The War for Cevanti [The Front Lines]

[Arbiter]

The Front Lines
This is where the metal meets the meat. This is where you’ll face the bulk of the enemy army and you’ll be clashing, line for line, with unmaking forces and akata. Steel yourselves everyone. It’s about to get real. If you’ve chosen to battle here you’ll have all of the infantry fielded by the Kingdom of Palatinus with you including infantry from The Guild and Cytokine Industries. Paladins. Mages. Soldiers. Everyone suited for ground combat and just widespread chaos and fighting will be here.

Your objective is simple. Hold the line. You need to keep the front line from faltering. You need to defeat the enemy generals and keep the troops around you pushing forward at all times. You must secure the battlefield in the name of Markov and for Cevanti! You’re going all out here. Bring your A game, because it’s going to get messy. There will be one general in particular who will be out to sabotage your victory. The Living has been given some upgrades and has been deployed by the enemy to lead their troops to victory. If you have any chance of securing the front line and pushing forward you’ll need to take care of them. It won’t be easy however. You’ll need help. With you are every type of ground soldier that you could imagine. There will be medics tending to the wounded and getting them off the battlefield. I trust you won’t just god mod cutting down enemies left and right, but if you do become injured, the medics each have a healing factor of rank 3. They can stabilize you and keep you going. If you need to heal completely there are triage centers on the back line that will provide medical services.

 

[Don Isaac]

They said war was Hell.

They did not have the knowledge that young Amaris did- they had not seen the things that he had seen, after his exile from Markov. The unfortunate dilettante scrambled through the trench lines dug at the rear of the Unmade lines, the ruins of what was once a fine suit clinging to his pale frame as he evaded the half-living 'men' that marched in pursuit of their- his as well, he supposed- master's dominion.

It had hardly supposed to go like this- sure, he'd fallen in with what could be called a bad crowd, and they'd indulged themselves, but nobody who really mattered died. But he supposed having alchemists on the payroll dissuaded anyone from taking bribes- lead to gold and all that, and Darkseid knew there was enough lead in Markov these days to poison the water table beyond recovery.

So now, here he was- hoping to see his every transgression wiped clean from the record, along with every trace of the civilization that fostered him. If only the guard had been somewhat more lenient, it hardly would have come to this.

He was no sorcerer, no warrior, no general- but, key to the victory of the Unmaking, he was sane. He flattened himself against a scrap-buttressed wall of mud as half a dozen monsters walked past him, cybernetics and armour grafted to something that was once a man, file-sharpened teeth bared as one of the only remnants of their humanity. Grisly trophies almost seemed to turn to look at him as they passed, teeth rattling against steel plating as severed hands waved farewell.

The same could not be said about many of his contemporaries- and particularly the creature he was tasked to commune with.

A whistling overhead- he threw himself to the mud coating the floor of the trench before the shell impacted, Markovian munitions landing nearby with a solid thud- but no detonation. He scrambled to his feet as the shell started to burn, a phosphorescent flare burning to relay the success of the targeting solutions to distant artillery crews. He was not meant to die in an artillery barrage- he was going to live forever, and if the death of the world that rejected him was the cost he had to pay, then he'd pay it a hundred times.

His desperate rush dragged him across the trenches- it would have been so much easier if they were built to any form of logic. But instead, they criss-crossed the battlefield like a manic spider's web. If he could see them from the air, perhaps they'd make more sense- or it might drive him mad in turn, to gaze upon them. He was acutely aware that things mortals were never meant to know were being accumulated here in troubling quantities, and, if he had any hope of living a life beyond this world, it would do him well to avoid those.

Unfortunately, there was no avoiding the cognitohazard before him.

The signs of what laid before him were immediately obvious. The monsters that made up his master's army knew to avoid this place- the unraveled remnants of those who didn't formed a border around the domain of this particular monster. Rotting flesh, surgically severed from the rusting metal it was once adhered to, rested beneath the cairns of steel that once armoured them. Each and every one of them had fallen mere moments after entering within forty feet of what lay at its center.

