The First Age

The vehicles pulled away from the hospital, bound further east and away from the port district, and as the Legionnaires began to fall back, the rebels began to surge forwards, eager to overtake them once the convoy was away from the valuable hospital. Some of the more cowardly stormed the hospital, eager to secure it once more for their leader whom had fled in the face of the Legion's approach. Whatever guided their leader, it had been a wise decision, sparing the hospital from the brunt of the fighting in the city.

But in the wake of the Legion's departure, cowards and cutthroats moved in. They were policed by their own, but too late to spare the hospital from unnecessary violence.

Fire-and-movement was the way of the day, and squads fanned out north and south of the main road to keep the enemy from circling them, from getting ahead. The explosion of RPGs, the sudden infernos of Molotovs, and the near constant muzzle-flash of rifles lit the night-shrouded streets.

The heavy equipment vehicles made even shorter work of abandoned vehicles and shoddy barricades then the firetrucks from the airport had, and the huge rubber tires ate small-arms fire before finally deflating. But the Legionnaires cared little about the life-span of the vehicles, and so driving on the rims didn't matter to them.

The lead vehicle, a large bulldozer, plowed through the first traffic-circle, crashing through an immaculate field of flowers and statuary with ease. Capitan Hennings coordinated with the staff at the fire-base, who fed him with an understanding of the way ahead, and marked a series of way-points and threat markers. Translucent red walls marked enemy movement on streets beyond the Capitan's line of sight, further guiding the movements of the Legionnaires.

They approached the Heraa International Mall and were again forced to way-lay. The place had been a major tourist hot-spot, travelers seeking a chance to shop for exotic local fashions and keep-sake's in the comfort of a massive air conditioned building. As the Legion convoy approached, looters and worse fled the area, their movements tracked by CCD satellites under Jacques' temporary control.

Thermal imaging showed dozens of people still within; most people had fled in the confusion of the past day, but some still huddled in hopes that the mall would be spared the worst of the fighting. And some of those hidden people were likely to be foreigners. The sorts that would not fare well in the days after the CCD forces had pulled out of the area.

The convoy smashed through the concrete barriers that divided the east and west lanes of Hira Street, and they rolled into the huge parking lot of the mall where the vehicles began to circle. A make-shift laager was quickly formed as teams on foot ran into the mall. Others climbed the dozer to reach the building's roof, hoisted up by the deep bucket, and still more positioned themselves in prime firing positions, ready to begin repelling the insurgents hot on their heels.

They held position for the better part of half an hour while they scoured the mall. Mortar fire from the fire-base was still held in check; if they began firing it would give away their presence to the enemy, and begin drawing rebel fighters back to the airport, rather then for the to continue playing the cat-and-mouse game they had been with the convoy team.

CCD tourists, caught in the violence that had so suddenly erupted but not deemed important enough to grant them access to the airport that morning, were led out under Legion guard towards the waiting vehicles; families, husbands and wives and children, the ones that had been lucky enough to avoid detection by the looters that had torn the mall apart in the past many hours.

And just as they began preparing to move again, things took a sudden turn for the worst. Landwarriors began to flash warnings. Waypoint markers leading north to the airport winked out. Secondary routes farther east flashed a warning red before vanishing.

A portion of eastern Jeddah had been hidden from Jacques' view. A facility existed there; the Internal Security Forces Housing district of the long defunct Saudi Arabian secret police had been re-purposed under CCD rule. Or more accurately, it's purpose had been taken on by a new force.

A branch of the CDPS now controlled the facility, where 'high interest' prisoners were held in a secret facility. The facility had held firm all these hours of the uprising. Thick walls, abundant ammunition. And motivation to protect the CCD from it's enemies had allowed them to hold their place. The secrecy of the facility had kept them from allowing Jacques to know of it's existance, and with the arrival of the VTOL transports and reinforcements that Jacques had been promised, their ulterior motives had been revealed.

The security forces had made a daring break-through of the encircling insurgent forces, and now a convoy of CCD APCs and vehicles made it's way for the airport, and with them came a fresh wash of insurgent forces, racing to cut off the way back to the airport.

The VTOLs had been spotted on their approach, as a pair had circled wide and approached the city from the south, moving to give air support to the CCD convoy and it's high value prisoners. With their ploy given away, the Legion mortars began firing again, banishing any doubt that the fire-base team still held position at the airport, and the city buzzed like a kicked bee's hive.

Satellite imagery revealed the enemy moving at speed to swarm highway 271 and the overpasses onto the airport, and the Legion convoy was forced to try and race them to that choke point.

