It wasn't important right now anyways, and you could christen your bfg with some clawmarks once your mission was over and you could collapse into the nearest bed.

>You huffed and grinned, deflecting her playful jab.

"Well corporal, can't you appreciate your own weapon?"

>She looks down thoughtfully and seems to agree.

>The armor starts trundling forward again, and the two platoons move up ahead to try and flush out anything that hasn't come out for a fight yet.

---

>The entry into the bunker was quiet, you don't like quiet. Quiet means they're plotting something.

>You don't care if the riflemen's primer told you bugs don't have the mental capacity to plot. You just know they fucking do.

>The troopers ahead of you check along every possible corner of the antechamber, and still there's nothing.

>Then they start filing through a stark white blast door, looking to be about a foot thick and probably weighing tons.

>Numerous claw marks furrow into the steel around the edges and locking mechanisms. The bugs had peeled it open.

>The bastards are in here, the increasingly disconcerting question being: where?

>Flashlights dance along the stark grey of the eerily silent corridors as squads file in ahead of yours. No chatter of gunfire or screams of bugs come out as men rush through the ajar blast door.

>Something is wrong here, you can almost feel some charge in the dusty air.

>The atmosphere is chilled and dry within, as it is outside, but somehow it feels more... artificial.

>Could just be the bunker's defunct air recyclers making the air stale, but that slight bitter tinge on the tip of your tongue agitates you.

>The other trooper's lights provide more than enough illumination for now, and you try to spot any halls or convenient grates that haven't been checked yet.

>Troopers sound off clear reports from the other side of the hall you move down. The cramped security desks and locker rooms probably wouldn't shelter a pack of warriors well regardless.

>Both platoons creep forward, sweeping lights and gun barrels along every opening, but still as you advance in nothing jumps out at you.

>If this place is an active nest, you should be getting swarmed with how deep in you're getting. A fact that continues to push at that ever-present fear of the unknown.

>Something is wrong, you don't know what, and that fact is driving you to consider volunteering to secure the entrance where you have an easy way out.

>The mass of troopers around you presses you further, helped by that doubt that doing such a thing would make you appear to be an even bigger coward than Lyons.

>Wisping dust is kicked off the floor by passing boots, dancing in the beams of flashlights like minute moths around a lantern.

>The halls look like they haven't been disturbed since the bunker was sealed, but you know the bugs are here, the door is open, and they had a pack outside.

>What is going on?

>A momentary thought occurs to you: what if you had perished without even noticing and this impossible bunker is your purgatory?

>Cold nips harshly at your back and you shut your eyes, shaking away the momentary spike in fear.

>Things are just... strange. Not impossible.

>It wasn't unheard of for the bugs to move through some place and not really disturb much. The animals didn't have the inhibition to loot and occupy, just kill and make a nest out of the biggest hole in the ground they can find.

>Even if the bugs rarely leave bodies, even they can't go about without disturbing the dust and decay of a facility this old.

>Something is.. different. about this place, and your not keen on finding out what.

>Eventually you file into a far larger chamber, the round sort of cupola splitting off to about 4 different wide hallways, including the one you just emerged from.

>Making your judgments by the half empty stacks of crates and some sort of.. oxygen tanks? this place is some sort of central supply hub.

>From here both platoons seem uncertain of which direction to go, the wing of the bunker you just came in from held nothing.

>The hall to the left must branch off into the gunports and pillboxes dug into the north face of the ridge. This seems like the more obvious way to go judging by the stated objective: clearing acid spitters from their potential hiding spots.

>The corridor opposite must lead in towards the motorpool and the east side SAM sites, but the objective there was more about securing the second entrance for the eastern wing of the advance. And seeing how empty this place seemed, would be an easy solve.

>Then there was a particularly ill lit hall leading off to the right. That one went deeper inside the hill, little doubt held on your thoughts that the command post, barracks facilities, and the potential nest lie that way.

>Don't wanna go that way.

>Studying the circular chamber, you note what looks like tracks embedded into the floor.

>The peculiarity makes little sense to you until you remember what the artillery officer said.

>Hellfire battery

>This place must have an internal rail system to ship ammo to that marvel of overkill from some sort of munitions bunker.

>One you might be standing on.

>You note what frighteningly looks like a shell elevator nestled into the right corner of the hub, and your hair raises on end again.

>Your paranoia starts getting the better of you, and you do NOT want to be standing on top of a live ammo dump when things look increasingly like a trap.

>The mess of other troopers don't seem to recognize the potential danger, and seem to be happy milling about doing nothing of actual substance while everything is nice and quiet.

>You, on the other hand, want to move, and fast, before some marauder planted bomb on the munitions below turns all of you into paste.

>Lyons strides in attempting to look collected and elegant like some old time aristocratic fop.

>You don't have time for this shit.

"Shouldn't we be moving sir? The armor isn't going to wait on us."

>"erm.. uh, quite right sergeant. Bravo!" he blusters. You seemed to have catapulted him off kilter for whatever grandiose bullshitting of pomp and circumstance he was preparing to rally the troops with.

>The tanks WON'T wait on this place to be handled before blundering forward, and Tom is with them, so your reasoning for hurry isn't completely selfish.

>From across the room, you catch Vilka staring at you like you've just sprouted an extra head. And then robbed her of her favorite chew toy.

>It's likely the stress slipping off your restraint but what comes next just feels right.

>You crack off a rather sly grin, and stare dead at her with your head cocked at an angle, ears held low.

>It was quite possibly the smuggest look you could imagine, and you saw wolves do it to eachother all the time.

>You can only imagine the sharper profile of your muzzle enhances the image.

>The way her jaw goes slack is priceless.

>You move to hide your bulk behind other troopers (not easy when you stand head and shoulders over most) and let off a quiet snicker under your breath.

>That small release abates the fear, slightly. It was cathartic to finally be able to torment the wolf a little for all that she put you through.

>While Lyons seems to deliberate over the next course of action, you close your eyes and try to pick out anything that may clue you in towards imminent danger.

>Some bitterant in the air curbs your sense of smell, stinging at the inside of your nose and throwing away any aroma that may be drifting in the stillness. You have to resist that urge to sneeze.

>You concentrate on listening as you breath through your mouth to lessen that sting within your nostrils.

>Tuning your ears away from the murmur of the others, you start to pick out a few things.

>That slight sort of distant heaving of the battle outside as shells shake the ground. The hollow pop of empty pipes settling in their brackets. The faintest hum and tick of ventilators, someone left the environmental systems on. But why?

>Not picking up any sign of the enemy is driving you mad with paranoia. So you measure your breathing and forget the others are even there, concentrating entirely on filtering through what auditory cues your tall ears can pluck from the air.

>You finally get something, some nigh-imperceivable scraping of something gliding on concrete.

>It's extremely distant, and you can barely register it, but it's there, something else is alive deep in the complex.

>Knowing where they are lets you prepare, and reaffirms your decision to avoid the deeper complex like the plague.

>Going forward or to the left would be fine, spitters were easy as long as you caught them out alone, and the path to the motorpool wouldn't take you in towards where the core nest undoubtedly was.

>You breath a short sigh of relief. The odds are two to one in your favor, and Lyons' roleplaying as an old country gentleman tilts the odds further.

>As big as you are, and despite your aversion to being waited on with hand and foot, you are still a woman. And the captain's self-assigned character can't let a woman go in with the dangerous work down below.

>He claps his hands to grab everyone's attention, well almost everyone aside from the grunts assigned to cover the entrances.

>"Right everyone, from here on in we split up to take the objectives. No time to waste with the tanks rolling forward!"

>"Second platoon! you fine ladies will take two squads north to root out those spitters, should be a fine endeavor. And you will send the rest to go and open up the motorpool for our boys advancing from the east."

>A weight slides off your shoulders, thank fuck that the cowardly lion is too much of a back-bent traditionalist to send you into the teeth of the enemy.

>"Miss Vilka, I trust a specimen such as yourself can handle things in my absence."

>The flattery towards a 'specimen' that blatantly doesn't deserve it makes a snicker jump around in your mouth again before you swallow it down.

>As much as you can blame on nerves you don't want to overplay it, and you spend a fair amount of your current time musing over your grenade count.

>"Alpha one, I haven't worked with your group before but you're the best this battalion has to offer. So take the lead on the charge inward!"

>The other platoon with you is from A company, the primarily human slice of the 606. Being Alpha's first platoon, their the hardest worked, and the most deeply scarred. Theirs' is a distinct mixing of grizzled survivors and fresh faces among the predominantly male section.

>But before everyone starts moving a gravelly, barking sort of voice hoarse with age and exertion sounds from within the bulk of first platoon.

>"Sir, shouldn't we be taking the assault squad in with us? Ours is out of action for the next week."

>Your eyes creep wide with worry, they're talking about you!

>"Poor bastards." adds a tenorous english drawl. For all you care he could be talking about both their decimated assault squad, and sympathizing with your own.

>Lyon's seems conflicted as he scans you over. You hope dearly that your physique doesn't betray you in his eyes. As strong as you are, you still flare with the shape of a woman, something a puppet of dead chivalry like the captain swears to protect.

>Your own internal conflict jostles for competition with his dilemma over sending the fairer sex to draw blood, You don't want to be dragged in to the harrowing press deeper into this creeping hovel in the ground. Yet your sense of duty nags sharply at you, were you really so willing to abandon your comrades, how well could they fair without an assault squad?

>Were you really such a coward if you hadn't thrown away your will to live like some tin marionette?

>Now more than ever you want to live, something stirring in you gives you a reason. Him.

>He's kind and willing to understand you, you need to see this through, you can't let yourself die and leave him on his own.

>He needs you.

-you love him-

>it... It's still far too early to say.

>Maybe you really are just a coward.

>A desperate, lonely, coward.

>The captain continues to scan over you, some comparison turning in his head between your feminine side, which he holds to protect, and your strength, which he was trained to utilize.

>Thankfully he can't seem to reach some sort of conclusion.

>"hmmm, well miss Magual you are quite.. capable."

>He seems to be in that crucial moment at making his decision, you want to open with some sort of objection to keep you with your platoon.

>But Vilka speaks first.

>"Captain Lyons sir, second platoon is more than capable without sergeant Magual, first platoon needs all the support they can get."

>Bitch!

>Lyons seems to snap to a conclusion, and you brace yourself.

>"hmmmm, yes. quite. Sergeant! You and I will go into the breach with first platoon. Spirit of endeavor and so forth!"

>Your ears sink and your tail curls. You swallow a pitiful whine that nearly escapes your lips.

>If you were alone you would probably be hugging your tail at this point. Instinct screams that this is the wrong move, you hate the idea of going into a fight headlong, you like to plan and prepare, to turn every advantage you have on the enemy to ensure your own safety.

>Now that layer of security has been ripped away, and you clamor to have that blanket returned to you.

>But the troopers start filing towards their assigned objectives, half of your platoon peels to the left, the other half, and Vilka, goes forward to what is by far the easiest objective.

>You grind your teeth. fluffy coward howler!

>And now you have to march to your death with the other coward in command right behind you. You prepare to lighten your heart.

>For when you have to face the scales.

---

>Facing the possibility of death is never easy, and you were never one to face such combative problems directly. Not without tipping the circumstances in your favor first, and even then you preferred to attack such problems by surprise.

>You can't surprise a bug in their own nest, and the urgency of the captain's advancing orders refuses to give you the time you need to take to do this the way it needs to be done. Slowly and methodically.

>Your instincts still attempt to shake down what remains of your resolve.

>You're willfully descending into the lair of a larger animal and challenging it inside it's own home, this is wrong.

>The primal urges want you to lure the beast outside and go for the neck while it's unaware.

>But that's not an option.

>You wonder how the hell they do it?

>How do humans fight their instincts in such a tense situation as this?

>Maybe they don't have too, maybe the hairless apes have no instincts.

>...

>No. You don't have to run.

>You aren't helpless in a direct fight.

>You're still a royal jackal, larger and stronger than your smaller cousins.

>You can afford to stand your ground.

>There's also your weapon, which outclasses your old one by magnitudes.

>Your squad is there too, you can bare your teeth with that sort of support at your back.

>You can square your shoulders, don't let them see your doubts. And then you lunge, cutting down anything that challenges you with the securing power of your weapon.

>The 6 squads creep forward in the darkness of the complex, the wide hall moving deeper into the hill is the largest by far.

>You follow the tracks in the center of the hall, behind the bulk of first platoon in order to keep yourself at equal distance from any possible threats.

>More chambers branching off, more nothing.

>Eventually a pair of blast doors come up in a slight bend in the corridor.

>The massive things were left open, seems like no one really bothered sealing any internal doors that didn't directly lead further into the complex.

>Peeking through over the heads of the squad filing through to clear it, you see arrays of computers and devices stacked against the walls. A large map table dominates to lowered center of the room.

>You've reached the command post. Those dim red lights don't bode well.

>You keep yourself to the refuge of the hallway, where you at least have a fair bit of distance in two directions to work with.

>The squads sent in call clear. That call is starting to prompt twitches and spasms to crawl from your back.

>The enemy is in here, but pressing in only not to find them gives the increasing sense that something is wrong.

>At least your far enough away from the munitions bunker at this point to settle that paranoia.

>The platoon continues onward, your squad and first platoon's command squad filed in behind the four rifle squads at the lead.

>Dorms and various quarters line up on both sides of the hall, you were expecting the enemy, they would have nested here.

>More clearing, and still no sign of anyone having been here before you.

>That thought still sends icy needles into your back.

>Something is wrong.

>You keep pressing forward, flashlights scanning every possible entrance or concealment. Something is wrong.

>The brigade halts, there's some murmuring in the front ranks.

>What have they seen, what did they hear?

>You don't know, they're too far ahead.

-something is wrong-

>You stop and kneel, and give the hand signal for your squad to ready for attack. The sisters get to work setting up the Bofors.

>Line up the sight picture, choose a target, focus. The old mantra from basic chatters cyclically in your head.

>You steady your breathing and stare into the darkness from behind the mg's comfortingly large body.

>Choke your breath, concentrate, ignore the frantic beating in your ears.

>Listen.

>Something is there.

>A screeching bounces around the confined acoustics of the bunker hall, everyone readies, scanning for where it's coming from.

>You're already ahead of them on that front, and some beam from a light catches a glimmer off of some dark shine ahead of you in the corridor before it sweeps along, forgetting that it was even there.

>You snap to the spot you last saw it and open fire. The tracers catch something center mass. Keeping the trigger down and concentrating on clamping down hard on the kick of each shot, you continue firing into the darkness ahead which at this point is moving.

>Some bright flood of light dazzles you for a moment, before your pupils shrink back down. The Jorgensons have turned on some sort of floodlight mounted to their stabilizer rig.

>Bugs, lots of them. and they're close.

>Too damn close!

>Curse this fucking bitterant hanging around the air! You should have smelled them before they got this close!

>You have no time to really think of things, they'll be on you in seconds so you keep the trigger down as the Bofors opens up, its thudding report pounding in the confines of the tunnels.

>Every crack and report is magnified as the forward ranks rapidly reorient and open fire on the advancing packs.

>Dancing flashlights and the strobing flash from muzzle fire creates a dazzling chaos of lights from every direction.

>The echoing thrum of every shot fired makes it near-impossible to pick out exactly where the fire is originating from, if only you could smell anything to try and orient yourself on more recent observations.