He took a step forward- and immediately regretted it.

His fingers burned- stung, the agonies of a dozen papercuts accrued throughout the years returning to him as he pressed forwards. He suspected that his pleasant upbringing was what had saddled him with his task- he had seen a devout cultist carry commands to what laid at the heart of this nexus, only for ritual scars to re-open and eviscerate him no more than a dozen steps in.

His foot slipped, as he continued- the earth must have been too weak, surely. A last-minute correction that failed, sending him sprawling to the floor as a moment of fear and doubt fluttered to life in his heart. I could still go back. his treacherous conscience whispered to him. Tell them all you know. Repent. Buy your way back in with Darkseid's secrets.

A bleeding hand clutched the rubble before him as he dragged himself along, scraping raw knees against concrete ruins as he continued. It was always like this. Old wounds reopened, literally and metaphorically- he winced, as he saw the face of an old flame. Karyss, that was her name- would she still be alive, if he…

No. He had to stay focused. Taking a breath to steady himself, he crawled forth, willing himself to grasp the ragged chunks of stone as he approached the apex of this mound of ruin. Perhaps it had been a pleasant home, once, in an age past, when Cevanti was more than simply the ashes of a dead world.

And atop its peak-

It would have, somehow, been better if there was a throne. A throne would imply some degree of Megalomania, of a need to be above everything else. Instead, the burned man, the many-dead, the paleblooded, the Pilgrim, and many titles besides, simply kneeled upon his vista, armoured claws resting on knees etched with devotions. Withered muscles and grey flesh were barely visible within gaps and rents in their massive armour, writhing parasites swarming within ruined body within. It should not be alive.

But that tri-lensed helm slowly turned to behold him, a silent statue carved to honour some foreboding god awaiting the words of the latest petitioner.

"Markov has begun its assault, my Lord," Amaris panted out, trying not to show fear before the graven edifice. "What are your orders?"
"Have they now?" Intoned the malevolent monument. "And here I thought that we had simply chosen to detonate our own munitions in celebration," it mused, raising a corroded talon and gesturing towards the front.

"The Living and I are in communion. Send in the meat. Let us see what they blunder upon, when the enemy's guns roar to cast them down."

"Yes, Sir," Amaris swallowed, crawling, cringing away from this creature. "I'll relay your orders immediately."

"See that you do," it rumbled, still kneeling as it watched the sun slowly sink towards the horizon, beyond Markov's approaching assault, the silhouettes of flying fortresses, great machines, and the gunsmoke of artillery batteries obscuring its dying light.

"After all- these people deserve their freedom."

The Unmade are currently sending forth fodder, to test the Enemy lines. Zombies, cultists, drones- any variety of chaff that's only particularly dangerous in great numbers is descending upon you. Have fun crushing them!

 

[The Living]

It had taken some time between the stained restroom and hearing the call to join the forces of the unmade. The irresistible urge to combine with Father Darkseid and take its ranks with the fodder and chaff. However, for this mission and as a reward for its efforts in Nausicaa, the entropic being was given a boost to its capabilities. During its time, it was fed the more... disappointing subjects of the unmade, to bolster its pet ooze to greater heights.

The being pulsed with desire among the rabble, only taking that which it was freely given, understanding that the armies of food it could devour would be only an appetizer in comparison to the city of Markov if the siege were to succeed. The mass grew greater than even that of Nausicaa while it soon began to speak its mind.

"We are ready."

With more resolve than ever before it scanned the horizon, seeing the enemy forces beyond the edges of the grunts that held the line. The blob of caustic ooze pooled together, condensing into as much of a singularity as it could, before suddenly lurching out. Tendrils spilled forth in a living web across the ground, leaving behind echoes of the creature that pulsed like a heartbeat, spreading out like a vein to each creature that fought for Darkseid, or at least, as many as it could. Hardened membranes gave boosts to those that it sunk its appendages into, granting them its own boon of protection. Unbeknownst to them, they would also feed the Living, providing vital nutrients to keep them spread across the field with their pawns. In this game of check they would become king, controlling their minions and pushing them to take out their opponents.