Pressed now for time, the flanking groups of Legionnaires were no longer granted the leniency of fire-and-movement. Exhausted from their hours running around the city, and running dangerously low on ammunition, spurred on by the sacrifice of Sgt Wilk's stand, teams of Legionnaires began to take and hold ground.

-----

Caporal Bousaid and his squad pounded pavement ahead of the convoy until they reached their destination. The men were exhausted, and two didn't even carry rifles anymore, having long since expended their ammunition. They ran through the parking lot of a gas station, where one man dropped face-first into the asphalt where he stayed, unmoving.

Another stumbled to his body, and with his knife cut free the dead Legionnaire's pack, while another kicked through the glass doors of the gas station to fire up the pumps, and another still began working on the mechanisms, which began to spill gasoline across the ground.

Others moved to circle the building, where they ran into the lead most runners of the approaching rebel groups. They came across each other by surprise, but the Legion men were faster on the draw. Weapons fired, men screamed.

Realizing how little time they had, the Legionnaire with the pack knelt in a rapidly widening puddle of gasoline and pulled free four breaching charges. They were small, meant for blowing locks rather then holes in walls, and had been hastily connected by a length of electrical wire to their detonators.

At their backs, the convoy began to rumble past, Legionnaires staggering to keep up. The walking wounded continued to move on foot, and when their wounds became too great they would stagger and fall, their backs to the airport, their rifles trained on alleys or the highway at their backs, doing whatever they could to keep the enemy at bay. And always dogtags were taken, handed off, pushed to the front of the convoy, the lead most dumptruck where Michael sat.

The numbers of metal chains grew in spurts and trickles; one, six, a dozen. Already a score of them had been pushed forward, and eight more were handed up, the fore-most bearing the name of Caporal Zakariyya Bousaid.

The convoy pushed north, leaving the squad behind. The last vehicle passed, and the distance grew. Fifty meters, a hundred. The last two Legionnaires could be seen in the parking lot, their reflections rippling in the puddle of gasoline at their feet as the rebels grew closer. Blinded by their hatred, a dozen charged the two men, who bore knife and bayoneted rifle, shouting challenges in Arabic at their opponents.

Two hundred meters turned became five, and the Caporal squeezed the clacker in his off hand, detonating the breaching charges that lay scattered in the puddles of gasoline, stuffed into the open caps of the underground tanks. The explosions happened almost simultaneously; the first of the charges and the puddle igniting, the second of the flames reaching the underground tanks. A great plume of flames engulfed the highway and the surrounding buildings, and for a moment, the highway towards the airport was empty.

The convoy halted for a brief moment and Michael followed Dr. Weston, ushered through the sounds of gunfire to a second, more spacious truck.

The intent was evident long before the first of the injured reached them. To their credit the brothers did not bring screams, only the red ooze of fresh blood and the scent of decay and death.

He watched as Dr. Weston worked her own type of magic. Her treatment was swift, decisive and more than impressive. The way she commanded the Legionnaire medics rivalled any of the hardest taskmasters. She could have made a fine Captain under his command. An idle thought. He doubted her passion would be ignited in the pursuit of death.

Bitter thoughts attempted to seize his mind and tangle his emotion. They were quashed as mercilessly as those of relief or joy.

It was almost in absent distraction that he spun a protective net of Air around the opening of the truck. His reluctance to use his abilities rung hollow when death surrounded him.

The hollow of his mind deepened as the Legionnaires continued the dangerous march. It widened at the sight of helpless tourists rounded up like sheep in fear of the wolf were shepherded by their saviours at the Mall.

By the quickened pace and intensity of orders barked, he figured that time was against them.

As it was, that time passed with unnerving speed. Each Legionnaire that fell, each dog-tag gathered served as a bridge of suffering to penetrate the hollowness.

As he watched with sharpened eyes the sacrifice of three Legionnaires, the explosive fire of destroyed highway twinkled in his almost unblinking stare.

Explosions rocked their vehicle, some harder than others. Instinct wanted Torri's head to whip around and see the terrible thing holding Michael's attention, but she dared not risk a blink anywhere besides her current patient.

Of the three soldiers earlier, one died. Legionnaires, dammit, she tried, but the self-correction wouldn't last. These men were fighting a CCD war, therefore, to her, they were soldiers. She lifted her fingers from Adrian's carotid. "TOD - damnit someone give me the time!"
She had none of her usual technologies. The sergeant's wrist suddenly thrust in front of her face; his timeband shone bright as the neon signs overhead. Torri swallowed dryly and called TOD. She moved on.

In route, she glanced up only once, when the convoy stopped for civilians. The normalcy of the mall turned to fortress chilled her spine. The glow of a McDonalds colored her coat orange and red, but she grit her teeth and went back to work.