>No wonder tunnel rats hate their job.

>Something is burning at this point.

>Your shots are starting to stray off target at this point despite your best effort and you lay off the trigger to try and reorient the gun

>You notice as you pull away from the sights that the barrel is glowing, the feint red pools of heat radiating from the muzzle pull you back to your senses.

>SHIT! You had laid on the trigger for too long in your panic and had gone and overheated the barrel.

>You don't even have a solid idea of how much of the belt you used up. Stupid! STUPID!

>The bugs crash forward towards the line, the troopers at the head fire wildly as the ranks behind them take more practiced shots when they can in the confusion. The monsters are getting too close!

>easy girl, easy. Just let the barrel cool off, keep your composure.

>But you can't just stand by and do nothing to help.

>You reach for your hip and take out your sidearm, another one of the hundreds of slide operated 9mm jobs you never learned to distinguish from the rest.

>Honestly speaking the thing is rather small in your hand, which might be why you barely ever used it.

>You let the M2 rest on its stock, using your free hand on the forward grip to keep it off the ground, from there you try to pick out any stand out targets in the swarm.

>The shapes of warriors are overwhelming but something seems off about the way they're moving now that you stop and look.

>Somehow they seem... erratic, directionless.

>Usually they moved with some vague sense of order, like pack hunters, but here they seemed to scramble into eachother like they're just as confused by the chaos as your own side. You had never seen anything like this before.

>Something else seemed to catch your eye in the darkness beyond the lights. Something large.

>The shape evolved as it rumbled forwards, pushing the mass of warriors out of the way.

>No. not here in the tunnels.

>Your dread grew as the light caught on stone-like grey chiten plates bordered by some diseased yellow. Flatheads!

>Rifle shots bounce harmlessly off of the monster's lowered headplate, and already it's too close for comfort as the bulk of warriors prevented it from being sighted earlier.

>Flatheads are some sort of supersized trilobyte beetle, their tops are covered in thick natural armor that they used to advance forward with impunity.

>And now you were in the worst place to face one of them, in the narrow confines of a tunnel, where you can't flank them. Unless.

"Mocha! Minna! Base of fire on that goddamn flathead NOW!"

>Your not sure if your order was heard and you can't make out a reply, but you notice the muzzle of the Bofors swing around.

>The first shell careens into the edge of the bug's headplate, breaking off a sizable chunk of the broad arrowhead but doing no real damage to the soft body below.

>The second and third hit more towards the center mass. The flathead's plates can only do so much against high caliber firepower like that. The beast howls and pauses in its charge forwards as the two grisly wounds on its back sting and burn into it.

>The fourth shot takes the head off in a bursting of dark viscera as the round explodes inside of the beetle's flesh.

>Then the Bofors produces a sort of hollow clang.

>"Out of ammo!" yowls one of the cats. "We need to reload!" adds the other.

>Another large shape charges forward from up the corridor. another flathead.

>SHIT!

>Already the appearance of the first one has forced you to give ground. The forward ranks have pressed back into their fellows to keep out of range of the warriors.

>It's all going wrong!

>Looking over towards the captain, you can almost taste the fear he's radiating. You anticipate the retreat order.

>Not a bad idea considering how close the bugs are pressing in. You need distance, and time for the twins to reload.

"Girls! pack up! we need distance!"

>They seem to pause as they raise the small crescent mag out of the top of the gun, then the captain bellows a retreat order, and they get to work collapsing the gun stand to move it.

>It's rather quick and they start dragging the gun back, you order the grenadiers forward to ready for a bit of a bombardment once the rifles pull away.

>But you realize with growing horror that they aren't fast enough, the warriors are gaining too much ground with the flathead there to soak fire and provide cover.

>The barrel of your weapon has cooled off, the time is now.

>you hike the stock up to your shoulder and stand tall, your height allowing you a clear line of fire over the scramble of retreating troopers.

>picture, target, focus, fire.

>You lay in with concentrated bursts, 3 rounds to kill a warrior, 4 to strike down another.

>A young private trips over himself and spirals onto his back.

>Two warriors scuttle towards him, screeching their terrible song. Raking claws raise, ready to strike.

>In a panic, he pours what remains of his magazine into one, managing to kill it. He screams in terror, the rifle clicks empty as he tries to save himself against the second.

>The claw is coming down, you have to be fast.

>You crack off two rounds, one managing to strike the warrior in its vital point, and it collapses to the side.

>Keep laying fire into whatever warriors rush ahead of the pack, you can still save him.

>The private managed to scramble to his feet, fumbling with his mag as he tries to reload while backing away.

>You loose a growl and cut in towards another warrior with a five round burst.

>Run idiot! just turn and run!

>Your breath quickens, does he not remember the training? Range is the greatest strength you have! why doesn't he open the distance?!

>The urge rises to scream at the rookie, but he can't hear you over the scramble and retreating fire.

>More warriors charge in, you have to try!

>You lay in with more fire, trying to keep the warriors at bay more than kill them, to give the rookie the opening he needs to run.

>He snaps in a new mag, and finally he seems to understand what you've been mentally willing at him the whole time.

>As the flathead charges forward, he runs.

>The flathead misses him completely, careening into the wall, warriors take up the pursuit as the massive bug attempts to reorient itself.

>Just a little longer and he's in the clear.

>You get a good luck at him while he's caught in the glow from all the flashlights.

>A rounded boyish face with a frock of dark hair and bright eyes, turned gaunt and bloodshot by tears and panic. His face sheens slick with tears. He's young, can't really be more than a kid.

>How old is he even? 19? 18?

>More warriors charge out, damn things are fast, two more rounds takes down another with a shot to the nerve cluster.

>You ready to aim on another, your heart is beating furiously. Your composure is slipping and you're letting more of the animal take over.

>Instincts tell you to run but you have to at least hold out to give that kid a chance.

>Now you have the perfect focus on a warrior, aiming straight for the inhuman monster's core as its teeth gnash in anticipation of drawing blood.

>You squeeze the trigger.

*clack*

>No! you're out!

>You weren't paying attention to how many rounds you used!

>You can't find any more reason to fight your instincts, so you start backing away while opening the feed cover to slot in a new belt.

>All you can do now is hope.

>Your hands refuse to stop shaking, were your nerves really this bad without the security of a loaded gun?

>As you try to steady yourself enough to load in a fresh belt from the ones hanging on your shoulders, you look with desperation towards the private.

>He's not running fast enough.

>Feldspar and the two other grenadiers have been lobbing explosives into the approaching hoard, mostly concentrated on taking out the flathead before it can do any real damage, but you aren't paying attention.

>The plight of this kid private, this boy, enraptures your attention. As to why you can't really think on, maternal instincts, reminders of your brother, those embers of your decency and kindness flaring in the hope that he lives.

>You look down and finally manage to slot in your fresh belt, you need more practice at this.

>The feed cover snaps closed and you pin the stock under your arm as you rack the action back.

>You look up just in time to take in his eyes, as he looses a strangled cry, And stumbles.

>Your heart drops, a warrior had gotten too close.

>The monstrosity's spearing claw had raked into the boy's back, crippling his ability to flee.

>Another claw slams down into his shoulder, a bright splash of red explodes into the air. Spattering the floor and black chitin of his killers.

>The boy chokes out a breathless scream. His eyes fade of their vigor as they roll back.

>You can't bear to watch anymore, and you run.

>The retreat back towards the hub is chaotic and unorganized.

>Testament to this is the occasional cries of more troopers caught in the back by charging warriors that weren't cut down before they get too close.

>Trying to pick out how many may have fallen is difficult as more noise arises from those that are panicking.

>You can barely edge out the voice in your head screaming to keep running either.

>Your legs burn but the fear shoves you on every time you falter.

>The thought keeps cycling in your head over and over.

-coward-

>Could you really be blamed for it? Tunnel fighting was antithesis to the way you wanted to enact your duty.

>The animal within you was not some apex predator that snarled at what it doesn't understand. it was an opportunist, a creature of decision that acted when the odds were in it's favor, and fled when they weren't.

>Because of this your instincts had been warning you of this possibility the whole time.

>Don't go in there, we will die.

>We don't have the range required to excel, we won't have enough time.

>Your instincts were right, maybe you were nothing but an animal. Your intellect too, backed up those points with conclusions that you realized, that trying to root out the bugs in their own domain was suicidal.

>But you ignored it, because of your pride, because of your arrogance pushing you to prove something.

>And now you ran. Defeated, humiliated, trying to keep from crying and whimpering as the specter of death and its icy visage bore into your back.

>You didn't even claim victory here as some proof that your pride wasn't in vain.

>Spitting image of Anubis indeed.

>...

>Ahead of you was the collared muzzle of the Bofors, the twins had relocated far back to have enough time to set up a new firing position and reload.

>The command squad and Lyons had posted alongside the AC. Where they had erected crude barriers from crates, spare sandbags, and defunct computer banks pulled from the command post.

>This is where you make your stand. Live or die.

>The captain had just ran as soon as the order was called. And something tugged at you, whispering that he was the real coward here.

>You may have ran, but a hero is brave five minutes longer. You had faced your fear, and despite your wilting resolve you fought, and you tried. Even if you couldn't save anyone.

>A grim resolve filled you as you closed towards the hastily assembled ramparts, you were infuriated with these officers.

>Gilded cowards that demanded everything of you, even your lives! and gave nothing in return!

>If the captain broke to run again, you would shoot him in the back. Desertion in the face of the enemy is a crime worthy of capital punishment after all.

>If you were going to die here, he would at least have the decency to die with you. Whether it was forced on him or not didn't matter.

>You vaulted over the barrier and pressed your back into the upended computer bank.

>Your breath heaved, your ears sagged low, and your tail curled on itself.

>At least try to be collected before the end.

>Inhale, count to four, exhale.

>Royal jackal... you may be scared, but you refuse to die a coward.

>You train your sights forward, resting the weight of the machine gun on your cover.

>There's more trust in the stability of a hastily constructed rampart right now then there is in your own, quivering hands.

>Tunnel fighting definitely isn't for you.

>The other squads rushed in to stack up into this last ditch defensive effort.

>Once they are all filled in, the bugs come, screeching in blind, animalistic fury.

>It's time.

>You tried to recall the same trick you pulled outside the bunker, open on one, walk fire onto the others.

>Your first burst was off target, your nerves are getting to you.

>inhale, count to four, exhale

>Second time is the charm it seems, the first shots strike in, cracking open the chest of a warrior, from there you walk onto other warriors in the crowd. They're too close for you to bother with focusing on curbing the recoil.

>Shot-count doesn't matter, not now.

>You've lost count of how many you've ended too, not that such feats will matter since nobody will remember them.

>Grenades explode, rifles bark, the autocannon drums out for war.

>The flathead from before is struck down by the cannon, grenades and frantic fire keep cutting down warriors by the dozen but they just keep coming.

>Two more flatheads emerge, and you can't see an end to the warriors yet... So is this how it ends?

>You hear boots behind you turn heel with a scrape. The captain is getting ready to run.

>Anger flairs in you again, and you ready to fulfill your grim promise. But then something grabs your attention.

>The bugs are... stopping?

>A warrior charges forward, and then seems to scream. It bellows some profane cry as it shudders and spasms, and then retreats.

>Again and again, some invisible line seems to be forcing them back. what the hell?

"They're.. stopping? They're fucking stopping!"

>It's odd as hell but you don't care for the reasoning at the moment, even the captain stops and seems to ponder.

>This strange second chance may not last forever, you order your squad to throw everything they have at them while the bugs seem unwilling to come closer.

>You even cut Duran's leash and badgered her to use the flamethrower.

>The incendiary weapon didn't seem like the prudent choice before, so as to not cause any problems for the advance, but now all bets are off.

>Spirits seem to rise again as what remains of first platoon rallies into this standing counterattack.

>Without a way, or the will, to close the distance the bugs are slaughtered. There is almost some sort of conflict registered on their minute psyches between the drive to attack, and whatever seems to be forcing them away from the core of the complex.

>Everyone fires with the sort of aggressive disregard for resupply stirred on by intense fear or hatred.

>The bass bark of your .50 joins them. You are determined to live this through.

>Even the flatheads can't approach, readying a charge only to stop on their starting strides and back away screeching.

>Warriors are cut down, the flatheads are crippled and killed by grenades, 40mm shells, and fire.

>Duran does her best to make the invisible line holding the bugs back a very real one, manifested with the searing dance of napalm.

>The flames light the corridor in a vigorous autumn glow, the bugs emotionless eyes gleam as they catch the fire's after image.

>You vow to make the bearers of those beady black orbs as dead as their emotionless ocular organs.

>The fire keeps burning, you all keep shooting, it almost feels like hours have passed.

>By the time the flames start dying down and the bullets have stopped flying you've gone through more than half of your new belt.

>The barrel of your weapon, your big girl, glows warmly as white smoke hisses off of the tip.

>A dying warrior mewls weakly as the platoon lieutenant presses a revolver between its eyes and ends it.

>Nothing else moves. Flashlights pan across the hostile gulf of darkness in front of your line and find nothing.

>You... you had actually made it!

>You had actually survived the hell of tunnel fighting.

>Granted you still never wanted to do anything like this again, but you had managed to squeeze out a victory.

>The shaking steadies and you sit yourself down before your legs fall out from under you.

>Those minutes felt like hours, but your self-hype wasn't all bullshit.

>For once you actually feel like you can breath easy today, and you let your proud, tall ears raise to their full height again. A sort of natural signal flag that you were still here.

>Troopers around you seem to alternate between joking celebration and exclamations of victory dragged out with vigor by a collective second wind.

>You pay them no attention right now, a triumphant warmth radiates over you. It heats your core and puts a smile over you.

>Warm elation comes in great waves, dragging out your stress with the tide.

>You can't help it, a happy snicker washes out from you, which swells into a throaty chuckle as your grin grows wider.

>That smile doesn't leave you, even as you feel the captain staring in bewilderment at you, an oddity that flies in the face of his outdated notions. Let him stare!

>Breathing a healthy sigh of relief, the waves continue to pull your tension away as you relax against your cover.

>Your tail wags lazily and you even catch yourself breathing in a way that could be misconstrued as panting.

>This is it, the feeling of victory, it makes you want to keep moving, to do things.

-to find a nice mate and rut him into the floor-

>...

>It's just that old fever talking, don't pay attention.

>All things considered, it might be something more, some longing for more, but you can't really think on it when that itch keeps getting in the way.

>You catch yourself before you slip too far into that bliss, but you refuse to let a little hiccup from your hormones ruin this happy feeling.

>But for now you feel like you could just drop into a heavenly rest, despite the uncaring, featureless cold of your surroundings.

>Presently, you let yourself coast down that river of elation to get just a little closer to that ideal of home, and to reflect in its mirror-like waters.

>That previous jump in desire seemed to jog your memory, and your reasoning for approaching that damaged, angry man you called friend seemed a little clearer now.

>It was another one of those momentary surges after the fight was done, when your wandering state of mind reminded you of your mortality and clamored for you to solve your problems of loneliness before it was too late.

>You were at least thankful you knew enough self-restraint to let something fruitful blossom from that impulse. Rather than just entertaining base urges.

>Can't deny there was that temptation, but it's not like you were unfamiliar with it. You knew how to control it... most of the time.

