There was panic and rising despair. The stench of defeat hung in the air. And in stormed the angels of death. The thin white mist crept across the ground, reducing lungs to bloody froth and blinding exposed eyes, yet still they charged. Cloaks billowed in their wake, black armor shielded their frail mortal frames. Cold eye lenses moved across the ground, carrying no emotion, hiding the all too human fear and terror beneath. Only hatred and frigid determination emanated from the small group. Rifles blazed in the eerie stillness, tearing into the unholy machines that poured towards them, followed by monsters out of nightmare, clad in thick protective suits and breathing apparatus'. The enemy drove the terrified soldiers before them, some had pulled on their gas masks, others had been too slow, the sentries of the outer line lay dead, having suffocated where they stood. There must have been hundreds of the aliens pouring forward to secure their easy victory. Yet the angels held. Unbidden, the saviors of the eleventh hour had arrived. In the lead was the Rat, storming onward, as he had on countless occasions. He raised his pistol, leveling it at the fleeing men, his helmets hollow gaze sweeping across them. He snarled his commands, the sound inhuman, feral, enraged.
"Halt! Halt or I'll shoot every last one of you! Fight for everything you're worth you bastards!"
His voice was a whip-crack. How he thought to shoot the men retreating behind him none knew, for he charged at the forefront, pistol whistling as it laid the enemy low. In his other hand hummed an archaic shviri blade, sheathed in energy, carried with expert poise, as if wielded by a knight of old. Behind him came the others, bayonets fixed and ready. They were implacable and grim, like specters hungering for blood. They were butchers, death incarnate, meeting their foes where they were strongest. And in that dread visage was inspiration. Some of those fleeing began to turn, seeking to aid the phantoms which had all of a sudden halted the shviri advance. The aliens were maddened and in violent fury, focusing their fire upon the humans arrayed against them. Their supporting drones felt no fear, no intimidation, but it availed them not. One was shorn from shoulder to hip by the crackling saber, another felled by the rifles of the soldiers that followed in the Rat's wake.
There was no blazing tank fire, no roar of artillery, no aircraft racing through the clouds. Only man versus shvir, rifle versus laser, sword vs bayonet, depraved fury versus sheer determination. Gobbets of blood were sent sizzling through the mist as the glinting arc claimed more lives in the name of Imperium Eternal. The enemy tide had faltered, having surged to its high point and now found that it had struck the breakwater. But still they would not yield, holding the entrenchments they had swept with impossible tenacity. Grenades roared from all sides. The screams of agony were cut short by the gurgle of murderous chemicals. There was only the death and its black clad heralds. None stopped when one toppled to the ground with a cry, pushing the assault through to the finish. The corpses littered the trench floors, paratrooper and shvir, stacked atop each other. The aliens asked for no quarter. The humans offered none. The charnel house of Fyra Five had merely claimed more souls.
A breeze arose, sweeping through the dense fog, lifting it, as if to give a brief moments respite. The sudden clarity only revealed the full extent of the slaughter. Dead infantrymen, disabled tanks and burnt out bunkers all lining the dull gray and brown battlefield. It brought no comfort for the
survivors, struggling to recover their dead and wounded before another attack was launched.
Kurt was writhing in pain, bubbles of blood formed around his mouth and nostrils. He had inhaled some of the poison gas, R-53 judging by the intelligence briefing a few days prior. It had been a brief moment, when his helmet had been struck by shrapnel, the protective seals breached and allowing the toxic chemicals to leak inside, it had been enough to seal his fate. Now he was dying.
There was no blazing tank fire, no roar of artillery, no aircraft racing through the clouds. Only man versus shvir, rifle versus laser, sword vs bayonet, depraved fury versus sheer determination. Gobbets of blood were sent sizzling through the mist as the glinting arc claimed more lives in the name of Imperium Eternal. The enemy tide had faltered, having surged to its high point and now found that it had struck the breakwater. But still they would not yield, holding the entrenchments they had swept with impossible tenacity. Grenades roared from all sides. The screams of agony were cut short by the gurgle of murderous chemicals. There was only the death and its black clad heralds. None stopped when one toppled to the ground with a cry, pushing the assault through to the finish. The corpses littered the trench floors, paratrooper and shvir, stacked atop each other. The aliens asked for no quarter. The humans offered none. The charnel house of Fyra Five had merely claimed more souls.
A breeze arose, sweeping through the dense fog, lifting it, as if to give a brief moments respite. The sudden clarity only revealed the full extent of the slaughter. Dead infantrymen, disabled tanks and burnt out bunkers all lining the dull gray and brown battlefield. It brought no comfort for the
survivors, struggling to recover their dead and wounded before another attack was launched.