Soon the skies cleared of city lights, and the expanse of the desert sky widened overhead. They were near the airport. They couldn't arrive soon enough when the Legion sergeant grabbed her on the arm. She whipped around as he barked a warning. "Brace yourself, doctor!"
A moment later, they were rumbling across freshly plowed barricades torn like paper by the lead bulldozer. Their vehicle roared over remnants of cement wall like the chunks were mere gravel, but she swayed and clasped the sergeant's arm in return none the less. Everybody held on tight.

What noises their convoy fled in the city were drowned in comparison to the intensity at the airport. Detonation shattered the night, the whirl of heavy-bladed VTOL's scrambled in and out of topless towers of smoke, and amid the chaos, human voices roaring together carried over the tarmac.

Despite the sergeant's warnings to the contrary, Torri pulled herself up for a look. She was haggard with fatigue, face bruised and eyes tight, but she was drawn with determination. To do what, exactly, waited to be seen.

With the brief respite granted by the detonated gas station, and the stubborn stands of those on flanking streets approaching the airport, the lead vehicle of the convoy plowed through the concrete barricades of the highway, pushing debris and vehicles into the irrigation ditch that ran it's edge and rumbled onto the open ground of the airport proper. It was the final leg, where the mortars would cover their final run to the waiting VTOLs.

But things hadn't gone according to plan. The crashed VTOL on the airport grounds was a subtle hint. As was the disturbing lack of sustained mortar fire.

Their comms lit up in unison. Landwarrior HUDs displayed their CEO and a live feed from the satellites above. Markers tracked the Legionnaires' movement, the fire-base, the convoy, the enemy...and another CCD convoy, moving west towards the entrance to the airport. Their APCs couldn't make their way through the concrete barricades lining the perimeter of the airport.

The Legionnaires on foot staggered, exhausted, across the trench and into the open ground. Glances to their rear showed a steadily dwindling number of Legion markers to their rear; the thin screen of men that had bought them the time to cross the open highway uncontested were holding their ground to the last.

"Courage is the most important of all the virtues because without courage, you can't practice any other virtue consistently. I must ask of you the final sacrifice. We have been trapped by the Custody's love of secrets, and our adherence to what is right."
The quote was of Maya Angelou, a well-renowned African-American writer and civil-rights activist who had passed away in 2014. She had meant for people to stand up and do what was right, but he doubted she would have appreciated her words to be used to bolster men to commit violence.

Waypoint markers began to appear, flagged to certain Legionnaires that still carried explosives. They had brought cratering charges on the drop, carried in case the rebels had proven to have seized combat vehicles, or to create choke points and bottle-necks if it had come to a prolonged but sustainable engagement. That had not happened.

"You must hold this line. Should the enemy advance further, the CCD crafts will be plucked from the sky and all of this will be for nothing. You must open a path, such that the stragglers can reach us, or all is for naught."
The convoy of dump-trucks carrying the evacuees continued towards the fire-base, and was passed by a seized bus, in which was loaded the .50 cal teams and their weapons; the mortars were spent, and their operators rode to the line as well with their rifles in hand. The CCD troops were now tasked to secure the fire-base location and the landing zone.

Wounded Legionnaires loaded in the dump trucks stirred; those that could still fight, and many who thought they could, climbed off the vehicles, which stopped briefly. One of Torri's patients were among those grim-faced Legionnaires who seemed willing to set their feet to the task.

Men laid cratering charges, a half dozen in total. Small explosions sounded along the open field from the burning remnants of the crashed VTOL to west of the over passes. Their line would be spread pitifully thin, but they sought only to buy time and hold the widest frontage they could. They needed to buy time, not to win, and so wide a line would keep the enemy from reaching effective weapons range of the departing VTOLs.

Jacques' tone was quiet. Serious. He fought to keep himself from wavering, but tears of frustration, of pride, of great loss, dampened his cheeks. Only those of his men too badly wounded to fight would reach the VTOLs. They would carry the solemn task of carrying word of their brethrens' last stand.

"Battle of Camarón. 62 Legionnaires held 2,000 Mexican soldiers at bay for 10 hours. I ask of you only one."


Into those half dozen small holes, explosives were dropped. Men ducked low and six deafening detonations tore the earth apart, throwing bits of debris high into the air for hundreds of meters in all directions where they rained to the earth sporadically. And into the newly formed craters the Legionnaires swarmed. Into patches of low undulating ground, behind patches of scrub brush or mounds of sand and dirt.