>For now you were content to stop thinking on that confusing mess that was your potential love life and just catch your breath while you're allowed the time.

>The officers raise no complaint about these minutes of respite, even someone held to such backwards and pedantic ideals of what an officer is, like the captain, can recognize a trooper that isn't given a breather can quickly turn seditious.

>Your breath comes easier, your muscles don't burn with exertion, you guess now it's about time to go back in. But you don't want to press on only to meet a second wave of bugs

>Just five more minutes.

>"Shouldn't we get moving sir?"

>You gave a short grunt of disapproval, expecting to find Feldspar playing up the good soldier shtick, instead you meet the tired eyes of Duran.

>Those hazel orbs seen worn down and desaturated, like the sunfaded paint on an old beater, but you swear you see some ember right in their middles.

>You have to wonder if people see the same looking into yours, or if their so dazzled by that vibrant sapphire they're distracted from looking for it, if it's even there.

>That light that says you still have a reason to go on.

>You also realize it's the first time you've even heard her speak. You had been expecting some ragged harpy's call like she smoked a pack a day. Instead her voice was womanly and melodic, if soft and weary.

>Then there was the way she seemed to just stare straight into you. Plus her ears always seemed to faintly splay as her nose twitched, like she somehow knew.

>Knew just how tired you really are. And that she understood because she's feeling the same thing.

>How much of herself does she see in you? Was that what had earned her respect in you?

>"Well sarge? You said it yourself. We don't have all day." She offered the ghost of a smile and a paw, as well as a faint glow of understanding behind her eyes.

>You huffed through your nose. If someone who wore their worn out mental state on their sleeve could keep on, then why can't you?

"Yeah. I guess so."

>You take her paw and let her help you up. Which doesn't seem to be that much of a help physically, you're heavier and taller, but you guess in this case it's the thought that counts.

>You give her an appreciative grin and the dog returns to her duty. There may be some hope for her yet, hope for you.

>Looking over at Feldspar, the lioness seemed floored. Although her jaw didn't hang open she seemed stunned, and that made you think.

>Was Duran really that bad, that such a small show of understanding was some kind of breakthrough?

>Your mind wandered towards other quandaries, namely what the fuck saved you?

>The way the bugs seemed to spasm in pain as they attempted to cross that nonexistent line was bizarre.

>There was a great many things about the bugs you still don't know or understand, and you doubt many others aside from the brightest minds left on the planet could provide insight into that.

>Reasons as to what exactly was happening there still occurred to you.

>Perhaps some buried psychological trigger had kept the bugs from advancing too far out of some primal fear response, but that relied far too much on convenience.

>The way the bugs reacted almost seemed like they were being electrocuted, but you would have seen obvious signs of that occurring beyond their jolting movements.

>Nothing in the walls themselves suggested some sort of hyper-sonic device or what not to cripple the bugs with incapacitating noise only they can register.

>There could be something more to the munitions bunker under that supply hub.

>Perhaps it didn't just hold hellfire rockets and shells, but there was something more to this place hidden there, the real reason for the complex's recapture.

>It was possible they could have been manufacturing some sort of chemical spoof of the bugs' hivemind control pheromones and the clash of overriding signals forced the bugs back when they pressed you close towards the hub. This could also explain why the pack outside hadn't entered.

>That was how hive insects worked, communicated, and gave orders if you were remembering your biology lessons correctly, chemical signals.

>With the right mix and dosages, chemical reagents could be used to send the bugs into chaos like earlier.

>Any other explanation was either insane or impossible, And you weren't one of those nuts that thought they stored evidence of 'inter-dimensional incursions' or what not in that air-strip at groom lake.

>Obviously anyone that even thought such things were plausible never payed attention to basic physics.

>Your musings over the strange things that could be housed within this bunker holds away anymore stress for the time being as everyone starts advancing back along the ground they previously covered.

>Stepping over the charred and battered pile of bugs offends your nose and sense of blissful ignorance but not much else.

>You were never one to pay much attention to the bugs once they stopped moving, they were usually pretty quick to let you know if they weren't dead.

>The troop shuffled by the command post again, nobody was in much of a hurry to get into a second life or death engagement, and that eerie sense of emptiness settled over the scene like an old blanket left out in the cold.

>Perforated bug corpses helped to make things a bit less... creepy. Reminders that the wave of death you just faced down wasn't a collective hallucination from the start.

>Your own rationalizations of what happened made perfect sense but there was still some discordant air about this place that just refused to sit right with you.

>It only got worse the more the silence dragged on, and you catch yourself wishing for Tom's company. Somehow it's just so easy to strike up conversation with him.

>There's nobody else willing or able to occupy your attention now.

>The troop wiles on and eventually slows.

>The darkened slurry of shredded tissue, chipped chitin, and crawling ichor has given way to darkening reds, pooling around limp forms.

>Mutterings of prayers and wishes for the departed, as squad leaders shakily collect tags.

>A few rookies wrestle with the impulse to vomit, some more seasoned types shed a few tears, grizzled vets just shake their heads and try to hide the way their lip quivers when they find someone they know.

>You just look at it all with a quiet apathy, none of yours are on the floor here.

>Mostly because Lyons kept your squad at the rear. You can sense the quiet blame from that, accusing stares towards both the officer and you for refusing to throw yourself at the bugs like some sacrificial lamb.

>You could understand why they were angry, but it was unfair to expect you to go leaping into battle like some rabid leopard.

>Still, it was accepted legend among humans that the good doctor bred your kind for war.

>The man himself wasn't exactly around to refute that, and he didn't leave a real statement of intent behind to state otherwise.

>They were wondering why the giant jackal woman hadn't leaped in and tore a bug in half with her claws, or swallowed one whole, or whatever ludicrous thing they expected you to do this week.

>Their mental complaints feeding into their delusion that you're supposed to die for them

>And soon those complaints were made verbal.

>They came in hushed whispers between scowling troopers refusing to acknowledge the carnage around them so they can more easily blame their losses on you.

>"giant bitch", "notch-ear", "damn snout", "proud whore". You gave an obvious flick of an ear, a warning that you could hear them.

>The muttering died down, but a few continued their pathetic accusations.

>For all you care they could swallow a bullet, it's not like you didn't try.

>Even if the fruits of your labor amounted to nothing, you stood back at the same place where it had started, the corridor was as dark as ever but nothing moved.

>Lying there at your feet was that kid soldier you had tried to save, the one that bought the farm because you had lost your composure.

>No, you can't take all the blame yourself like that, it's what they would want you to think. The kid was young and panicky, he just didn't know when to cut his losses and run.

-At least it wasn't you-

>Every time you had that thought, when someone else took a fall that could have been meant for you. You had convinced yourself that it wasn't as selfish a conclusion as it seemed. It was just a quiet thanks for your luck and survival.

>He was split open, a deep furrow had smashed into the small of his back, severing both of the stained white plugs you could see, the halves of his spine.

>Blood and fluid had poured out along that canyon cut into him like rivers, pooling to both sides of the body.

>Another deep cut had shattered his shoulder as splinters of bone jutted as rocky hazards inside the red mass of torn muscle and leaking arteries, it must have cut down six inches, another gash of vital life cut out of him by the hand of an alien butcher.

>The claws of a warrior were powerful things, made for smashing and tearing, as evidenced by this. The broken body of a boy that should have just stayed home.

>You suppose remembering him would make you cry out at the thought of a life so young being cut short, but you lost count of how many times you had seen something like this happen. And you couldn't find the energy to care.

>Maybe they were right about 'beasts' like you, you had gotten so used to this idea of death, so worn out that you couldn't make the tears flow. You weren't human.

>...

>You crouch down, reaching around the neck and popping the kid's tags.

>'French, Elliot R.'

>The mental gunshot that sounded after you read off the name shocked you with an electric pulse that raced up your back.

>You whispered out a shuddering breath as you felt your eyes moisten.

>Not sure whether to feel sad over the loss of such a young soul, or thankful that memory had jolted your emotions back into play.

>Shaking yourself out of it, you handed the tags over to the sergeant that had just walked up to your side. And tried to blink away the water before any tears formed.

>You would still hold yourself together, but fuck those racist shitheads! You weren't some emotionless killing machine.

>An anger quietly stirred in you, and you held it down for the bugs, if there are any.

>Everything seemed quiet enough but that was the way it seemed last time, you hoped that pack of warriors and flatheads was the last of them.

>Losing 18 and having a further 5 wounded was more than enough blood from your end, even if you held that some lives may be worth more than others judging by the continued whispered chatter behind your back.

>Looking up you saw Duran holding a slight smile across her muzzle, sated with your display of humanity.

>The troop continued cautiously, even as the enemy refused to make another appearance.

>Still can't smell anything, it's dark, and you can only hear the air moving through the open tunnels, as if this place is softly breathing.

>Much of first platoon is behind you now, matching your tepid pace and not allowing you to fall in among them. You hope dearly that the bugs really are gone

>Eventually you start hearing the chattering of the battle outside again, and there's even the volume of natural light leaking in somewhere ahead.

>Coming closer, the tunnels actually peel away into an open air sort of crater housing the hellfire battery the artillery officer mentioned.

>You guess this is how those bugs got in without going through the supply hub.

>Here, captain Lyons split the platoon in half, the more battered survivors would remain at the battery and see about getting it prepped for firing.

>Your troop was to accompany the idiot further into the hill to check on the rest of the complex.

>Fucking wonderful

>And so you marched back out into the oppressive darkness and continued onward, and then down.

>The hellfire battery and the neighboring chambers were apparently the end of this level of the complex. which then descended down into the earth to loop under itself.

>You expected more bugs, rather actively sweeping the muzzle of your M2 across every opening in the walls, just daring some chittering malcontent to leap out at you.

>Still there was absolutely nothing, and as you stepped in a thin blanket of clinging dust the thought raised up again.

-something is wrong-

>The air seemed even colder down here, the darkness more oppressive as less and less of the light from above could leak in.

>It was all so eerily empty, nothing had been down here. You opened every one of the blast doors expecting something in the shadows to move, some skittering your ears could register, still nothing.

>Which is worse: facing death directly, or expecting an enemy that may never appear, despite the growing sense that something has to be there?

>A question you aren't sure how to answer.

>The air grew colder, and colder still as you pressed forward. Cold and nothingness, as if this bunker was the classical ideal of death.

>Wandering endlessly through dark tunnels only by your own light, shivering against the cold expecting an enemy that is not there.

>If this is what hell feels like, maybe you should be more religious.

>The only thing keeping your rising nerves in check are those constant reminders of the others with you, the scuff of boots, the sounds of breathing and quiet chatter, the other flashlights.

>If you had the sense you were alone in this place you would just turn tail and flee as fast as you were able, because of that maddening sense something is here coupled with the mantra repeating autonomously in your skull.

-something is wrong-

>But ahead you swear you see something, an icy bluish white glowing in the distance, like a portal into the winter taiga.

>A lamp.

>You blink hard but you aren't seeing things. It's a light, the only one still on down here.

>It buzzes softly, occasionally a dim flicker dulls the icy pool of light. Projected around the foot of what has to be the thickest blast door in the facility.

>It's noticeably colder the closer you get towards it, this must be where they store that chemical agent the bugs were confused by.

>Which must mean you are underneath the supply hub.

>The door is sealed tight by numerous hydraulic locks and bars, there's no guessing how thick it is, but the temperatures on the other side must be below freezing judging by the traces of ice clinging around certain spots on the door's mechanical face.

>Some sense of curiosity draws you closer, now that you know there is an end to this maze something yearns to see what it was protecting.

>The cold seems to snake in through the gaps between your clothing and your fur, you shiver slightly.

>Some other part of your mind seems to assess to situation and thinks better of approaching, trying to nudge you back in the other direction.

>But what the hell was it that saved your life down here? You can't know for certain until you lay eyes on whatever laboratory they have behind this door.

>Someone says something but you press on just a little closer, reaching out maybe to find some sort of release on the uneven surface.

>You reach in with an open hand, something is behind this door, you want to know what.

>You lay your hand down.

>COLD!

>An intense cold surges up your fingertips, crawling over your arm as shivering pinpricks dance across your back, you quickly withdraw your hand as the frigid vines even seem to snake into your head.

>The icy gale brings some stabbing pressure on your temples as you grimace and pull away.

>Damn this stings! You want to clutch at your head but you stop yourself as you deliberate and that familiar tune screams into your headspace again.

-something is wrong!-

>What if the captain knows what's down here? Why else would such a coward come this far?

>It could be a secret to kill for! You must not let them know your suspicions!

>"Sergeant Magual?" Lyons is asking for you in a rather authoritative tone, and that seals it.

>You have to come up with some excuse as to your desire for entry...

>Come on think, think!

>The battery! You remember hellfire launchers are notorious for overheating and coolant is often kept on site to avoid permanent damage.

>Spice it with a bit of the good soldier act and you're in the clear.

"Shouldn't we check the coolant storage for bugs sir?"

>"There's nothing in there sergeant, leave it be."

>You avoid showing your disbelief, he knows. He definitely knows what's behind that door, and you aren't going to give him an excuse to suspect you.

"Ya sure sir? I don't think the bugs would mind the cold."

>"It's more than cold enough that they wouldn't survive in there!" he snaps. "Now leave. it. alone."

>You advance back up the hall towards the others, taking one last look at the door in wonderment.

"Yes sir."

>You add flatly.

>The murmur among the other troopers ebbs out, you've definitely undermined the captain's credibility in front of them, and likely they're curious about what's down here too.

>But no one is dumb enough to voice that curiosity around the officers. One of the first lessons a grunt will learn after basic is to never trust anyone above the rank of sergeant.

>Still it echoes around in the back of your head, that icy whisper.

-something is wrong-

>And all signs point to whatever they're hiding behind that door, something that may be gone within hours of this bunker's recapture.

>Central has to keep their little secrets.

>You still keep looking back, the air is cold but you almost feel as if some icy tendrils keep grasping at your back as you leave.

>It's just some artifact from the cold shock from touching the door, it should go away once you've warmed up again.

>You huddle in close with your corporals as you make the ascent back up and share a mutual nod of understanding.

>You're thankful the both of them are sharp enough to realize what's really going on here.

>Back up near the hellfire battery you find a nice crate and sit yourself down, rather lovingly propping your big fuckin' gun against the wall next to your seat.

>You recline against the unfeeling concrete and start the process of winding yourself down. You are DONE with fighting today.

>And if you ever have to do tunnel fighting again, mercy on the stupid bastard that thinks he can send you back into another one of these hellish holes in the ground.

>As you're trying to settle yourself in and get comfortable, one of the first platoon grunts stalks up to you, looking rather pissy.

>"Hey beast! You mind getting off your ass and helping with the-"

>You are not in the mood for this snippy little prick thinking he can order you around. You don't even bother with words, interrupting him with a low warning growl.

>He seems to get the message 'fuck off or get bit'. And you try to settle yourself down to at least let some of the stress float away on a daydream as you close your eyes.

>You must get a good five minutes before the fates see fit to pull your string.

>The ice returns to your spine as a screaming howl peals across the distant air, let inside through the open ceiling of the battery pit.

>Everything tenses as you make ready to run, only to realize you're likely far safer where you already are, but still you lurch sickeningly with worry.

>You know what that sound means.

