How long had he been here? That question lingered in the recesses of Emirich's mind, yet it felt trivial amidst the overwhelming tide of concerns that drowned out his calmer thoughts. In this moment, he felt everything—the fear, the anxiety. He could see the smoke rising from the artillery fire, the bullets slicing through the air like a predator that had decisively marked its prey. The metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils, a reminder of iron. The sound of bone clashing with sinew echoed around him. All of this contributed to a surge of adrenaline, his instincts for fight or flight spiraling out of control, leaving him unable to think clearly, his mind clouded beyond any semblance of tranquility at that moment.
His hands throbbed with a pain that felt like death itself. His muscles cried out for him to cease, to abandon the effort, to let go. Yet, he couldn't let go. His mind and body were at odds, his consciousness refusing to grant his hands a moment's respite, while his legs continued to push forward, undeterred by the exhaustion that weighed heavily upon him. His fingers clutched tightly to the collar of a blood-stained uniform, blackened with soot. The soldier who had worn this combat attire lay unconscious, his legs jolted up and down over the rugged terrain of the battlefield. Judging by the man's build, Emirich estimated he weighed at least one hundred eighty pounds, making the task of dragging him through the dirt a considerable challenge. Glancing back, he noticed the field hospital was not far off, and he summoned every bit of strength he possessed to transport the injured man to a place where he could receive medical attention. In that instant, as these thoughts raced through his mind, a sudden and brutal force struck his head, sending him crashing to the ground, dirt swirling around him as he fell. Despite the shock, Emirich managed to regain his composure swiftly, the adrenaline surging through him enhancing his reflexes. He had tumbled into a trench, and the soldier he was hauling followed suit.
Emirich aimed to retrieve the helmet that had slipped from his head due to the initial jolt from what he suspected was a bullet, and he placed the protective gear back on his head. This time, he ensured the strap was secured under his chin. Once he was confident that the helmet was firmly in place, he swiftly lowered his hand to his side, drawing a pistol from his holster. Its silver slide had lost its luster, now coated in dirt and grime from the chaotic battlefield. His hands trembled, despite his efforts to steady them. Reluctantly, he compelled his hands to grip the weapon firmly, as he had been trained to do during basic training, and disengaged the safety. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a brief moment in an attempt to steady his nerves, then with renewed determination, he cautiously peered over the trench's edge. His gaze fell upon a familiar metallic figure. Or at least, it bore human-like features. In reality, it was anything but human. Much like the slide of his weapon, its entire body was silver, equipped with a bipedal locomotion system that poorly imitated human movement, and instead of arms, it sported a pair of machine guns mounted on its shoulders. According to the intelligence gathered, its weaponry was chambered in 5.56x45mm. These units were classified as leo type, serving as the primary infantry units for the EXENTIA.
Its unique visual system radiated a menacing blue light. Emirich steadied his pistol, his hands trembling as he prepared for the machine to turn towards him. He was eager for it to meet his gaze. In training, he had learned that these units possessed a particular weakness, located between the point where their visual scanning apparatus was situated and where their theoretical Adam's apple would be, allowing even a simple 9mm pistol to incapacitate them in one to three shots. Despite the apparent futility, he struggled to keep his hands steady, aiming for that vulnerable spot. He fired a single bullet, which inflicted visible damage, yet the leo continued to operate, advancing towards him. Before it could unleash a shot, he squeezed off two rapid shots that barely struck home, causing it to collapse, the blue light of its visual scanner flickering before extinguishing. His hands trembled even more violently as they fell, but he understood he couldn't linger there. In a clumsy manner, he holstered his pistol and returned to drag the soldier away for medical assistance.
He was confronted by the shouts of other medical staff, their boots scraping against the dirt. A stretcher lay beside the injured soldier, and Emirich moved to place the man back onto it, while another medic assisted by lifting his legs onto the device. Suddenly, he was pushed aside by another medic who grabbed the handles facing Emirich and coordinated the lifting of the stretcher with his partner. Emirich stepped back, his mind drifting away from the chaos around him. Unbeknownst to him, his hearing had dulled; the gunfire became a distant echo, and the only sound that resonated was the rhythm of his own heartbeat. A voice called out to him from afar, but he ignored it, his focus solely on the soldier he had just rescued. Upon examining the soldier, Emirich noted several grave wounds and did his utmost with his limited field supplies to stabilize the man long enough for proper medical attention, though he feared it might not be sufficient, uncertain if the life he had brought back was already extinguished. He lingered in a near-catatonic state until a firm hand on his shoulder jolted him back to reality. He turned to see who had pulled him from his stupor.