The bus stopped and men clambered out carrying heavy machine guns or just their rifles, and ran at speed to their positions, as delegated by further Waypoint markers displaying fields of fire. The movement of the CCD convoy was indicated by a blue line in the distance, growing ever closer. Other markers tracked the positions of those few Legionnaires that still fought in the city south of the highway, down to less then a scattered handful.

Dogtags were gathered and ran to the lead dump truck with the others. All told, there were nearly two hundred gathered there then, and many more belonged to the volunteers from the fire base, newly arrived to the field with the .50 machine guns.

They would be ready for the enemy when the time came, and the enemy would pay dearly for the horrors they had brought upon the world that night.

"You only live twice: Once when you're born, and once when you look death in the face. Know that the enemy, these cowards and fanatics and fools, are blinded by their hatred. Let them die not knowing their true mettle."
Ian Fleming, a renowned British author and military man, and the father of the iconic James Bond.

Soon after the explosion the truck halted and of all things, one of the Legionnaires being treated by Dr. Weston swayed from the truck to accept a rifle from one of his fellows.

Michael moved towards the exit but the Legionnaires had already moved on. Instead he was met by two dozen men in Custody uniform. They each eyed him with dangerously neutral expressions.

"What is happening?"
he asked the collective in a low voice. He saw one man wince and another grow a whiter shade of pale as his gaze swept across them.

One man cleared his throat and answered. Thick with blood, sweat and grime, he looked like he had been in a fight with a tiger. "Captain Istivak, Commander. The Legionnaires are covering our evacuation, sir."


"They are going to die."
It was not a question. The Captain fell silent, pain evident on his face. Michael slid off the back of the truck, snatching up a handful of the Legionnaire's dog-tags.

"Sir, what are you -"


"Silence."
His tone cut through the air like icicles. "I do not plan on dying here. Get the dying to safety and prepare a LAV for retreat. I will allow five to remain with me, choose, then go."


His demands were met with silence and he did not look to see if they obeyed. His eyes were fixed on the growing ranks of the rebel forces. His ears on the piercing screams of the dying.

The hollow of the void screamed to him like a banshee. Death called his name in the seductive tones of pain and carnage. With a wall of Air shielding him, he strode forward as the vanguard of destruction.

Ever does man betray...Just as the Brothers did. Ungrateful, envious, poisonous. This field reeks of traitorous blood.

Michael nodded to himself.

They would destroy the world in their arrogance. But no more...

A Legionnaire fumbled for his side-arm with slick fingers until he fell still, blood streaming from his neck.

No more...

The void burned bright with molten lava that flowed into the hollow recesses, setting every nerve tingling with power.

Michael held a hand towards the sky, bullets bouncing metres from his body like swatted flies. Let them see the face of a Fallen Angel. Let them know terror.

With an effort that left sweat dripping down his temples, he spun pure Earth, jagged spires like cave-less stalagmites splitting the dusty ground amidst the rebel forces who reeled in confusion.

Run, blind ones. Ignorance will not save you.

With Fire and Air the spires erupted and shattered. Hundreds of white-hot chunks wrought havoc among the rebels as they dropped amidst the bloody ruin that he had created.

Some attempted to flee, others bellowed in anger and furore fuelled a renewed rampage, trampling the bodies of their fallen comrades. None were granted mercy.

Michael spun Fire and Spirit, lashing out with crackling whips of flame that carved through the enemy. He spun Air and Earth, with some extra effort, using the ground beneath their feet as a death-trap in something akin to natural Caltrops.

RPG missiles flew towards him in an arc but none reached their target, either hindered by the wall of Air or detonated by thin webs of Fire. Bullets hailed down upon him as he drew the rebels attention in full at last.

The wall of Air was pelted with the force of hundreds of rounds and Michael's endurance flagged. His offensive stopped as he redirected his strength.

Let the world tremble at the price paid in blood and fire...

With all of his strength not directed in defence, he spun a force of pure destruction. Fire, Air and Spirit coated thick, layer upon layer as the ball of blue fire hovered overhead beneath his still-raised arm.

Blood and fire...

The net was released and the blue flame soared towards the rebel forces in silent grace. As it hit, a storm of dust and flame blanketed the Legionnaires in what would be a brief moment of respite.

Breathing heavy breaths, Michael turned on his heels and - somewhat surprised - found Captain Istivak waiting with a LAV. The man at first only stared as Michael climbed into the vehicle.

"We shall retreat,"
he said in a strained voice, although his face was granite.

"What...What was that?"
Istivak managed, climbing in next to him in the back seat while those around him took their places. The motor hummed to life and it was not until they neared the evacuation site when Michael replied.

"A gift, Captain. For the fallen."



Edited by Michael Vellas, Jun 12 2014, 09:39 AM.