>Battleframes

---

<Tom>

>Bug presence in the town was denser than expected but that didn't matter, not to you, the majority of these small fry can't fucking touch you now.

>Between your sub-gunner and the new gear-box, that habit warriors grew of dog piling on a mech's legs until they could slow the machine down enough to sneak between gaps in the armor plates and get at the internals was rendered moot.

>Granted your sub-gunner was still slower than any of the guys from the rumbler unit and refused to stop screaming when you kicked into gear and really stretched your legs.

>You had found every excuse you could think of to test out your newfound mobility, being able to move so freely in the auger was a feeling without compare.

>Like you had been trying to run a marathon in quicksand only to suddenly touch pavement.

>The armor had spread out, clearing out major pockets of resistance as they cropped up, the infantry would sweep away the scraps.

>Currently you were chasing a pack of warriors through the compartmentalized maze of a small suburb.

>The way they skittered away from the crushing footfalls of you and your machine was intoxicating.

>The pack scrambled through the skeleton of a two-story house, chittering and screeching in what you could only imagine as fear. The sub guns picked off stragglers, nipping at their heels.

>That's right, run ya little bastards. Run!

>You followed them and they led you directly towards what you had been looking for, a pocket of spitters nested within an old shell crater.

>The bloated alien ticks took notice of your approach and spat a volley of their caustic bile, which you handily sidestepped thanks to the new gearbox.

>You then deflected the weapon arm outwards and fired up the rotary. With that foghorn roar, the spitters burst like overstuffed pastries.

>The crater smoked with the disgorged mix of acid and blood eating into the rock, but that was another problem taken care of.

>You shot another burst of 30mm shells at the retreating warriors, mulching plenty of the core group before they scattered into hiding in every which direction.

>You had more important things to do than root out a dozen odd bugs hiding in these cramped old houses, the infantry the were now coming in from the east could handle it.

>Pulling up the battlenet map again, you looked around for any obvious troublespots that needed a good stomping.

>You've pretty much been free to act as you see fit ever since the captain disappeared into the bunkers, the markers for A company's first platoon, and Teth'ra's own outfit following him in.

>They had been in there a while, you hope your favorite jackal is okay. You had plenty to talk about with her after all.

>Right now nothing seemed to crop up that the tanks weren't already handling, so you decided to move north and help the main push towards the mouth of the valley.

>As you stomped forward you worried slightly over how your friendly egyptian monster was fairing.

>You were fairly certain she would be okay, she seemed to carry herself with a certain solidarity after her promotion, and when you eyed her through the sensory goggles as you were leaving the base, you noted she had procured what looked like an M2 modified into a rifle.

>Tunnel rats suffered some of the highest casualty rates in the EDF, but despite the superficial resemblance there was a lot less real estate in a bunker for bugs to nest than the winding nightmare that was a proper nest. She would be fine.

>At least in there she was out of the way of the battle at large.

>Things were somewhat calm in your immediate area, and so you tried to listen through the headset.

>The external microphones were picking up... something strange.

>You could barely pick it out over the racket of the armor scrambling around town. A short, pealing sort of buzz, followed by a couple wind like percussions.

>It might just be the acoustics of the area playing tricks on your ears. You bet if you had Teth'ra's ears you would be able to pick up exactly where it was coming from and where it was, and determine if it was just a trick of the valley like you hoped, lucky girl.

>But then a bellowing thrum rolled around the valley, that was definitely something big cooking off, maybe one of the heavies had caught a spitter volley in the flank.

>Then it happened, a screaming howl registered through your headset and ice took over your veins.

>An all-call on the priority channel followed soon after. It was Redenbacher, and he didn't sound so sure of himself this time.

>"This is FC-01. We have silversign! FC-04 is down! I repeat: FC-01, we have silversign! North of the valley closing south, eight units confirmed presently!"

>Silversign, the marauders had shown up with their battle machines. Peacing together what noise you heard and the information from the ace's report, they had deployed fast and already destroyed one of the striders.

>Only one Marauder machine type jumped out at you that could kill that fast, and that blood curdling howl confirmed it.

>Battleframes, eight of them that were soon to enter the valley from the north, and they had already killed one of Redenbacher's squadron, all of the red baron's wingmen were aces.

-what hope do you have?-

>You slowed to a standstill, and listened for further reports and calls, paying close attention to the battlemap to see exactly where they would appear.

-so you know the best way to run-

>Your breath was uneven, and your mental tempo collapsed, memories tugged at you, toying with you.

>That first frame, you had encountered it while it was alone, it was a fluke victory. You barely even remembered the details through the panic.

>"This is FC-01 again. Can we try to split them up?" That sounded like a good plan, counting all the machines around and discounting the downed strider, that left you with ten machines to the marauder's eight.

>Plus the tanks, one of the commanders chimed in now. "Not to worry there mechy, we'll split them right down the middle with all guns blazing"

>The Goliath commander was at least willing to be stupid enough to take on the whole battleframe complement on his own, fucking treadies.

>"This is SC-01 and -02, we will assist where needed." The two Rumblers from the east were moving in.

>Then Vegalta's ever charming voice sang over the line. "DP-01 here, and I can say -02 through -04 are willing to smash whatever we need to."

>That confirmed your hunch over who the thumper unit on the hill was. Hearing how everyone else rallied forward eased your qualms slightly.

>Were you really ready to go head to head against battleframes? The first one was a fluke, you had little experience fighting them otherwise and your still technically on your first sortie with the new machine.

>Then some heated memory shook you. The silence in the absence of your squadron, your friends, your brothers, prompted an enraged thrashing of some deeper vestige.

>You promised, you had made a vow! How were you supposed to uphold that when you acted like such a cowering weakling!

>How were you supposed to fulfill the screaming fire within you that demanded vengeance against that monster when you can't even bring yourself to fight against some common battleframes?

>You would rip the weakness away, it has no place on this path. You have to kill him afterall, the one that took them from you, the one that left you wounded and low, the one that failed to destroy you when he had the chance.

>He won't falter if you can't best some gleaming silver toothpicks. You thought back on those specters of the wind, they were defiant even in the end, that same sense of iron overcame you again.

>You wouldn't let these alien scum win! You have a new machine, new tricks, new lessons learned, and they are nothing but paper tigers.

>You took up the march north again, stomping across the broken sidestreets.

"606-B2R, tell me where I need to go."

>The markers for the battleframes appeared now, just like Redenbacher said they were north of the valley entrance and closing in fast, bug presence was starting to hit a minimum and the creatures seemed more interested in hiding than assisting their masters.

>You had ten machines and an excess of armored backup on your side. But if you played your hand wrong those frames could tear apart the advance here, at one of it's most critical stages.

>Without the crossroads here to shuttle supplies north, you wouldn't be getting very far through the open expanses of the Canadian tundra.

>Various commanders proposed plans and counter plans on how to handle the incoming machines, but something occurred to you.

>Battleframes were proponents of psychological warfare, they relied on fear and reputation to set their opponents off balance. Why else would they give away their position and presence with that howling?

>They expected you to be weak, to be afraid. While you were panicking and dodging feints, they would have the time and space to reel up a knockout blow.

>The answer was simple: if the opponent believes they're psyching you out, they wont expect you to come in low with a shot to the kidney while they're open.

>Or from all directions at once.

>The battleframes were advancing in a tight formation, to give the illusion of unified strength despite how easy a target they would make. A feint of your own against such an overconfident opponent was the perfect answer.

>As various officers deliberated and berated eachother for every hair-brained scheme they came up with, you cut in over the noise.

"This is B2R, The enemy formation is very tight, we can catch them in a crossfire from all sides if we lure them in."

>Another voice took up the dead air left in your wake. "Who the hell do you think you are with this-"

>You did not have the patience to be lectured by someone who's likely never even seen a battleframe before, so you interrupted, as politely as you could manage.

"Look. The enemy believes we're scared, if we act the opposite and press in on them from every direction, we can force them to scatter."

>Once they did scatter, the frames wouldn't be able to support eachother. They were still dangerous but minimizing the enemy's ability to cooperate was the best option.

>Redenbacher cut in. "I agree with this plan of action, divide and conquer should give us more than a chance."

>The negative chatter died down some, if the ace agreed with the plan, it had to be good. You were thankful that the baron wasn't as dense as you first made him out to be.

>There wasn't much time, but a plan was agreed on, they were going with your idea.

>Armor units would reverse and conceal themselves, producing an artificial bubble within your lines that the battleframes would fall into as the path of least resistance. Once they were in, fire would open up from all sides, if they didn't want to get massacred they would have to move through convenient escape routes leading further into town, formed in the cordon that would snap shut behind any loner or pair of frames that moved into those traps.

>Once they scattered, it was divide and conquer as the ace said.

>The gap was opened, and you moved fast towards the east end of the bubble, you would join up with the two Rumblers and then charge in when the shooting started. Most of your weapons were short range anyways.

>Redenbacher and his two remaining wingmen posted at the opposite side, their railguns allowing them to press from a distance.

>Vegalta's troop was too slow to get there in time, but would try their best to level the big guns the Thumpers carried on the target.

>You hid the bulk of your machine behind the remnants of an apartment block, using a few external cameras to maintain a clear sight of the incoming machines.

>The bait was set and now you played the waiting game again. Reigning in that burning core until the right moment.

>Looking around bore a mix of sights. Tanks of all shapes and sizes hid around corners and under barely standing roofs. The two other Rumblers idled quietly behind the ruins of a mall. A few vertical tanks even hunkered down on the ruins of burnt out houses.

>The eastern Rumblers were an oddity. Practically all black paint work with rather fresh unit markings.

>Four digits stood in the clash of white on black '8492'. It has to be a brand new unit, only two machines and a quad digit battalion number.

>You had never heard of the 8492 before today. But you couldn't really think on why these rookies shouldn't be here, you needed every gun on hand to take out these frames.

>At least you wouldn't have to wait terribly long, they would be cresting the valley mouth any second now.

>Glimmering silver strode over the hill, and you locked eyes on your prey.

>Seven of the vaguely humanoid battleframes strode in a tight circle around an eighth machine, the leader by your guess.

>Some people called battleframes elegant, to you they were absolutely hideous.

>Ugly, spindly things that walked on double knee joints using thin, elongated forms with narrow footing.

>They moved in some smooth, disjointed parable of the human form, and it enraged you.

>Narrow, sliding hip joints bolted on to some gaunt impression of a torso, narrow all the way through, but distinctly rail like at its middle.

>The down pointed triangle stretched into overly high shoulder sockets, with no head. The core of the torso was dominated by the machine's optics: three glowing red circle arranged in a triangle, two sat lower than the other that stood out starkly from the mirror-like chrome of the rest of the body.

>Between the machines blade like shoulders sat a rectangular sort of vent offset to a single side, you remembered that as the barrel of the machine's plasma cannon.

>A quartet of skeletal arms sprouted from the high shoulder sockets and from two points at the machines eye level. Distinctly alien, and disgusting.

>These fucking bone arms weren't even efficient in their design, each one could be used to support a weapon of their own but no. The fucking alien idiots give them hands, and no in-built weapons. The fact the machines are still such a threat even as they waste precious materials for their revolting asthetic brings a burning fury to your hands.

>You want to break it, rip those silvery fucking wastes out of their sockets and shatter them, or use them to beat what they were attached to into a fractured silver mess. And then burn it. And then sodomize whatever squirming grub pilots the damn thing with the business end of your GAU-8.

>The arms support a long, needle-like rifle with both of the lower arms and the top right arm. The giant rifle is some sort of laser weapon, shooting thin, lancing beams that melt into armor and cripple critical components. Of course their are countermeasures to disperse the heat from such a weapon, most machines come standard with heat ablative compounds in their plating to help minimize damage.

>In the spare arm, most battleframes carry a shardgun, some anti-infantry weapon shaped like an oversized pistol, or very rarely a melee weapon.

>The machines continue to stalk forward, their chief method of defense: their shield screens, flickering a transparent blue bubble over the frame against incoming cannon rounds.

>You know those screens are not invincible, level enough heavy firepower at them and they will become overwhelmed.

>At that point, when the machine is cooling off the shield generators and recharging, that's the time to kill it. A good shot through the spire-esque exhaust stacks on the frame's back will damage its reactor, causing a meltdown and destroying it.

>You tense and tap your toes, really the only thing you can do without climbing out of the armature and pacing around. The enemy is right there and now you've practically worked yourself into foaming at the mouth to get at them.

>But the rational pieces of your mind keep your feet rooted, the wait won't be long, they need to get into the right spot, THEN you can cut loose.

>You growl softly, letting off some of the mental pressure and biding your time.

>The subgunner shifts nervously at his station, you don't care that he even exists right now, he's useless in a fight like this.

>That circular formation continues closing in to town along the highway, ignorant at their lack of cover.

>A troop of Correlions steadily reverses, firing shots at extreme distance towards the enemy squadron to help lure them in with the idea that their presence alone is forcing a retreat.

>The aliens couldn't be more wrong.

>Just. about. there.

>A little further.

>Wait for the order.

>Slow, easy targets, right about now.

>The flashing streak of a shell flying at impossible speed erupts from the wooded mountainside overlooking the town towards the east.

>It smashes into one of the Battleframe's sheildscreens, prompting a bright cerulean flair. A second round follows, and the translucent blanket flickers, and fails.

>The frame's exhaust stacks breath fire, trying to expel the excess heat worn on the components from the shield failure.

>The machine pauses, seemingly stunned or panicking, and that is its end. A third railgun slug breaks straight into its chest, spraying silver fragments from the entry point and almost immediately the machine explodes. A new-england accented tenor peals off the radio.

>"That's for Langley ya bastard!"

>the commander's voice shoots out now. "All units, open fire!"

>He doesn't need to tell you twice.

>Even as the flaming husk of the destroyed frame crumples towards the ground you are already in motion.

>Finally that vengeful fury can be unshackled, you step out onto the street from behind the ruined apartments and train your guns forward.

>Accuracy isn't key, not yet, you need to pressure them into splitting up so volume of fire is needed.

>To that end you open with shoulder cannons, following with a wide spread of missiles and long bursts from the GAUs.

>The barrage spreads over multiple targets, shields flicker and glow as they absorb the fire.

>Soon other barrages open from practically every direction as the frames scan with their rifles, trying to pick out an exact attacker, and failing.

>Needle thin beams of red pulse out from the rifles as the frames start loosening their formation, realizing that huddling so close together only presents a single, large target.

>Soon you hear the thump of artillery in the distance, every asset on the field must be focusing towards this single point.

>Shells howl in from overhead, the detonations rocking down shattered houses and cratering the road. The frames shields flicker weakly, approaching the verge of failure under the concentrated siege.

>Even as the main artillery unit reloads, more guns fire in the distance, Vegalta's Thumpers providing indirect fire support.

>Finally realizing their mistake the enemy scatters outward, The electric blue glare of their thrusters fire briefly as they dash in every direction before the shells hit.

>Fire pursues them as they duck and weave, many shots missing now as the bombardment narrows onto the spreading targets, Vegtalta's volley misses entirely.

>Still they're refusing to stray too far apart but they're approaching breaking point, the fury of the guns driving them towards flight.

>Just push a little harder and they'll scatter.

>"Rumblers, Goliaths, Heavies, charge, the rest will cover!"

>Exactly what you were thinking.