Kurt was writhing in pain, bubbles of blood formed around his mouth and nostrils. He had inhaled some of the poison gas, R-53 judging by the intelligence briefing a few days prior. It had been a brief moment, when his helmet had been struck by shrapnel, the protective seals breached and allowing the toxic chemicals to leak inside, it had been enough to seal his fate. Now he was dying.
"It's ok, Kurt, you're gonna be alright. Medic, we need a fucking medic over here!"
Valeri tried to comfort his comrade, supporting his head and looking about for some sort of help. Sergeant Moore was searching for a doctor, Kwame, Wilhelm and Asch were mere helpless observers, watching with terror in their eyes as Kurt slowly suffocated.
"There's nothing I can do! You're wasting my time with a dead man! He'll be gone in an hour!"
The doctor cursed at the sergeant as he dragged him to the scene.
"There has to be something! You fuckers can't just let him die!"
"There is nothing! He is finished, I need to help those who can still be helped."
"Natasha, can't you do something?!" Moore shouted at the medic as she finished stitching up an injured paratroopers leg. She looked around the room full of wounded, then at the young sergeant, the desperate appeal in his eyes. And she owed him, he had, after all, saved her life in the weeks prior, if it would give him some comfort that an effort be made, no matter how futile, so be it.
"Damnation. We save the fucking line, and this-"
She looked at the sergeant, his armor covered in damage, the blood that stained his black body suit and the soulless helmet that hung in his hand. The man's face was covered in sweat, his un-shaved chin and the greasy strands of black hair giving him a distinctly disheveled appearance. The wild look in his eyes only enhanced the impression of a madman. Such judgment wouldn't be too far off the mark, Natasha thought, not that she was willing to tell the sergeant so to his face. Somehow, she sensed that he knew the cause was lost, but remained in denial nonetheless. The man was doomed. There was no need to check close. She could see him clutching at his dog tags, desperately clenching his fingers at the silver plates that must have been hidden under his palm. No, not dog tags, some sort of religious icon, a spear of Odin. His eyes were unfocused. He coughed and retched terribly, his skin was turning blue. His free hand grasped for something that wasn't there. Natasha licked her lips, unsure of what to say.
"I-"
She didn't complete the sentence and stopped. Sergeant Moore looked at the medic once to know the answer. There was nothing to be done. Kurt had seen her reaction as well, and his head dropped back, his lips moving as he tried to say something. He motioned with his hand, gesturing for Moore to come closer. Slowly, Moore knelt beside him, moving close to the dying man.
"I'm here Kurt."
The commando's voice was a hoarse croak. Gone was the calm attitude that had, in Moore's eyes, always defined the man.
"Sar- sarge. I don't want-" He fell into a fit of coughing, blood came up and dribbled on his chin. His hand shook where it held the small golden spear.
"Moore. Send, send me on. Please."
The sergeant had heard the euphemism before. One of the few things Kurt had taken seriously, was his faith in "Odin the Reborn", religious mumbo jumbo as Moore, and most other commandos disdainfully called it.
"I can't, Kurt, don't ask me to do that."
Moore responded, feeling the bile rising in his throat as he realized the implications of what he wanted.
"Please. The All-father. It has to be this way," he coughed again, his eyes disoriented, free hand weakly clutching Moore's arm. He was desperate.
"Moore, I can't die like this. It can't be. You- Please. Make it quick. The pain, it's too much."
Moore knew the belief's, a warriors death was one which guaranteed redemption, and reward in the eyes of the gods. He could see the pleading eyes. Kurt didn't deserve this fate. Damned the leadership, the idiots that had put them in this position and left them here. Why? Why him? Why them? Moore wanted to turn away. To disappear. There were others suffering the same fate. But why did Kurt have to be one of them. It wasn't fair.
"Make the pain, make it stop."
The veteran commando descended into another fit of coughing. Bloody phlegm covered his gloves and he tried to keep his head up. It was terrible, to see him brought this low. Moore could feel his hands shaking. He felt like he would be sick.
"You have to. Please."
Slowly, Moore stood up and pulled his pistol from its holster. He could see the relief in Kurts eyes, gratefulness. It made the sergeant sick. It didn't matter that the man wanted it this way, that it would probably be a less painful way to go. Moore saw the pistol shuddering in his hand. Kurt closed his eyes, the breathing slowing down. Why did it have to be this way?
"I'm coming Father."
He whispered into the nothingness. Moore saw the mist forming before his eyes. His hand clenched the grip, finger locked over the trigger. His men watched, Valeri took a step back from his ministrations. Kwame was inscrutable, Asch gulped. He could see the eyes of those around him, locked in. Willy's face turned pale as he realized what would happen, and he walked out, his hands shaking, reciting some strange invocations that sounded almost like the SNC oath of loyalty. Natasha looked up from one of the wounded, but made no comment. Moore blinked away the pain, his hand clutched the trigger. The metal gave way so easily. The silenced weapon sang once.