Two years in operational medicine. Two years stomping from field to field and reporting to hospitals all over the world. Four months to promotion; she was one bronze leaf away from completing residency. She hadn't seen her mom and dad in sixteen months. Still in Mexico, she suddenly wanted nothing more than to sit on a beach and sip mimosas with her mom. Funny how your mind goes all over the place when it was imperative to be your most focused.

She peeled a soaked gauze from a stumped leg. He groaned, but the rest of the man above the knee was irrelevant. The only part of him that mattered at that very moment was right under Torri's face. A fresh hose of blood poured out of the stump.

Her tongue cut a cold order to the Sergeant. She could feel him pressed closeby. The truck was packed. "Give me the last can of quick clot. This wound won't close up and the lacerations go too deep to staple."
She cringed. And I don't have any fucking staples.

She was rewrapping the stump with clean gauze. Quick Clot worked because it caused a chemical reaction between wet blood and the can's foam to form a temporary patch, but this leg had already seen three cans. "I'm going to sandwich the foam with the gauze, hopefully the extra weight hardens the patch enough it'll stop leaking through."


The truck jerked to a stop, but she held on to the intricate wrapping. There. But when she thrust out her hand, her palm remained empty. "Sergeant! QC."
She bellowed. The lack of reaction clutched her with sudden worry.

"Sergeant."
She twisted only to find the medic was staring out the truck exit at a line of men walking toward the defensive line.

He spoke breathy, "Its Commander Vellas. He's..."
but he didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't have to.

Torri's eyes were saucers. She, and everyone else in range, bore witness to the extraordinary. From his hand thrust blue fire. Projectiles rained like shards of hell out of the sky. Yet somehow an invisible bubble shielded him from all returning fire. Bullets simply clattered and fell away before him. RPG's exploded angry that they ruptured too soon.

Something tore the Sergeant's gaze aside, though. The medic pressed his earpiece snug and suddenly began crying. Torri had to guess he was listening to the order for last stand. Command would be thinking of final push to secure the evacuation about now.

Michael returned to the vehicle, and for a moment, Torri and he shared a look. But the doctor grit her teeth and turned back to her patient. The wound had to be stabilized before the man moved anywhere. "Sergeant. That QC. Now."
She said dryly. This time, he placed the can in her palm without delay.

Continued in: No Russian

Quote:<dl>
<dt>Michael Vellas</dt>
<dd>Jun 17 2014, 12:57 PM</dd>
</dl>
Continued in: No Russian

Continued in No Russian

Legionnaires' Sanna and Smit were the last of their squad. They had been on the convoy's western flank, and had been prevented from crossing the highway and onto the airport grounds with the others when they had found themselves pressed too heavily. The insurgents had sought to catch the convoy crossing the open highway and sought to sweep around the Legion's flanks, and so they had dug in their heels and refused to budge.

The two South African men were both wounded; Sanna had lost fingers on his left hand to a lucky bullet that had wrecked his rifle, while Smit's neck was swaddled in bloody bandages.

They darted through an alley, Sanna's last hand grenade lobbed in their wake. Three of the extremist fools gave chase; teenage boys at most, eager to prove themselves and lost to the adrenaline of their first real fight, they ignored the warnings of their elders and leapt over the bullet-riddled car the two Legionnaires had been using as cover.

Their sandled feet hit the ground and they bore their AK74s at the hip, but none got a shot off as the grenade detonated. Their wrecked bodies were tossed aside, and others soon followed.

"This way, brother!"
Sanna shouldered open the door to a closed shop, and Smit staggered through, his rifle tucked into his shoulder gingerly, trying not to disturb the bloody bandages around his neck. The bleeding had stopped, at least for the moment, but he had no delusions that it would stay that way.

Sanna paused in the open doorway to look back the way they had come, his pistol clutched in tired fingers. A man, then another, ran into the open street from the alley. Neither spotted Sanna as he eased the door shut, and he and Smit made their way deeper into the building.

The pair glanced north, and saw markers on their Landwarriors, the widening line that signaled the final stand of their brothers there. Barely five hundred meters away, and unreachable.

"Roof?"
Smit nodded towards the stairs that would lead up to the second floor. From there, there was certain to be some sort of roof access. These sorts of places loved roof top gardens and break areas.

"Roof."
Sanna lead the way, his pistol at the ready, and Smit kept his rifle trained on the door just in case. Minutes later they pushed open the storm door at the top of another staircase, and stepped into the night air.

VTOLs could be seen landing to the north; they had a near unobstructed view of the airport from where they stood. And then all hell broke loose...explosions tore apart the highway and crushed the enemy as they surged into the open, eager to catch the Legion before it could fully dig in.