>You accelerate forward, the engines growl and roar as your pace surges faster. The frames are a good 400 meters ahead, confused and disorganized.

>More plumes of dark smoke denote tanks and mechs throttling forward, you doubt they could take off as quickly as you did.

>You pass one of the black Rumblers shambling through the wreckage of a warehouse as you break into a sprint along the open path of the street.

>You aim again towards two frames sticking close to eachother, the firing computers doing their best to compensate for the motion.

>More shells, more missiles. Most don't hit as the enemy dashes to both sides but the frames seem confused about which way to face.

>One of them makes up its mind and levels it's rifle towards you as it runs to the right.

>You see the black barrel filled with a verdant red light.

-leap now!-

>The sense of free movement urges you to follow. You plant your right foot at an angle as you bring it down and continue your stride.

>But just as the time seems right, and your weight is focused on the right leg, you push out with it violently. The engines give a jittering howl with the sudden increase in power demand.

>The beam finds naught but air, the enemy having adjusted their aim too late.

>Your machine has flown to the left. Your feet actually left the ground completely, and you move to bring your left leg out to steady the landing.

>With a jolting impact you make contact with with ground again, the feet briefly slide, tearing into the land but you arrest your momentum to the side by shunting it forward again, resuming your forward sprint.

>The machine followed all of your movements perfectly, you no longer have to fight against it when you want to move, it's a part of you now.

>You can beat them now, you're fast enough. Just like your coach told you: when the other guy has bigger fists, duck and weave.

>Firing another volley, you catch a machine just after it thrusted, those things must have some sort of cooldown period. To your frustration the shield screen absorbs your fire handily.

>They've had time to recuperate now that they're moving fast enough to evade some of the fire.

>But they've had enough, and now seek to abandon their positions. The plan is working.

>Two machines turn towards you and ready their weapons, As angry as you are they're still too far for you to really bring your full firepower to bear.

>You decide against exposing yourself, the T-junction ahead has good cover, a mostly intact apartment block. You gotta run for it.

>One machine bears it's rifle, the other bears the rifle and warms it's plasma gun.

>The plasma moves slower but is far deadlier than the laser, you would have to dodge that, but at that moment you may be left open for a follow-through with the lasers. And without specialized countermeasures a lucky direct hit in the wrong place can still ignite your fuel, or detonate your ammo stores.

>An intense glow fills the vent, and with a hearty WHUMP, a bright white balls of fibrous plasma shrieks through the air towards you.

>Luck is on your side as that machine seems to have misjudged your speed, the shot is going high.

>Ducking low, it sails over the Rumbler's back, but now you have the rifles to react to, already they're about to fire.

>Using your hunched stride, you push hard against the ground with your right again, launching yourself high to the left.

>The first shot is too low, the second lance strikes your upper arm on the right. You hear the angry humming shriek of melting metal and escaping vapor.

>You're still at a disadvantage so far out.

>Another angry shudder as you land hard in the ruins of a house off the street, crushing whatever is left of it.

>You slide forward to the left, it's difficult to fight inertia with a machine weighing around 500 tons, but you manage to redirect your momentum forward with more footwork.

>Can't stay out in the open so you continue onwards, crashing through the ruins of houses to close to your goal, the refuge of cover provided by the apartment block. You hope the damage to your right arm isn't too severe, automatic damage control systems have already gone off to keep the problem under control.

>The speed allowed by your free sprint enables you to close the distance before the battleframes can fire again.

>But now you need to play the delicate game of slowing down and arresting your momentum without crashing THROUGH your cover, and keeping fast enough to evade the incoming fire.

>Those stageshow faggots that balance plates on sticks don't have shit on this balancing act.

>You think you've struck a good balance, and you stop your pace dead, pushing the clawed feet out to act as brakes.

>It's tricky keeping upright but this isn't the first time you've done something like this.

>The difference here is that the soccer cleats are larger than cars and weaponized, and your probably skating forward at highway speeds.

>Plus you're trying to halt 500 tons of industrial grade death moving at said speeds.

>The apartment building is coming towards you faster than you thought and you dig in with the claws, shuffling your feet forward slightly to try and generate some countering thrust.

>It's getting pretty damn close know, you're slowing down but it may not be fast enough.

"shit shit shit shitshitshitshi-"

>Acting more on instinct you pan the torso sideways and bring your right leg under you, leaning your weight on it to try and give more traction.

>You grind to a halt as the machine 'softly' crashes into the apartments.

>...

>Well you didn't go flying straight through but you took a pretty fair chunk out of the wall, rock dust and rubble bounces off of your top.

>You take a knee. That was a rush!

>And know you need a hot second to catch your breath, and probably let the engines cool off some judging by how high the temp gauge climbed.

>You couldn't help but laugh some in a rush of endorphins overtaking you. You had just survived a madcap charge that would have seen lesser pilots smeared across the ground.

>All because your simian instincts told you to jump. And that fucking marvel of a gearbox allowed to jump so good you flew.

>You continued laughing like a maniac. Yeah, you had snapped. Your ever present vengeance wish had driven you straight off the edge, cackling like a madman.

>Why else would you think charging seven battleframes was a good idea?

-fucking maniac-

>And you threw away your fear in favor of that rage over the loss of what you had out here.

>You calmed your laughter to sit quietly as a toothy grin. Catching your breath was a simple matter of sitting still and exerting your lungs, the compartment wasn't filling with smoke this time.

>That reminded you to check on your arm... The machine's arm.

>With how closely your actions mesh sometimes it gets a little hard to tell the two apart during a continuing adrenaline high.

>Filing through the external cameras got a good view of the damage. You were lucky, the beam had largely only hit the outer edge of the plate protecting the upper arm. It left a nasty streak of molten metal that still smoked and glowed.

>Hydraulic pressure hadn't dropped, none of the power couplings were fried, the mech equivalent of a flesh wound.

>Should you go out for another go? It doesn't exactly sound like a terrible idea... If you can close the distance.

>"Holy shit dude!" Oh... right, your subgunner.

>"What the hell was that?"

>You don't need him panicking because truthfully you're balancing on a dangerous mix of educated guess and intuition.

"Skill, motherfucker!"

>He doesn't raise anymore complaint, and you aren't about to unhook yourself to turn around and have a conversation with the idiot who's probably realizing he isn't cut out for this sort of work.

>Can't help but wonder over how you would be faring if Teth'ra was there instead of him.

>Probably distracted from that slight doubt in your head

-you're gonna die if you pull that again-

>You'll die anyway if you don't move that fast, but going in blind isn't a good idea so you decide to see what your opponents are up too.

>You lean forward just a touch to bring some of the external cameras around the edge of the building your using for cover. The rubble and dust should mask the outline of the Rumbler's nose.

>The battleframes had scattered at this point, either more time passed than you realized or the enemy is even faster than you remember.

>And one is headed almost straight towards you.

>shit

>You don't have many options and the machine is sprinting your way pretty fast, they may still realize that you're here.

>Think quickly, your best option is some sort of ambush but how?

>You don't have much concealment aside from your current cover, and coming out from either direction would just get you hit before you can crack those shields.

>You need some way to sweep in behind the frame, putting you on more even footing.

>Think fast it's almost on top of you!

>The enemy is sweeping in dangerously close, it definitely knows your still here. You have to move now!

>The frame is making ready to pass on the right, the direction the torso is already facing.

>An urge points you in an unexpected direction and you act.

>You heave, launching forward, into the apartment block.

>So there you are, in the middle of a flying leap through an apartment block with a five hundred ton walking battleship. Haloed by an exploding corona of concrete dust, rubble, and miscellaneous pieces of furniture. About to fire all of your highly explosive munitions into the face of a very confused looking marauder Battleframe. You don't know how it looks confused, must be some trick of the light, but that enemy pilot must be wondering how insane the natives are.

>The answer is very. Because you dropped your sense of self-preservation in a ditch somewhere when you vowed to brutalize the frame that stole your sanctity of mind.

>Every trigger clicks down under your hands and everything at your disposal pours into the shield bubble before you land.

>200mm shoulder cannons, the forward missile batteries, the GAUs, the frag cannons, even the flamethrowers.

>Your so damn close your aim doesn't even matter at this point, everything lands on target. And with a bright flickering the shield screen fails as you land.

>You twist to face yourself at the enemy as you slide backwards, you try to fight it but you can't arrest your surge in momentum quickly enough.

>The battleframe's stacks flair, venting fire and trying to cool. You can't close in fast enough for melee, and you just used all of your heavy hitters.

-you made a mistake-

>It turns to face you, stacks still flaring, the rotaries won't be able to chew through the armor quick enough to kill it before it gets a shot on you, the plasma cannon is already warming.

>Something clicks

>The fangs! You hadn't even used those new missiles.

>You remember they have minimal guidance so as your slide backwards starts coming to a stop you pan the torso directly at the enemy to ensure a straight shot.

>Clicking on the trigger, a single fat rocket races out of the tube with a bright flair and thick trail of exhaust smoke.

>Wait just one tube? this is no time to be fucking around you need all four.

>The other three fly, streaking forward at breakneck pace, the enemy has no time to dodge.

>The first rocket impacts into the upper right torso, The machine almost seems to shatter.

>Before the battleframe can even respond or recover to massive chunk of its torso that just exploded into whirling silver fragments and fire, taking one of the arms with it, the other three fang missiles crash into it.

>The frame is absolutely obliterated, each missile carving out a massive chunk of it's body in powerful eruptions of pressure and fire.

>Your slide comes to a halt, and you forget to move for a bit.

>Are you hallucinating? or did you effectively pop that battleframe like a silver balloon?

>Closing your eyes and trying to blink away the delusion doesn't work, the smoking fragments are still there.

>Holy shit!

>You... you fucking did it!

>You killed a battleframe, and not on a fluke this time!

>A second mark for your machine, one you could be proud of. You had earned this with your ingenious tactical thinking.

>Namely just doing whatever crazy shit came to mind on an impulse. The enemy can't know what you're doing if even you don't know what you're doing.

>The new missiles were absolutely brutal, custom designed to frag marauder machines once the shields were down.

>YOU COULD WIN!

"Hell fuckin YEEEAH!"

"Eat it, you spindly marionette!"

>A predatory grin came to you, you want more. hungering for it. You need it.

>You pulled up the battlemap, looking for where the other battleframes had run off too.

>You'd hunt them down and make them scream before blowing them away, those new missiles were the key.

>An isolated frame was cornered by a cordon of heavies and one of the Goliaths towards the south of town, it was by far the most isolated, having wandered very far from it's compatriots.

>Easy prey, and you had the speed to get down there in short order.

>One of the black Rumblers was steadily making way down there while the other 8492 machine moved to assist Vegalta's troop in rooting out a pair of frames that had moved east.

>You didn't mind the backup but that mark was still yours. Vengeance demands it.

---

>Your overland speed at this point must have doubled from what you could get out of the machine previously.

>This proves a great help in closing south towards that lone frame.

>Poor little alien all on its lonesome, you will be the last thing it sees.

>The routine was going to be fairly simple now, pop the shields, then use the fangs.

>Of course you still have to be careful, a return hit in the wrong place could still take you down.

>Which is why you have to move as fast as you are damn well able too.

>Hatred pushed you on as you ran scenarios in your head of how to approach this and close the distance once you got there.

>The south of town was less developed, which meant less cover beyond the hill itself, you would have to employ some fancy maneuvering.

>Battleframes didn't behave like amateur pilots and the one there would likely keep on the backfoot away from your advance, if you got close the advantage became yours.

>Because of the hilariously stupid idea the aliens had where their machine's primary armament wasn't even permanently attached, you could easily disarm the frame of its main weapon once you got in close.

>The problem was going to be getting there in the first place.

>You approached the cordon, the echoing slams of your footfalls more than enough warning for the tankers to move out of your way.

>Somewhere around the ballpark of 500 meters ahead was your target, Maneuvering back and forth dodging tank fire as its shields flickered.

>Evidently the armor was shunting enough shells at the bastard to keep them from getting a good shot. You didn't see any smoking wrecks from burned out heavies.

>But they were sitting at a distance taking potshots, which meant you had to go in and deal with the motherfucker yourself.

>Why is everything always your job?

-because we're awesome at it?-

>...

>You guess so. You made a battleframe disappear into smoke and grey confetti after all.

>Now to pull the same hat trick a second time. Redenbacher's little gamble echoed in your head.

>'See who between us can take down the most marks today.'

>You already took down one, and you growled, remembering that one frame that got hit with the railguns.

>Was the killing shot from Redenbacher? or one of his wingmen?

>Assuming it was him that meant you were one for one.

-he thinks we're weak-

>You'll show him wrong! This damnable world and these despicable, worming monsters have not broken you, and they never will.

>Close in, break the shield, and kill.

>This is your prerogative, you'll take home two marks today for sure. You will reach for three. And you will grab a fourth if given the opportunity.

>Going from a one-mark to an ace inside of one engagement, that's what you're made of.

>You've rumbled over the threshold now, and the frame takes notice of you. An acknowledgement of its opponent.

>A wicked grin came to you as your fury burned to take it down to hell where it belongs.

>If it was expecting honor or fairplay in this duel, you would destroy it for such a foolish assumption.

>CHARGE!

>The enemy raised their rifle, preparing to finally stand still and take aim.

>You threw a volley into their face, the shoulder cannons boomed, the missiles whistled, and the rotaries groaned.

>It saw that you weren't going to play nice, so it started moving as well, Boosting away from you as it's bizarre legs started peddling backwards.

>So it's a chase then. You would have to be smart about this, forcing it into a corner or against an allied force.

>You changed direction and started running to the right, keeping the torso panned on your target. You would turn it around and force the frame towards the Goliath, once the shields had broken it was yours.

>Aggression is key here so you constantly shorten the angle between you and the target, only to jolt back another direction.

>With your movement more confusing and aggressive you could increase that factor of intimidation.

>The frame steadied it's aim and its rifle glowed, you were ready.

>The lancing beam fired and you leapt forward, not expecting the burst of speed, the frame missed completely.

>Now you shifted direction to close straight towards it and fired the shoulder cannons again. Four out of six hit, but the shields refused to fade.

>The distance is starting to shrink, you can move faster forward than it can backward. It bursts with the thrusters again, lurching towards the side as the plasma cannon glowed.

>It fired, a well aimed shot leading you. So you dug in you heels and slowed down. A groan emitted from you as the auger pressured your chest, all this sudden change in momentum was starting to wear on you.

>But the shot screamed across your front harmlessly, and you responded with your missiles now that those thrusters had to cool off.

>The missiles screamed into the shields, and they flickered. Now is your chance.

>You tap the fangs, sending a volley directly towards the bastard, you got the monster dead to rights now.

>The frame raised its rifle, and the lance cut down one of the missiles. There were still three to kill it.

>But then it lunged forwards at an angle, Managing to pull a sort of long jump inside of the missile's tracking curve. And the fangs streaked off into the dirt.

>You snarled, that's your trick!

>This shit sucking worm thinks it can steal your new shtick?! It won't live long enough to regret that!

>The fangs seem to have a phenomenally short reload time, so you jam on the trigger again while it's standing still.

>You spread to salvo slightly towards the direction you think the frame is likely to try and evade, to catch it while it's still venting.

>You slide your legs around to close towards whichever direction it goes. If it dodges left, it catches the missiles. If it dodges right, it gets within range of your frag cannons.