Valeri tried to comfort his comrade, supporting his head and looking about for some sort of help. Sergeant Moore was searching for a doctor, Kwame, Wilhelm and Asch were mere helpless observers, watching with terror in their eyes as Kurt slowly suffocated.
"There's nothing I can do! You're wasting my time with a dead man! He'll be gone in an hour!"
The doctor cursed at the sergeant as he dragged him to the scene.
"There has to be something! You fuckers can't just let him die!"
"There is nothing! He is finished, I need to help those who can still be helped."
"Natasha, can't you do something?!" Moore shouted at the medic as she finished stitching up an injured paratroopers leg. She looked around the room full of wounded, then at the young sergeant, the desperate appeal in his eyes. And she owed him, he had, after all, saved her life in the weeks prior, if it would give him some comfort that an effort be made, no matter how futile, so be it.
"Damnation. We save the fucking line, and this-"
She looked at the sergeant, his armor covered in damage, the blood that stained his black body suit and the soulless helmet that hung in his hand. The man's face was covered in sweat, his un-shaved chin and the greasy strands of black hair giving him a distinctly disheveled appearance. The wild look in his eyes only enhanced the impression of a madman. Such judgment wouldn't be too far off the mark, Natasha thought, not that she was willing to tell the sergeant so to his face. Somehow, she sensed that he knew the cause was lost, but remained in denial nonetheless. The man was doomed. There was no need to check close. She could see him clutching at his dog tags, desperately clenching his fingers at the silver plates that must have been hidden under his palm. No, not dog tags, some sort of religious icon, a spear of Odin. His eyes were unfocused. He coughed and retched terribly, his skin was turning blue. His free hand grasped for something that wasn't there. Natasha licked her lips, unsure of what to say.
"I-"
She didn't complete the sentence and stopped. Sergeant Moore looked at the medic once to know the answer. There was nothing to be done. Kurt had seen her reaction as well, and his head dropped back, his lips moving as he tried to say something. He motioned with his hand, gesturing for Moore to come closer. Slowly, Moore knelt beside him, moving close to the dying man.
"I'm here Kurt."
The commando's voice was a hoarse croak. Gone was the calm attitude that had, in Moore's eyes, always defined the man.
"Sar- sarge. I don't want-" He fell into a fit of coughing, blood came up and dribbled on his chin. His hand shook where it held the small golden spear.
"Moore. Send, send me on. Please."
The sergeant had heard the euphemism before. One of the few things Kurt had taken seriously, was his faith in "Odin the Reborn", religious mumbo jumbo as Moore, and most other commandos disdainfully called it.
"I can't, Kurt, don't ask me to do that."
Moore responded, feeling the bile rising in his throat as he realized the implications of what he wanted.
"Please. The All-father. It has to be this way," he coughed again, his eyes disoriented, free hand weakly clutching Moore's arm. He was desperate.
"Moore, I can't die like this. It can't be. You- Please. Make it quick. The pain, it's too much."
Moore knew the belief's, a warriors death was one which guaranteed redemption, and reward in the eyes of the gods. He could see the pleading eyes. Kurt didn't deserve this fate. Damned the leadership, the idiots that had put them in this position and left them here. Why? Why him? Why them? Moore wanted to turn away. To disappear. There were others suffering the same fate. But why did Kurt have to be one of them. It wasn't fair.
"Make the pain, make it stop."
The veteran commando descended into another fit of coughing. Bloody phlegm covered his gloves and he tried to keep his head up. It was terrible, to see him brought this low. Moore could feel his hands shaking. He felt like he would be sick.
"You have to. Please."
Slowly, Moore stood up and pulled his pistol from its holster. He could see the relief in Kurts eyes, gratefulness. It made the sergeant sick. It didn't matter that the man wanted it this way, that it would probably be a less painful way to go. Moore saw the pistol shuddering in his hand. Kurt closed his eyes, the breathing slowing down. Why did it have to be this way?
"I'm coming Father."
He whispered into the nothingness. Moore saw the mist forming before his eyes. His hand clenched the grip, finger locked over the trigger. His men watched, Valeri took a step back from his ministrations. Kwame was inscrutable, Asch gulped. He could see the eyes of those around him, locked in. Willy's face turned pale as he realized what would happen, and he walked out, his hands shaking, reciting some strange invocations that sounded almost like the SNC oath of loyalty. Natasha looked up from one of the wounded, but made no comment. Moore blinked away the pain, his hand clutched the trigger. The metal gave way so easily. The silenced weapon sang once.