"Artillery!"
The pair dropped to the rooftop.

-----

Caporal Novax, an Angolan man, ran with two other Legionnaires, carrying a dismantled .50 machinegun towards one of the newly opened craters. They would hold the east-most flank, and be the first tasked to cover the approach of the CCD convoy coming from the east. The occasional puff of dust and bounce of dirt marked the sporadic fire they were receiving from the buildings to the south; the enemy was starting to arrive.

They slid down into the crater amidst their exhausted brothers of the assault group, and shouted a few eager greetings as they laboured the heavy machinegun up the other side of the pit, where two of their brothers worked with entrenching tools, reading a lip for them to fire from.

"RPG!"
One of the exhausted men barked a warning and they all glanced towards the direction he indicated. Then, as one, they let out black-humoured laughs. Fired from over a kilometer away, the warhead self-detonated hundreds of meters shy of the Legion line.

"Get that gun ready!"
Caporal Novax stepped back as his team set the weapon up, surveying their position and their fields of fire. It was almost perfect, save for the guard rail and abandoned vehicles on the highway, of course. His gaze soon levelled on a man walking towards the center of their line, a few CCD soldiers lingering nearby. "What the hell is that fool..."


And then all hell broke loose. The earth tore and rippled as the man raised his arms. Snakes of fire traced from the man's hand, like a steady stream of tracer fire being walked across a target, and they lashed at the building faces and through a group of extremists that had sought to hit the Legion line before it was fully set.

"Artillery!"
The same Legionnaire barked the warning, but Novak didn't move, and as the others caught on to where he was looking, the others too paused in their actions, watching the horrors a lone man seemed to be unleashing. "Magic...?"


-----

Capitaine Hennings, an Egyptian man of British heritage, and commander of the assault group, stood in the open at the center of the forming line. His hands were clasped lightly behind his back as he observed the movement of his men, and he stood unflinching as the cratering charges opened up the earth, giving them the fighting positions they would need in the coming engagement.

The bus arrived with his heavy weapon teams, and he offered them a bold grin as they pounded earth towards their positions, "Last to the fight lads? Glad to have you."
His tone was teasing, but they all were of the same understanding; none would be leaving, and the men of the fire-base team had volunteered to join their brothers in this task.

The men laughed and ran faster to their positions; it was readily evident that they were going to be under heavy pressure in very short order, and the faster those .50s were set, the better they would fare in the coming hours.

Hennings ignored a few puffs of earth that landed near him; the enemy weren't actually firing at him. They could barely see him in the dark. Those rounds had been meant for the men gathering at the craters, and had been aimed too high.

His gaze settled on a man walking towards the center of the Legion line, a few CCD soldiers straggling a distance behind him. They seemed uncertain. It took a moment for Hennings to recognize the man; one of the VIPs from the hospital. He moved to bark an order to the CCD soldiers to collect their officer and get him off the field, when all hell broke loose.

The man, Vellas wasn't it? raised his arms and lances of flame shot forth. The earth buckled as if great snakes burrowed beneath the surface, and explosions tore through the abandoned cars on the highway. A group of enemies were cut short by one of those streamers of fire, their screams barely heard over the roar of tearing earth.

-----

The convoy of APCs and vehicles from the prison rolled through the explosions and fires that Michael unleashed. They knew nothing of the devastation's origin, and their minds sought the most likely of answers; artillery, was the only thing that could have caused so much damage. Perhaps the situation was not as bad as their officers had made them seem?

They rumbled through the breach the Legionnaires had opened, filled in now by Michael's workings, and soon rolled through the Legion line. The men of the CCD convoy understood nothing of the Legion's goal, dug in as they were, and spared the mercenaries little heed as they rumbled past. It was no longer a suicide mission if they had artillery cover, after all.

The last vehicle was flagged down by some dismounted CCD soldiers, and soon Michael was ushered within and carried towards the waiting VTOLs. The artillery fire had ended after a sudden, terrifying crescendo, and yet the enemy still surged forwards, once confident the horror was done.

Those moments of silence were quickly filled by the bark of Legion guns. The .50s opened up as the enemy surged forwards.

-----

Caporal Novax knelt at the grips of his .50. One of his men fed a belt of ammo into the firing mechanism as the Caporal calmly walked the withering hail of fire across the face of a building that still stood across the highway.

His third man lay dead at the bottom of the crater, much of his face gone to a sniper's bullet, the .50's spare barrel laying somewhere down there with him.

Other Legionnaires lay at the lip of the crater, their rifles trained on the enemy as they ran and staggered across the torn earth. So long as their ammo held out, the Legion would hold.