>It leans right and you lurch your momentum that way, fighting the inertia with the traction claws.

>But then it thrusts left, the fangs turn to track but are too slow.

>DAMMIT!

>The shoulder cannons are reloaded, you'll catch him that way.

>But as the report echoes around your hull and the shells fly, the shield screen comes back up, and the volley is stopped short.

>You still aren't close enough to the tanks for them to do anything but give loose suppressing fire. You have to close in, and either chase the bastard into a dead end or get in close enough for CQC.

>Your rage surges onwards, and you give a roar as you lunge forward. You're gonna brutalize this prick!

>Thrash it into the ground, burn the body, and kill the other frames too! No cheap tricks are going to stop you.

>It runs from you, and you see another machine ahead: the black Rumbler.

>With you chasing the frame towards him, he should be able to down its shields for you, then you can pour everything you have into that enemy machine.

>The black machine is not nearly as fast as yours, it must be an older model.

>The frame turns its back to you, trying to sprint forward to open up the gap. The black Rumbler opens with shoulder cannons and missiles as you chase the battleframe with the GAUs, giving it more incentive to flee into your trap.

>It's shields are approaching the failure point again, another good salvo should break them.

>Your forward batteries are still reloading, and the shoulder cannons have to cool. Just a little bit longer.

>But then the frame raises its rifle and you realize with a knotting in your chest. The old Rumblers can't move like yours does, the black machine is in the open, and far too close!

>The plasma cannon gives it's distinctive WHUMP, and the shot shrieks outward, the black machine catches it on the nose, fire bellows from the forward batteries as missiles cook off in their tubes from the heat.

>A follow up laser short lances through the machines side, and hits one of the ammo racks. A thundering explosion sounds as the ammo detonates, throwing twisting shards of the right side back plate into the air and blowing the right arm out of its socket.

>The black machine falls to the side, engulfed in fire, its crew gone.

>The choler of your rage rises fully, this bastard must DIE.

-end it-

>The frag cannons bark as you fire all of them into the back The shield flares, tanking the blast.

>You need more.

>Your hopes are answered as Two fat shells scream in from the side, impacting the shield in bright plumes of fire and smoke, that must be the Goliath.

>The exhaust stacks flare as the machine turns to face you. It never gets the chance to fire on you as four fang missiles tear it into pieces.

>Stomping through the cloud of debris, you try to slow your pace without the clawed braking you had been using before.

>The lurching changes in direction are starting to let their strain be known on your body.

>Sore spots, aches, and bruises adorn those bands of flesh where the auger dug in to you as you fought against the massive inertia of your machine.

>Your heart aches and twists, for multiple reasons, and your breath comes in short heaves.

>You manage to bring yourself to a stop, groaning as the armature presses against your chest again. You were pushing too hard, and your body was yelling at you to stop before you broke something.

>Fury and vengeance took the other side of the debate, clamoring to draw more blood, you had killed two. Why stop there?

>Looking at the gauges you had been hard on the machine too. Your engine temperature was getting near critical. You have to rest, for at least a few minutes to cool your jets.

>You didn't even know who the hell the black Rumblers were, but seeing another machine cut down in front of you enraged your thrashing heart further.

>Why did the frame go for them, and not you? You were the more prominent threat, and you were hot in the enemy's heels. Why didn't it turn to aim for you?

>Maybe this was your fault, maybe you had pushed too hard against the enemy and made them panic, and in their fear they lashed out at the weaker target.

>The answer isn't clear, maybe the son of a bitch just fired at them because they were the more convenient target, you can't know.

>You try to steady your breath, and ignore the growing ache in your temples. Just rest a little bit, you can continue on when you're ready.

>Two battleframes had fallen by your hand today, that's nothing to sniff at, and it put you in the lead of your little bet with the red baron, if such a thing even mattered anymore.

>The loss of that black rumbler tugged at something in you, but it isn't weakness, you refuse to call it that.

>It's your humanity, and you'll never let it go, no matter how much it may hurt and ache, it's what separates you from them.

>Always a reminder, that no matter how far gone you may think you are, you're still human, and that's what matters.

>You're human, and you'll best whatever the enemy can throw at you as a mere human. A man and his machine against the stars.

>A man wanting for a place to belong, and someone to care for him.

>You panged, your heart rattling. Sure she was a beast, but what if Teth'ra thought of you that way?

>To think she's pretty much the only option around you can currently see yourself taking, despite how strange she is.

>You aren't sure if you're just lonely... or if every other choice is just that terrible. She's still a good friend, and a good person despite the snout.

>You can still talk with her after this is over and maybe you've caught some sleep.

>She still does care for you, if not in the way the heart reaches for. How she acted with you was more than enough proof.

>Once that twitch of exertion stops crawling around your torso you can head out and find a third target.

>Just a quick five minutes an-

>"Yo Tom! Battleframe headed your way!"

>You jolted back upright, Vegalta's voice pulling you up from your battle-exhausted trance.

"Where? Where damnit where?!"

>"He's coming down from the north my way! I couldn't keep up and he slashed my third! Kick his ass for me!"

>Or that third target can come to you. Yet more death while you weren't there to guard against it, one of the Thumpers had been downed.

>You hoped that at least one of the crew managed to get out.

"Don't need to tell me twice!"

>"Good luck brother! I gotta stay up here and deal with the two frames staring at me right now!"

>Scanning towards the north you saw it, a battleframe that had broken away from the eastern side of town and swept south.

>But this one was different, Yellow triangles bordered its trifecta of eyes and the spindly arms seemed to be fused in pairs.

>Each pair supported some yawning metallic sort of rack that seemed to hold lengths of glowing wire in tension.

>You had never heard of something like this before, a Battleframe specialized in melee combat. You still saw that tell tale vent of the plasma cannon so you guess the usual dynamic hasn't been completely flipped on its head.

>The frame seems to be some brand of suicidal as it charges directly for you.

>That glowing cheesewire must be dangerous. You would have to be careful.

>The Goliath fired its twin main guns and the yellow marked frame's shields flickered off... You guess fate could just hand you an easy kill.

>Fang missiles would take care of this joker, and you tapped the trigger with a tired satisfaction that you had secured a third mark, a unique one too.

*click*

"SHIT!"

"WHO'S JOB WAS IT TO RELOAD?! THEY'RE FIRED!!"

>You double tapped the trigger to get a status report, the buzz that sounded in your ear made your heart drop as your adrenaline spiked.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN OUT OF AMMO?! YOU'RE FIRED TOO!!"

>Then something slapped you across the face, the trigger fires one tube at a time. A single missile is likely more than enough to kill a frame, and here you were popping them off in fours.

>Youuu fuckin idiot!

-we have a problem with excessive force don't we?-

>Yeah no shit!

>Time to go back to basics.

>Missiles first, the volley streaks out as yellow closes, he lunges to the left and the volley can't make a tight enough turn to follow.

>Shoulder cannons next, he thrust right just after you fire, another smart bastard using your own maneuvering tricks against you.

>Or maybe you had just stepped into their wheelhouse judging by how that last frame moved.

>He's close! Too fucking close! Frag cannons! Can't dodge these when you're so close ya bastard!

>The cannons roar and the volley catches, and the shield screen flicks up moments before impact.

"Fuck!"

>He's about to strike, you gotta react as now you're playing the game on his terms.

>Yellow lunges forward with an underhand left, reaching up to try and catch your machine under the nose.

>You see it coming and lean hard right to duck aside, a sickening shriek scrapes your ears as the wirefist damages your left weapon arm.

>Can't block, moving to block will just get you fragged, instincts bad.

>Your opponent put too much effort into that swing, likely not expecting you to be able to dodge, and seems to have overstepped.

>Wheeling around, you notice a gout of orange flame hissing out of the tank strapped into the corner of your weapon arm.

>He hit your flamer's fuel tank! It's about to blow, gotta get rid of it.

>Yellow has turned to face you, already attempting to arrest his momentum and charge on you.

"Think fast!"

>You wrench the left arm upwards, thrusting the elbow as you hit the emergency release for the left arm fuel tank.

>It sails outward and explodes in the yellow frame's face, bypassing the shield screen. You doubted that did much damage but you had created a smokescreen, instincts good.

>Time to open the distance and get some breathing room.

>You lunge backwards with a kick, you aren't used to running backwards but now it's a hell of a lot easier than the lurching retreat you made a while ago.

>Yellow comes flying out of the cloud of oily smoke left behind by your impromptu smoke grenade, thrusting forwards, he isn't going to let you get far.

>oh shit.

>You abandon all pretense of attempting to control yourself and just start outright sprinting backwards, hoping you don't smash into something important.

>Everything is reloaded, a good volley should pop the fucker's shields and leave him open to destroying his optics with the rotaries or something else clever.

>Then the fucking Goliath shows up, charging in from the right all guns blazing.

>These fucking idiots seriously think a tank stands a chance in close combat against THAT?!

>"Don't worry mechy, we'll handle this pu-"

"GET BACK YOU IDIOTS!"

>It's already too late, you loose a volley with everything to pop the shield screen and try to give the suicidal tankers a chance.

>The Goliath fires into the screen before your volley arrives, Yellow punches his razorfists right into the Goliath's side, ammo explodes and fuel burns, they're gone.

>The shield screen flickers and breaks as Yellow uses his forward momentum and anchors the fists in the burning Goliath, lifting himself off his feet and twisting out of the way of the rest of the volley.

>The razorfists unhook and the ace? frame kicks the thrusters in short bursts to carry through a front flip and land on its feet.

>damn he's good!

>You can't face this guy up close on their own terms, you have to throw them off balance first.

>Keep running.

>You quickly check the rear cameras to try and get some sort of idea.

>Currently you seem to be careening straight towards a bunch of warehouses that look high enough to just barely squeeze in your machine.

>Of course those corrugated walls aren't going to do shit to stop your opponent but it is concealment.

>A loose plan starts coming to mind but you swap back to the front cameras to watch your doom approaching, he's closing fast, you can't outrun this bastard.

>Gotta flip the tables.

>You open up with the shoulder cannons again and fan a spray of missiles forward to keep him off you, you gotta get to that fucking warehouse.

>He thrusts forward and you buzz him with the GAUs and blast with the frag cannons, His shield flickers and he lessens his pace.

>But he's still keeping the pressure on, you just need a fucking moment to breath!

>The warehouses are coming up fast if you're gonna make this work you need him to open the distance just a touch.

>Creative thinking dammit! Creative thinking!

>You step over something in the road. FUCK IT! It'll do!

>You push your right leg out violently, hooking the object under the Rumbler's clawed foot and flinging it forward as you come down hard on your left and try not to lose your balance.

>The yellow ace battleframe catches an abandoned bus to the face, you swear you actually see the optic lenses cracking.

>Yellow stumbles a bit with the impact, giving you the distance you need.

>You race past a warped crane and dig your heels into the concrete, groaning as the auger seems to crush points on your back.

>Gonna need a chiropractor after this shit.

>With your backwards hurtle slowed enough you scramble into the nearest warehouse, hunching under the ceiling as you prepare for the next phase of your on-the-fly plan.

>Yellow has regained his composure and is closing fast towards the warehouse you've sheltered in. Exactly what you were hoping for.

>You watch him through the roof windows using the cameras, gaging his speed and trying to figure out your timing.

>Only one chance at this... get it right.

>Yellow comes closer and closer, reeling for a right hook. He probably thinks you don't see him and your earlier musings flash back to you.

>They expect you to be scared, act the opposite and you'll take them off guard, this hard charging frame was tantamount to that.

>You squat down, tensing your legs like springs and readying for the right moment.

>The temperature gauge is climbing towards the red, you hope your engines can hold out a little longer without exploding.

>Just gotta wait for the right moment.

>Just about.

>NOW!

>You heave upwards and jump like you've never jumped before, your legs burn, shoulda played more basketball.

>Yellow comes crashing through the wall as you come crashing out of the ceiling, hell you actually gained some height.

>He already swung, but must be confused to find nothing there. You fucking did it you genius!

>You plant your clawed feet into the enemy machine's shoulders crumpling them under your weight and damaging the upper arms.

>You push off, launching Yellow behind you as you land outside the hole in the warehouse wall.

>You turn to face your enemy, you put more force into that kick off than expected as Yellow seems to have stumbled forward.

>He lost his balance and careened through the other wall of the warehouse, falling forward and tumbling into a heap as he scrambled to pick himself back up.

>Now is your chance!

>The engines scream as you sprint towards your quarry, now the fight is on your terms.

>He stands and backs away trying to get ready to intercept your charge.

>You hit the emergency release on the right hand flamer's fuel tank, sending it hurtling towards the enemy ace.

>He has to either blow it up in front of his face or have it blow up directly on him, and he won't recuperate in time to stop you.

>The ace takes the swing and the fuel tanks ruptures, producing a voluminous cloud of fire that fades into an inky black smoke as napalm splashes on the local area.

>Wrong. move. buddy.

>You careen through the inky black smoke to find the yellow frame with a wide open guard, and you strike in hard, aiming low with a right hook.

>The weapon arm crashes into where yellow would have his kidneys if you were in a bar brawl with some faggot named Seamus, But it doesn't seem to matter that your opponent is an alien mech instead of some seedy cigarette salesman that had too much Guinness.

>The frame lurches forward as that silver metal buckles under the impact, you seem to have rattled the pilot.

-finish it now!-

-don't give it a chance!-

>You jam the trigger for the right hand rotary down, and then slip it to the side, engaging what many pilots affectionately call 'ripper mode'

>This adjusts the variable fire parameters on the GAU-8 avenger to 250% of the normal fire rate set for Rumblers.

>It overheats quickly, eats a lot of ammo, but it seems to be the right call at the moment.

>That foghorn groan becomes more of a roaring buzz as tracers start ripping out of the yellow frame's back.

>You drag your fist towards the left, damaging the metal as you go and firing hundreds upon hundreds of 30mm rounds point blank into the enemy's midriff as they rip out the other side.

>Finishing your ballistic chainsawing, you hit the dazed fuckwit point blank in the chest with all six double barreled frag cannons.

>The front of the machine shatters and sparks as numerous systems are outright destroyed, and with a screeching of metal the machine falls into two pieces.

>You had bisected the bastard and now the torso lay splayed in the ground, you raised your foot over the sparking wreck and slammed it down.

>You back away remembering that such a hit must have breached the reactor.

>After taking a few steps back, the machine explodes.

>...

>You did it again.

>Not only had you killed a third battleframe, you had bested what had to be an enemy ace.

>Still one mark short of ace material, but fuck that!

>You want to go home and pass out, everything is aching, or burning, or doesn't want to move now.

>Checking the engine temperature gauge again, you had pushed it into the red and likely did some damage, but you were alive.

>You stand rather blearily, watching the fire from the destroyed machine as it dances and flicks.

>Something about it in entrancing and you're content to just watch for a little while.

>The battle has died away, your guys probably won. You're too tired to really care about that right now, you aren't in danger anymore.

>You could just sit still and watch the flames for a little while. They call to you, reminding you of those chilly nights back home where you had sat around the firepit grilling bratwurst.

>You pang for home again.

>It's been a long time.

>Maybe a month or two longer... depending on how this advance goes.

>Would they even let you leave? if only for a while?

>The licking hearth glows an entrancing orange, you can smell that tangy smoke of brats on the fire.