He sported a mullet of brown hair, complemented by a beard of the same hue, and an imposing demeanor, evident in his posture and the way he regarded Emirich. Those eyes revealed a wealth of experience, having witnessed bloodshed through years of strife, yet they remained unwaveringly focused. Emirich's gaze fell to the insignia on the man's collar, a silver clover, denoting his rank as a lieutenant colonel. Upon noticing this, Emirich's body seemed to operate on autopilot, and soon his mind followed suit. He assumed an upright position of attention, saluting, even though his body was clearly fatigued, struggling to maintain the stance due to sheer exhaustion.
"Private… Goscoigne… S-Sir!" he gasped between breaths. His commanding officer, noticing his exhaustion, cast a sympathetic glance his way.
He raised his hand as if to signal Emirich to relax. Emirich complied, albeit slowly and unsteadily, taking up the position of parade rest.
"I see you've returned with our esteemed Captain Cloverfield in…" He glanced over Emirich's shoulder at the stretcher being carried toward a treatment tent. "…mostly intact. Well done. You're permitted to rest for the time being."
Upon hearing this, Emirich shook his head, remaining at attention. "Sir, I can't do that just yet. There are still wounded men out there."
"Son, I respect your determination, but you've completed your duty, and it's clear you're not fit to head back out there," he said to the young private.
"But sir-"
"That's an order, private," the colonel replied, his tone firm yet kind. "Just stay here; we have plenty of other capable medics. I refuse to send another one out there-"
The Colonel was interrupted by a loud explosion, his head snapping toward the source of the noise. He clenched his teeth; mortars had landed beyond their first defensive line. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. He raised his index finger to an earpiece with a red-green light flashing on an indicator and swiped it. "Deploy the 2nd division now! And set up those howitzers!"
Emirich was acutely aware of the situation unfolding around him. They were breaking through, which also indicated that the third division sector was being overrun, leading to the grim reality of countless casualties at this moment. He clenched his teeth, determined to take action despite his overwhelming fatigue. But what could he do? He was merely one man, one man standing against an unyielding army that did not shed their own blood. His gaze eventually fell upon a soot-stained poly pedal machine, painted in a dark, militaristic grey. An M.W. The cockpit stood open, devoid of any pilot. He sprinted towards it, a voice calling out to him as he moved. He hurried to the open canopy, stepping onto a small crate to boost himself up, and settled into the seat. He removed his helmet and grabbed the helmet that was carelessly resting on the surface leading to the canopy's locking mechanism, placing it firmly on his head. During his training, they had covered the fundamentals of operating a walker, and that was precisely what this machine was. A Medium Walker, to be specific. As he looked down, he noticed a red lever, which he pushed down, causing the canopy to descend and lock into place. He pressed the green button on the left side of the cockpit and flipped a small switch on the back of the helmet. Suddenly, a view of the outside enveloped him, as if he were no longer in the cockpit, except for the main dashboard panel and the controls along with the pedals that remained visible to him.
From that moment on, with every component of the mech primed for battle, he pressed forward. He moved past the first and then the second defensive lines. His adrenaline surged, driving every command he input into the control system. He wasn't the finest pilot, nor even a particularly skilled one, for that matter. Yet, he had a knack for aiming, and he managed to command this unit to assist him in his mission. The objective was straightforward: there were other combat medics scattered across the field, tending to injured or fallen soldiers, and he was trying to provide them with cover fire, as most of the walker units had been taken out by the enemy. Eventually, he reached the third defensive line. He did all he could, relying solely on the main 20mm vulcan mounted on his walker. Being a medium type, it wasn't the most maneuverable—certainly more so than a heavy type, but not as nimble as a light type. This continued for hours, targeting smaller units that served as the primary infantry for the time being, allowing the medics to perform their duties. He finally exhaled in relief when he noticed that most, if not all, personnel within his line of sight had been rescued; however, that moment of respite was fleeting…
BOOM
An explosion erupted right beside his unit, hurling it like a featherweight rag doll across the battlefield. The last image that Emirich registered before losing consciousness…
It was fire. And it burned.
Endlessly.