-----

Capitaine Hennings stood now in the center-most crater, just far enough it's edge to over-see the battle. His pistol was still holstered at his side, and he leaned forward on one knee to keep a low profile. He wore a white kepi rather then a helmet, which helped him stand out among his men. It meant little in a tactical sense, but the visual of their officer in the thick of things with them bolstered the men's resolve. Not that it needed it.

VTOLs were lifting off in the background, and status updates from the CEO and his command team indicated things were going well there. Another hour, and it would be over.

He glanced down at one of his men as the man slid down from the lip and onto his back, fighting out a mag from one of his pouches. "How many left, lad?"


"Hoping no more then 30, Sar! All I've got left."
He slapped in what was revealed to be his last magazine, then crawled back up to the lip of the crater, and resumed firing.

-----

Sanna and Smit still held their roof top. The pair had taken a moment to address their wounds, using the artillery barrage to their advantage. Freshly bandaged, the last of their water drank and their weapons taken stock of, they crawled to the edge of the roof and peered over.

Hundreds of enemy fighters were rushing through the torn field that had been a highway, and into the hail of fire their brothers lashed against them.

Their Landwarriors flashed warning markers; suspected sniper positions in the buildings flanking their position. One was strikingly close; a building immediately adjacent the roof they occupied. A few floors taller. .50 fire and tracers slammed into the building in a short burst to further mark the suspected position.

"Capitaine Henning! Legionnaire Premier Classe Sanna and Smit. Quatrieme Peletoon, Cinquième equipe! We are in position to alleviate you of those snipers. Moving now."
The pair shared a glance, grinned, then charged the offending building.

They leaped the narrow alley and crashed through a pair of windows, finding themselves in another office room, empty and dark. Above could be heart the tell-tale bark of high-calibre rifles. Individual, determined shots, and the constant inane babble of heretics and extremists praising a god they had no understanding of.

The two men moved to the hallway, and quickly found the stairwell leading further up the building, but were paused along the way by the sound of sandled feet on the stairs approaching from below.

They slunk back into the shadows, and Smit calmly seated his bayonet on his rifle while Sanna holstered his pistol and drew his combat knife. From the sounds of it, there were only two...maybe three men running up the steps.

A few moments later and they were greeted with the sight of three young men rounding the landing and running up to the floor Sanna and Smit were hiding on. They carried a man-portable anti-air launcher, and an old ammo-can of rounds for the snipers above. The two Legionnaires moved as one, unified thanks to their Landwarriors.

They came out of the darkness, knives flashing, and the lead two men died quickly. The third let out a terrified scream, revealing himself to be no more then an older boy; twelve, maybe thirteen years. But the boy dropped the heavy metal can of bullets and staggered back on the steps, struggling to get the AK74 slung on his back into his hands.

Sanna stepped towards the boy quickly, but the lad let out another scream and stumbled on the steps, falling back. He hit the concrete steps hard, the barrel of his rifle digging into the back of his head, and the screaming ended with an awkwardly splayed body at the lower landing.

The pair shared a glance and grabbed the MPAD before continuing up the steps.

-----

The situation was turning grim quickly. Ammo was running short, and the enemy drew steadily closer. Capitaine Hennings knelt now closer to the lip of the crater, pistol extended and taking careful, deliberate shots at the enemy. They were close enough now that he was able to reliably land his shots. Very grim.

The handful of Legionnaires with him in the crater had fixed bayonets and dolled out what last few magazines of rifle ammo they had left. One man stood suddenly, and expended three rounds in quick succession on a pair of hostiles. Then his bolt slammed forwards on an empty chamber and he threw his weapon down before clambering out of the crater and towards the enemy at a low, lumbering run.

"Soldier! What are you...!"
Hennings had grabbed for the man's ankle but missed him, then just shook his head and resumed firing. The lone Legionnaire dove to a crawl and moved forwards a bit further, unnoticed by the enemy at least for the moment.

The man's intent quickly became clear, as he reached the nearest of the dead enemy, and began pawing over the men's bodies, pulling away their rifles, emptying pockets for magazines. And then he came crawling back like a mad man, tossing the weapons and ammo the last few meters before an enemy sniper spelled his end.

Legionnaires with no rounds left grabbed the AK74s and banana-clips, and quickly resumed firing. It wasn't much, but at least it was something.

-----

Novax dragged the .50 down from the lip of the crater. The last of the ammo had been expended, and now it was just in their way. He slid down the edge of the crater a bit as he threw the weapon out of his way, and in that moment an RPG struck the earth near where he had been. His loader let out a scream of pain and fell past Novak, his face a wreck of blood and bone as he fell amidst the dead already at the bottom of the hole.