>You were losing it for sure now, so tired you were developing synesthesia. Or at least just vividly recalling scents based purely on memory.

>Checking the battlemap, all seemed clear, no real enemy presence. There are still a few bugs, your common sense told you, but the infantry could root them out from their hiding spots, and you would be fine as long as you stayed inside your machine.

>Your position is pretty isolated, you're pretty damn far away from anyone else.

-you're on your own-

-in the open-

>Your heart starts spasming, and you look around, every far off tree line, all the little nooks and outcroppings up on the mountains. Looking for any glimmer, any sign or glow.

>No calm down! he isn't here, you would have noticed. Instead the yellow one came here instead, and you're looking at exactly how that went.

>You just need to get out of the auger and lie down a little. Just a few minutes.

>A little rest is what you need right now, to get your strength back and reorient yourself.

>You find the release tabs with your thumbs and with a *cer-clack* the struts and pins encircling your arms hinge open.

>Moving your arms out towards your back met you with a stinging of needles between your shoulder blades.

>Sucking in air you tried your model best to tough through at as you tugged at the torso release tab below your collar.

>The rear of the main armature folded open, and you tried to ignore that pinching at the small of your back as you took up the exertion of supporting yourself.

>You unplugged your goggles from the sensory jack, and reeled back in the connector between the goggles and your headset.

>Reaching up and taking the warm muffs off your ears, you notices just how hot and slick your skin was, your hair wet with heat and sweat. You nested the headset around your neck.

>You slid the goggles off your eyes, however dim and cramped the compartment was, it was still your machine as you scanned it over.

>Computer terminals in front of you hummed with a stark bluish glow, meant for diagnostics and certain other actions interfacing with the machine's systems.

>The unpainted slab that was the front wall, lit dimly from behind by the amber of the two internal lights.

>All of the manual switches and gauges lining the side walls, the engine controls and compartment access at the rear.

>And the subgunner's station directly behind you, you twisted your torso around with a grunt.

>He isn't moving... You watch him closely as you heart tightens, and a rotting smell starts stinging your nostrils. Is he...

>Bony fingers of panic start scrabbling in the back of your head, but you see his back slowly rising and falling and the creeping vines halt their progress.

>He's just passed out, either from the stress of maneuvering, or the fear.

>That smell isn't leaving you, the stench of death, that creeping feeling accompanies you as you wrench at the release tabs near your hips and climb out of the armature.

>You're shaking, and you feel weak, you need to calm down.

>Slow, tepid steps over to the corner, where you slide down the wall and huddle your knees close to you.

>Calm down, just calm down. But you can feel the eyes, watching, judging... hating. Peering from those little flecks of darkness scattered all around you.

>You think of something, anything else.

>a fresh aroma wafts in from your memory, it's calming.

>A scent of spices, peppered with lilac and honeysuckle, it chases away your nightmares, your breath deepens, the heart stills.

>You're thinking of her.

>Suddenly the worry surges all at once, but it drives you to do something. The agony clutches at you.

>Is she okay? Did she make it out? Her platoon marker hadn't moved out of the bunker.

>You pulled one of the terminals, facing the interface out towards you.

>Pulling up the battlenet on the terminal, you checked in on Teth'ra's squad specifically.

>606 Hellhound Rifles: B Company: Second Platoon: E Squad: No casualties.

>You slump to the floor again, all your energy leaking out as you toss your head back and chuckle.

>She's okay.

>A warmth overtakes you as you lay yourself down. she's okay.

>Your chest feels so much lighter now. You can rest.

>Even if only for five minutes, on what's still technically an active battlefield... Fuck it.

>You're behind hundreds of tons of composite armor, you can afford to stare at the ceiling a little while and collect yourself enough to actually walk home.

>The headset starts murmuring something into your neck, you sigh, can't avoid people forever in your walking box it seems.

>Much as you would prefer it that way, with one exception towards a certain jackal.

>You slipped on the headset. "-e you there Tom?... Tom, answer me!"

>It isn't her calling, and you find yourself disappointed. Guess you can at least acknowledge Vegalta.

"You forgot your callsign chief."

>"I'm calling on your channel smartass! Are ya alright? Ya sound out of it."

>"What about that frame that came down there? I don't see his marker anymore. What happened?!"

"I fuhckin' got him."

>"... I guess you did."

>...

"I'm gonna go now."

>"Tom wait!"

>...

>"Look pal... I'm gonna be honest... I'm worried about ya."

>Why should he be worried? The two of you were never very close, and the both of you disagreed on a lot. Piloting fundamentally different machines tends to bring out those differences in people.

>Just shoving him away wouldn't help matters, but you didn't want to bother him with your problems. Those were yours and yours alone.

"I'm fine chief, just catching my breath."

>"I'm jus' concerned is all, I know you've never got along well with anthros and now that you're attached to one of their units."

"It's not that bad, you're worrying over nothing"

>"Really? That one time that Jaguar with the cut lip got near you, you just about went feral yourself." His chiding tone strikes a nerve, and like a well tuned piano, a hammer drops with a roaring response.

"Fuck off!"

>You try to blow off the sudden surge with shuddering breaths whispering through your nose. He's playing a dangerous game questioning the why.

>"Look Tom, I need to know you aren't gonna get yourself court-martialed."

>"You haven't even really gotten settled in with anyone over there. Hell! How I hear it you almost bit your LT's goddamn head off!"

>The boomer captain's accusatory tone had that fire in the pit of your torso breathing again. He makes it sound like you're the villain. And that anger in your core surges outward, life returning to you as you pick yourself off the floor with a growl.

"That air-headed canine whore tried to puppet me into being a fucking sex object! I DON'T CARE WHAT THE FUCK YOU HAVE TO SAY TO THAT!"

"AND AS FOR SETTLING IN WITH ANYBODY, FUCK YOU! I have more than enough on my plate juggling maintenance without a fucking support crew, this clueless blazing faggot that calls himself my subgunner, WHO FUCKING PASSED OUT BY THE WAY! Plus I already do have a friend there, certainly cares about my boundaries more than you fucking do!"

>You pace around the cabin angrily, maybe you had gone too far, but the idiot pressed a button of yours he fucking shouldn't have.

>With nothing to really attack or focus on the rage starts smoldering, and you wait for Vegalta's response, you wouldn't apologize for his mistake, It would make you look like even more of a wreck than you are.

>"... A.. a-uh A friend?.. You made friends with an anthro?"

>You grunted in response. Was it really that hard to believe? Vegalta's white knighting for every woman of every species could drive you up the goddamn wall. He's likely thinking about what sort of bullying and brash tactics you used to force some rabbit or other timid creature under your wing.

>Because you've always been the one with anger problems. The brash new kid with the mouth of a sailor that Willard bought in without asking anybody first.

>Vegalta sighs heavily. "I'm sorry if I overstepped my bounds here Tomcat."

"Stop with the nicknames."

>"...But look Tom, We're still 512, we gotta look out for eachother. And Willard ain't there for ya anymore so I just want to know you're not gonna have a psychotic break or nothin'."

>Water had doused your fire somewhat. You suppose he is still trying to look out for you, even if he's doing it wrong.

>You sit yourself against the front wall to the side of the hatch ladder, watching your subgunner who was amazingly still comatose despite all the yelling.

>"So who is she?"

>You forget your anger, remembering your confusion over exploring the real answer to that question. And you felt a tug of sadness remembering how you stumbled into that answer.

"Teth'ra"

>"Wait.. Magual? Teth'ra Magual!? The one that just got promoted?"

"Yup"

>He sounded baffled, like he couldn't figure out how you could possibly befriend such a mountain of a woman. He's ignorant of the soft, warm creature under that rocky shell.

>"You, and one of the most trouble bound troopers I've ever seen?"

"That's not entirely her fault."

>You felt compelled to defend her.

>"That is not a woman you should be hanging around with Tom, she's trouble."

>"Cold too, I could barely get a word in with her round about two months ago"

-because she wouldn't associate with a womanizing creep like you-

>But rather than call out the boomer on his white knighting voyeurism, you focused on defending your companion.

"If she's so uncaring she wouldn't have helped me out when I was considering blowing my own goddamn brains out."

>That should drop a ton of bricks on whatever response he had cooked up.

>"She.. she really did that?"

"You're wrong about her Vegalta. You and everyone else.. She's kind, and caring, she just never gets a chance to show it."

"She helped me. I was on the edge and she pulled me back. I don't think I could even go on if she hadn't been there."

"She's a wonderful woman, and I won't stand by and have ignorant idiots like you talk shit just because she's reserved."

>You finished your small tangent with a huff, you had really unloaded, but she was the only real anchor to sanity you have out here, you can't abide her reputation being even further sullied by circumstance.

>And she deserved your loyalty.

>"Shit Tom... you talk like your in love."

>...

>If you were being honest with yourself.. Maybe you were, just a little. You could never bring yourself to stay mad when you were thinking of her.

>But the last thing you needed was for the same man that painted softcore porn on your shoulder plate to be giving you romantic advice.

>That would crash and burn faster than the fucking Hindenburg and a zippo lighter. Why the fuck did they fill that thing with hydrogen anyways?

>Forget the history, you have to scare Vegalta away from ruining your relationship.

"I'm not sure what the hell you would know about that, but she's the best friend I could have right now."

"And I'm not about to let anything step on that, least of all the shitshow that is your 'romantic' experience."

>You stood yourself up, your energy having rebounded during your heated conversation. You looked at the open auger, it was time to go back to base.

>You clamped yourself back in to the armature's legs, the rest of the kit was unnecessary for a slow walk to camp.

>You didn't want to strap on the rest of the struts anyway, everything was sore and doing so would only agitate the heaving aches that criss crossed over your skin where the struts and straps had been pressed into your flesh by the g-forces of maneuvering like a coked up maniac.

>All the jumping and leaping was a damn good trick for evading frames, but it played hell with you and the landing was very unpleasant.

>You were so slick with sweat you were practically dripping too.

>You found where your camp was after plugging the sensory goggles back in, apparently it was nestled between the highway and the ruins of some hodunk shithole called Ashcroft.

>You wished you could be camped by the river, seeing the waterfront, however small, reminds you of home.

>Then Vegalta saw fit to chime in again, you just wish he would fuck off and let you get your rest.

>"Tom..."

>"If she is like you say she is."

>"Take good care of her."

---

>The words have been echoing in the back of your head during the slow walk to camp. 'Take good care of her.' Had you not been doing that already?

>His insinuation was that you were somehow not accepting of her, despite how hard you had been fighting yourself to see her in a better light.

>The captain went silent after that, and you didn't really have the vigor or inclination to badger him on just how wrong he was about the both of you.

>You were angry for good reason, and you had been there for her when she was at her lowest.

>Now you worried over how the fight may have affected her, would she need you again, in the same way you needed her?

>Exhaustion weighed on you, your momentum had been pulled away as your anger receded. You just want to collapse into her arms and let her carry you to sleep.

>...

>Shit, you really did sound in love, But you think you had already moved past that point of being just friends, you were close now.

>That sense that the next day could be your last made things like that mature faster.

>You would have to at least shower first before you got yourself tied in a bow wondering over how the stress would make her approach you.

>As you continued trundling forward, you imagined she would either be withdrawn or affectionate, there almost seems to be no real middle ground when she's feeling stressed.

>The mech park comes up into view and your scaffold is open. You note the other machines here, A battered thumper dangling in its scaffold from various chains, most of its right leg is missing and the body is covered in half melted slash marks.

>Guess you know what happened to Vegalta's unit when he mentioned that yellow frame 'got' one of his own.

>Three garishly colored striders lined up in their scaffolds, Redenbacher's unit, minus the strider with the black and brown paint.

>You didn't notice the black Rumbler anywhere. You wonder where they could have gone too, if he had stuck around, you could have let that other pilot know that his lancemates hadn't perished in vain.

>The subgunner still hadn't woken up by the time you had climbed out of the auger for good and shut off the engines, in fact he was quietly snoring.

>You would just leave the hatch open for the idiot when he eventually wakes up, you couldn't care less about playing nice.

>He wasn't much of a help anyway.

>Climbing out of the hatch graced your increasingly worn nerves with two offenses, first was the bite of the chilling evening air on your damp skin, and the second was Redenbacher attempting to prattle at you from across the way.

>You merely raised your hand high and extended three fingers to signify that by your count you had won your bet, and then promptly ignored everything else as you shuffled down the scaffold and attempted to find where the hell they had the shower stalls. Or failing that, the nearest point to go jump in the river.

>Shuffling past some supply dump like a corpse on strings, you almost failed to notice the tenor of a familiar voice pealing behind you. Raising your head as a small sort of second wind blew across your thoughts.

>"Tom!"

>Two burly arms layered in a curtain of silky grey wrapped around your middle and hoisted you firmly but gently off your feet into a familiar embrace as a rich, happy laughter breathed from the smiling muzzle just above your head.

>Evidently she feels affectionate today.

>"You're okay!"

"Hey Teth'ra."

>You squeak out the words. It's not that you don't appreciate the sentiment, you don't even really mind all the hugging anymore and she's keenly aware of her own strength, but the stress of the day's events on your body make the embrace less than comfortable.

>You at least try to hide the pained way you're breathing, she's already worried about you more than enough it seems.

>But a flair from one of your ribs twists you into vocalizing your discomfort, you hold your mouth closed but almost immediately she takes notice.

>Can't hide anything from her, it seems.

>"Shit, are you okay? Did I..?" Poor girl must think she's too strong for her own good.

"No. No, You're okay. I've just.. gotten a bit roughed around the edges out there."

>She sets you back onto your feet but keep her arms crossed down over your chest to keep you near her.

>"I asked if YOU were okay."

>There's that warmth again, she's so damn caring, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

"I'm fine Teth. Honestly I was more worried about you."

>She gives a light scoff and another one of those happy whines you're acquainted with. Then she almost lovingly nuzzles the back of your neck.

>The feeling of The soft plush silk of her fur gliding and pushing against you is ticklish, and you find a smile cracking out of you.

>As much as the attention melts away your worries, you'd rather she hold herself back for a time when you're less filthy and you don't risk being caught.

"Teth'ra!"

>She backs off with the nuzzling and even releases you from her loose embrace before the fluttering in your diaphragm can evolve into laughter.

>"I'm just glad you're okay... Here! We can talk in here."

>She leads you over into the supply dump for some seclusion from the rest of the base. Looking around, nobody seems to take explicit notice of you as you disappear into the assortment of containers and crates.

>Either Teth'ra's size does a good job of concealing you from view when the two of you are so close to eachother, or everyone is just ignoring the jackal that could probably snap their spine with her knee.

>It occurs to you that a reason why no one seems to question what she's doing with you, and the reason she's so alone, is because of that intimidation that comes with her size and strength.

>She's hardly an apex predator, but her mass more than makes up for that, and she carries herself with a quiet, assertive pride that speaks volumes. None of them know her gentler side, how controlled she is... How much love she never had the chance to give.

>But you know, and it puts you at ease, knowing she wouldn't use that strength against you.

>The two of you recline on a pair of small crates left in the 'corridor' formed by two shipping containers.

>"Sooo. How many d'ya get?" Her gorgeous blues hold an expectant gaze.

"I got three marks."

>"Ha! I knew you could do it. That's great!" She's practically lighting up, wearing a grin that on anyone else you'd call doofy, on her it's just infectious.

>You realize she's more happy that you've recovered enough to have the bravery to face combat than about how many kills you've gotten.

>But there's still a hinting of pride that you're holding up so well.

>You crack that smile again.

"So how are you holding up?"

>Her ears tilt quizzically and her beaming grin seems to fade.

>"I. uh.."

"Alright what's wrong"

>You did not have the patience to sit around and watch her get wrapped up in herself.

>"Well. I got along fine with my squad, I think they're opening up to me real nice but..."

>"There was... something down there.. In the bunkers."

>"Something weird, that central wants to keep secret... I'm not sure if I may have gotten too close."

>A look of deep worry crosses her, she's unsure if she'll be punished for stumbling too close to another one of central's pet projects.

>You had been there before, with the rest of your squadron on 'special assignments' protecting a truck hauling mystery cargo, or guarding a technician and his team extracting data from some facility specializing in God knows what that you aren't supposed to talk about.

>And they made it very clear that anyone of you that actually laid eyes on that cargo or data, would be executed for treason.

>It made no sense to you why they were keeping secrets, the entire world has been under a single flag for over 20 years, there's no one to keep secrets from.

>As long as she didn't actually lay eyes on anything or go spouting off guesses and suspicions in public she should be fine, but still her ears fold low and she looks timid.

>A short whine leaks from her lips as she looks up towards you, pleading.

>You give an exaggerated sigh and open up your arms.

"c'mere."

>she huffs happily, tail wagging tepidly as you pull her down into a gentle hug, she's sure to be gentler with you because of your sore.. everything.

"Look, long as you didn't actually see anything conclusive or start rifling off guesses in front of anyone there isn't anything to worry about."

"They can't shoot ya for being curious, so just forget about it alright?"

>"Are ya sure.. I'm not sure if I-"

>You interrupted her by kneading a hand between her shoulders, massaging the taut muscle beneath her silky coat of trim fur.

>She tenses at first but seems to push into the touch, sighing contentedly.

"Teth."

"I've been in that song and dance before, you're fine."

>"I still have to wonder..."

"We all do, just don't go talking about it where there might be ears in the walls."

>You rub her back for a little while, her breathing grows calmer and deeper, she nuzzles gently at your chin before twisting away and sitting at your side.

>You stare down at your legs, trying to think up something to change the mood to be less... dire.

>Your attention is drawn by Teth'ra sniffing the air above you.

"Yeah I know, I reek right now."

>"Yeah, you uhhh.. Ya kinda do."

"I was gonna go hit the showers until you ambushed me."

>"Is that an invitation?"

>There's that teasing again, you're thankful the mood shifted up so easily.

>You aren't one to be outdone by that toothy smirk though, and you decided to test the water a little.

"And what if I said yes?"

>She flicks through a range of emotions for about five seconds, before settling on something when she realizes your exaggerated quirk of the brow and the way your own smirk draws back the corners of your mouth means you're pulling her leg... mostly.

>She scoffs lightly and bumps the back of her hand against your shoulder, grinning with glee.

>"Please little man, I think I'd break you." She didn't go for the 'don't drop the soap' angle, classy.

>You like classy, and that easy reception to your own counter teasing tells you she isn't scared of intimacy.

>If you are indeed testing the waters, the temperature is to your taste. You're playing a dangerous game, but something about the risk is enticing, and she's enjoying it. You both need a little release.

"If I can handle 500 tons of angry Rumbler, I can handle you."

>You say it staring straight into her eyes with a smirk.

>Almost immediately, your mind flashes over scenarios and images of the two of you enjoying yourselves in the shower. You trying to keep her quiet and hiding her bulk behind those thin canvas privacy screens in those cramped stalls, so close to being discovered but isolated in your own little box too.

>Lathering her up, exploring all the hills and furrows of her carved back, working your way lower and lower to help her get those hard to reach spots.

>The way the water must cascade over her mythical physique as she pulls you close.

>The way she'd whisper into your ear all the terrible things she would do to you as she guides your hands to that perfect spot as you stare into eachother.

>...

>Down boy! Down.

>She doesn't seem to notice the heated way you sucked in air for a bit as you thought out that little flash of eroticism, thankfully.

>Instead she snickers, and it keeps going as her grin goes a mile wide, and it evolves into a hearty laugh.

>She wants to laugh with you, and you're all too happy to oblige. Her rich laughter prompts your own, the two of you must sound like hyenas, but you don't care.

>The way she seems to loosen up around you, that happy spotlight smile, all of the genuine concern and care of a rich friendship that you had been missing.

>You want more of this, with her.

>You probably laugh a lot more than either of you should, but it seems to carry away all of the tension of the day. Forgetting about all those dark things, at least for a while.

>The laughter eventually peters out and the two of are left grinning at eachother like idiots. A gust manages to angle itself through the containers and push the damp weight of your soaked undershirt into you with a chill.

>Right, you were going to clean yourself up.

>"I should probably let you go wash up shouldn't I?"

"... yeah, I reek like a trashfire in a junkyard right now."

>"*snrk* that you do. Hey, uh. You know where we're camped right?"

"Yeah, southeast of the main camp.. by the river right?"

>"No I mean... Where OUR tent is..."

"ohhh..."

>You feel that confused swell under your chest again, she makes it sound like the two of you have made a home together rather than just the convenient sleeping arrangements of the platoon outcasts.

>In a way you have, you certainly feel more at home alone with her than you would with anyone else.

>"Ya know what just... hold on a minute." She fishes around in her pockets and pouches, looking for something. Eventually she finds it.

>A surprisingly well kept notepad and a small ball point pen. She leans forward against one of the containers and holds the cap of the pen gently with her teeth.

>You try not to stare at the way her hips roll as she efficiently scribbles down something.

>She tears away the sheet she was drawing on and hands it to you as she caps the pen and stows everything back in her pockets.

>It's a very simplistic, if well made map pointing towards a tent isolated from a clustering of its fellows. It sits a little north and closer to the river, nestled in a loose clearing of trees.

>"The logistics guys don't exactly question certain arrangements if they get a signature from a scatter brained LT we both know."

>So forgery is included on her ever growing list of talents? As long as she continues using it for a good cause it's fine. Right?

>All in all, it's understandable for something scribbled down inside of 15 seconds, but you still need to wash so you start to move away.

>"Wait!.. uh... before you go."

>You turn back around to find her trying to mouth something but finding herself unsure over her mental drafting of what she's trying to say.

>She timidly taps her claws together as her shoulders have sunk. She swallows and manages to find her voice.

>"Would you uhhh.. would you. like to sleep with me?"

-[program:brain has encountered a problem and must shutdown]-

-...-

-[rebooting]-

"uhhhhhhhhhh"

>Almost immediately her ears flatten and she makes a very pitiable whine as she buries her face into her hands, trying to hide.

>"NEAR ME, NEAR ME!"

>"FUCK! I AM SO SORRY."

>"I-It's just spring is mating season and sometimes I get carried away and say things I don't mean to and I am so sorry!"

>The way she stammers and whines tugs at your heart but also brings a warmth towards your face, manifesting in a genuine smile.

>She is adorable.

>"andit'sjustwithallthesehormonesfloatingaroundandeverythingsometimesIdon'tknowifIcantrustmyselfandIlikeyou Imeannotlikelikenecessarilybutasagoodfriendan-"

"Teth'ra!"

>She stops, and her vivid lakes of blue eye you with a rather genuine internal panic.

"Breath."

>She takes your advice and starts sucking in great lung fulls of air. Her jaw quivers and her eyes are moist, she's on the verge of crying because of a simple mistake of words. She must really think that much of you.

"It's okay you fuzzy idiot."

>She seems to take solace from your warm smile. Although initially you would have questioned and probably freaked out yourself with how forward she was being, the way she seemed to realize what she almost said bought such a bubbling happiness out of you, and you can't pin down exactly why.

>"I just... I sleep better if someone is close to me, I know it must sound stupid but-"

"Teth. You're fine."

>Her eyes shine at you with an appreciative light as relief washes out of her with a huff.

>"I'm not even asking to um. Sleep in the same bed or anything. It's just with our cots pulled closer together..."

"It's alright Teth'ra."

"If that's what you need for a good nights' rest."

>She smiled slightly "Thank you".

>Of course you knew that sleeping habits were only an excuse really.

>You weren't stupid, she was interested in more, and you pondered over this as you washed up.

>She wanted to get closer to you in some measure, but she wasn't sure how.

>She wasn't scared of intimacy, but she seemed to whip herself into a frenzy worrying over everything else. The way she reacted to that freudian slip proved it.

-she must really like you to get that flustered-

-if we can just get her a little closer and-

>Down boy.

>She may not even be looking for that sort of thing in you, you can't be sure.

>She was bizarrely timid in that moment, scared senseless that she would scare you off.

>Admittedly you had no idea how anthros selected their mates, it was all too foreign to you.

>What was clear was that she's intimidated by more of the subtleties surrounding genuine affection, and must worry that she's pressing too hard, among other things.

>And now your previous idea of just asking her what she wanted from you may not be the best call.

>You would have to be patient, and let her come forward on her own terms. All you have to do is keep yourself receptive as she manages to talk enough courage into herself.

>You finish up with scrubbing the grime out of your hair and skin, and manage to make your way out towards your accommodations for tonight.

>The wind blows in, making you shiver as its icy feathers glide briefly over your drying skin. It carries distant sounds of battle with it.

>The offensive is a rolling advance, while your units rest and recuperate, others take up the night fighting, pressing ever onward, a non-stop advance.

>Then it's right back to your rotation when they inevitably hit a roadblock outside of the valley.

>Doesn't matter, you can take on whatever the hell they throw at you.

>Even if you're dog tired and just want to pass out.

>The tent was exactly where Teth'ra's little hand drawn map said it would be, separate from everyone else by a curtaining of trees.

>Stepping in, nobody was around, and exhaustion screamed at you to just curl up and die for the night.

>The place was reorganized from the way the two of you had it before. When she said she wanted to move your cots closer, she really did mean closer, the two of them were paired off with barely a hand-width between them.

>Guess that was a good sign, she didn't psych herself out and start withdrawing. The last thing she needed was to keep holding things in.

>But if you're gonna be of any help to her in figuring herself out, you need your rest.

>You changed into a fresh under uniform rather hurridly, lurched into your cot, pulled up the covers, and fell asleep almost immediately.

<Teth'ra>

>You came back from your little scouting of the river to find Tom fast asleep. Like. really asleep.

>He barely even managed to fit his sleepwear on, he must have been so tired.

>You guess he absolutely has to be judging by the way some of the tankers at base were chattering excitedly about a Rumbler that had been jumping around knocking off battleframes left and right, like some supersized, omnicidal relative of The Rocketeer.

>First it was blitzing down a suburban throughway weaving through a hail of plasma fire, then it was jumping through an apartment building and disintegrating a frame wholesale.

>Then it was closing in and brutalizing a frame in the open, and finally pulling a fast one on an enemy ace. Which they psyched the event up as the enemy shattering in two with a single punch.

>At that point you ditched your squad to go find their bunks while you rushed to go find him, because the mounting worry over him you had been cycling in your head was becoming unbearable.

>He was entirely free of major injury, thank god, but still he was sensitive to the pressure of your embrace, and you had to ease off on that.

>If you had the option you would hug the little smart-assed spitfire as tight as you could without breaking him, just to give him a very solid reminder he has someone to stay alive for now. And you do too.

>The best part was he was actually opening up to you! All of those doubts you had about your awkward morning vanished as soon as he started teasing you about your own little nudges at him.

>And.. shit, you can't believe you actually got away with it.

>You scent marked him, you absolute degenerate.

>Of course it wasn't anything obvious, and most of it probably came out when he washed, but you still did it.

>It didn't scream 'this man is the sole property of Teth'ra Magual and she loves him very much, violators will be eviscerated' but it was a subtle hint to anyone that got close that another dog already had her eyes on him and they should keep a distance.

>You wanted to do more, your heart clamored for more, but you had never really gotten this far with someone that was this accepting of your behaviors.

>You needed to be careful, to restrain yourself, and build his trust in you.

>He still did it, he twitched when you touched his shoulder, and he shrank in on himself when you moved to mark him. He's still scared.

>In the back of his head, those minute but ever present fears still told him you were dangerous.

>That needed to be out of the way, and you were getting better ideas of how to eliminate that bump in the road, then you could show him.

>Just how much his understanding meant to you, how genuinely loved you felt being around him. How much his stalwart friendship, his loyalty to defend you, his willingness to help heal what's broken in you, just made you want to tear his clothes off and go in with the sort of wild frenzy you could have when no one was listening.

>Easy girl... easy. He's not there yet, but at least he's showing feint signs of interest in you.

>He's starting to see you as a woman, and you need to take it slow and let him adjust, to how exotic you must be to him.

>You already get along like best friends, the two of your personalities mesh so well.

>And then there was the way you almost fucked everything up by slipping your composure at the exact wrong syllable.

>Personally, you blame the sweat, you were practically drunk on his scent and it was hard to try and shoo it away from wearing down your self control.

>But he laughed it off, and got you to calm down with that charming smile.

>urrrgh, that just made you want to jump on him again.

>But despite your failing self control, you managed to stammer out what you had intended to say in the first place. And once he was out of sight you immediately went to the river to dip your head in the water and clear your thoughts.

>And now here he was, sleeping sound, so close to you.

>You want to just slide the two cots together and shuffle over, hold him close again.

>Easy girl, take it slow, figure things out. Make sure that this will work before you pounce.

>It's just like hunting, make sure your in a position that can even make the kill, clear a path around obstacles, hold back until the right time, and above all: before your time, take. it. slow.

>You had to answer a lot of those critical questions first, evaluate him as a potential mate, make sure that he will be the one you can be truly happy with.

>You can't fuck up that process, this was the rest of your life you were talking about. You can't rush it, not like you did the approach.

>Thankfully, he seemed to be keeping reserved, and letting you lead. You needed that control, and it was already a point in his favor.

-you can stop staring at him now, you creep-

>Right, only a complete psychopath watches people while they sleep.

>You try to ignore the light feeling in your chest as you settle yourself in for the night.

>These damn cots still make you feel like you're about to fall through them when you put your weight on the noisy things, but somehow they still manage to hold you up.

>You didn't wake him, and you shift yourself towards your side to face him. Having a familiar scent and presence so close DOES help you sleep sounder, but you'd be lying if being able to get him to be okay with sleeping so close together didn't make your heart flutter.

>You want to reach out and just feel the way his hair smooths down towards his skin, but you decide better of it.

>Just take it easy girl.

>Tomorrow should be less of a panic attack waiting to happen, you're starting to move towards more open terrain, where you'll have every advantage in a fight you need.

>And he can watch over you more effectively too, his machine is anchored to your unit after all.

>But above all: no more tunnel fighting.

>If they tried to throw you into another hole in the ground, you were liable to commit treason.

>But for now, you need your rest, you've been tired too.

>The chirp of crickets and the distant burbling of that winding river provide a natural lullaby to carry away your more active thoughts.

>His scent, and the knowledge of his proximity makes sleep slide over just a little easier.

-you love him don't you?-

>... Maybe, you have to find that answer yourself.

>just... take it. slow.

[-------------------------------------------------------------Chapter End-------------------------------------------------------------]