Novax dropped the rest of the way to his comrade, "Calm lad, calm!"


The young Legionnaire grabbed at Novax' hands desperately, but could only answer with a gurgling rumble. His jaw had been shattered, and blood pumped freely from the wound. One of his hands let go of Novax and patted around his chest, going for his magazine pouches where two full mags still rested.

"I see them lad, I see them."
He pulled them free as the man spasmed one last time and went limp. The magazines were tossed up to the men still manning the edge of the crater.

-----

Sanna and Smit reached the top floor and the source of the sniper fire, drawn by the steady bark of the Dragunovs. They burst into a north-facing room and were met by the sight of two old men laying on the floor and firing through broken windows at the Legionnaires below. Their movements were practiced and calm, especially as the Legion's .50s fell silent below.

Neither glanced back as the two Legionnaires came into the room, and a quick glance revealed that the old fighters were alone. The two dropped the MPAD on a table and walked forward. Two pistol shots ended the pair, and one of their rifles were tossed from the window.

They dragged the MPAD forward and aimed it to the ground below, at the throng of enemy fighters rushing the Legion line, and fired the missile straight down, and grinned as the missile detonated. Such weapons were designed to draw near a target then detonate in a cloud of fast moving shrapnel, and it did it's job well, sending a score of rebels to their deaths.

Smit knelt on one of the Dragunovs then, and began firing into the backs of the enemy as they ran at the Legion line, which was visibly buckling under the enemy's pressure.

Smit and Sanna were dead minutes later. More enemies rushed up the building once it became obvious the sniper nest had been taken.

-----

"Frag out!"
Novax and the few remaining Legionnaires threw their frag grenades out from the lip of the crater. The enemy was nearly on them; close enough that the hand grenades would find their mark, and without any ammo left, it was just a matter of time now.

The grenades detonated, and then more extremists surged through. A molotov splashed across the back of the crater, thrown too far by the charging enemy, and then the fastest runners were impaled on Legion bayonets. Their bodies were flung to the side by practiced motions, and the next in met the same fate.

And then it turned back into a shooting fight; the enemy stopped short and raised their rifles to fire, and the Legionnaires ran forward with a defiant roar. Weapons fired, men screamed and died, and the east-most crater was lost.

-----

The last of the VTOLs had taken off minutes ago, but the CEO's jet was still taxi'ing on the runway, readying to take off. The grey marker that indicated Legionnaire Sanna fell from the seventh floor of a building, and Henning spared the lost pair a moment's remembrance before turning back to the task at hand.

The enemy were like an explosion; they followed the path of least resistance, and as the east flank fell they began to shift their attention that way, eager to sweep around the Legion line and reach the runway, hoping to find easier prey there.

The battle was over. There was nothing left for them to do but to die well now. Hennings flashed an aggressive smile and stepped out of the crater, pistol and bayonet in hand, "Fix bayonets! Charge!"
The command was relayed to all the remaining Legionnaires. They would go out in one last push.

Hennings held his pistol to the fore in one hand, knife hand in the small of his back. The old whistle his grandfather had given him now rested between gritted teeth and he gave it a great blow, and saw his men grin in bitter humour as they surged forward.

His pistol barked twice more, the last of his ammo expended, and then he was running forward with them. Many were cut down before they reached the surprised rebels fore-most line. And then the blood flowed.

The Legionnaires were far better skilled in fighting then the extremist shits. They were civilians turned holy warriors. Even exhausted as they were, the Legionnaires still had reserves of determination to pull on. It took a special kind of mind to make a good soldier, and that separated them from the common civilians.

But numbers won the day. The Legionnaires' charge soon faltered, and came to a stop. They died to weapons fire, or were dragged down by pairs of groups of rebels. Capitaine Hennings was a dervish on the field; his pistol cracked the jaw of one of the heretics. His bayonet opened another's throat. He shouldered a third to the earth, stomping on the man's crotch before lunging forward to drive his bayonet into a fourth's gut.

Then his leg gave out and he dropped to his knees. Pain exploded across the side of his face as an enemy kicked him. A moment of clarity allowed him to grab that man's leg before he could pull away, and Henning's bayonet found it's mark in the bastards' thigh, opening an artery.

Another gunshot and Hennings finally dropped.

Rebels surged across the broken Legion line towards the airport to find themselves robbed. Fires raged across the field of taxi'd planes that would never take off again. The abandoned vehicles burned too. Anything they sought to salvage was destroyed, and they found none alive. Hundreds of CCD civilians and soldiers had escaped from right under their noses.