Each twitch was felt throughout the enigma, a seamless form of communication that united the chaotic force, one that would guide them to victory. The singularity soon settled into a humanoid form, naked but featureless as it held its hands to the floor, feeling the battlefield. In unison, the creatures creaked, screeched, and bellowed, a disgusting symphony of sounds that could barely be understood, though their intention was all too clear.

"We are one, and we are Darkseid. Hear us, those who are yet to live. We are your Unmaking."

 

[Zagreus]

Fire-walking Zagreus scanned the battlefield with no small amount of trepidation. He watched the forces of the Unmaking swarm and pulse with anticipation. A gentle breeze blew thick with tension, smelling of sewage and the dead.

Zagreus reminded himself he was a god of the dead. It did little to comfort him.

It also did little to comfort him that he seemed entirely surrounded by mortals. Frankly, Zagreus was only a godling, not quite a full-fledged force of nature like his relatives. It would be quite the fight ahead of him to protect these people as he would have liked to.

“Thanks for your words of affirmation, old man,” Zagreus mumbled.

“What?” a Paladin of some sort said to him.

“Nothing,” Zagreus said with a reassuring grin, “Ready for the fight of our lives?”

The Paladin grinned. “I was born for this!”

“That’s the spirit! You watch my back, I’ll watch yours.”

“That’s a deal, friend. What’s your name?” The Paladin reached out with a hand to shake.

The godling took it and grasped it firmly. “You can call me Zagreus.”

“I’m Inquisitor Damarioss.”

“Well, Damarioss, let’s show them what Markov is made of!”

And with that, the forces around Zagreus, who had evidently been listening, let out a rallying cry. They were a mixed sort, goblins in strange automatons, orcs with axes, humans in metal armor with some kind of lit-up runes and glass panels. But they were united by a cause.

The cry stifled itself at the following sight.

The front lines of the Unmaking pulsed with a grotesque motion. There was a wave of movement, almost like a ripple of rotting flesh among their ranks. There was a resounding wave of sound that shortly followed,

“They’re coming,” Zagreus said to nobody in particular. This time, he shouted loud, “They’re coming!”

Without another word, Zagreus shut his eyes for just a moment. Small orange spectral wings flashed around his heels for a brief second, glimmering into sparks and feathers. When Zagreus opened his eyes again, there was orange lightning coursing through his eyes.

“Hermes,” Zagreus mumbled.

“Well, hey there, Z! I heard from Uncle Poseidon that you’ve got a big fight up ahead of you. Here’s my little gift for you, make sure you don’t- okay, bye!”

Zagreus tapped his toe against the ground, feeling lightness enter his muscles. The familiar voice of Hermes filled him with an urge to… to move.

“Thanks, cousin,” Zagreus mumbled to himself again.

And with that, Zagreus flashed forward in a burst of movement, sprinting along the battlefield at high speed. The others around Zagreus saw the display of athleticism and roared, as they themselves started chasing the godling.

With the speed that the godling was moving at, it was not long before Zagreus encountered his first Unmaking spawn. It was a ghoul of some kind, rotting bones and sinews still roughly in the shape of a person. It snarled at Zagreus, backed by a few thousand of its kind.

“Poseidon!” Zagreus cried as he summoned Stygius. The sword answered his call, tensing together into existence in a swirl of ashes and dust. The blade gleamed in the dim light of the battlefield as Zagreus sprinted forward.

The godling slashed at the first ghoul, causing a small tidal wave to flash out from his blade. The blow sent the ghoul reeling back, colliding into his friend. Zagreus kicked another in the knee, sending it to the ground. He swung wide at a third, another tidal wave sending the decapitated head flying off. The godling thrust forward, skewering two with the blade before another burst of seawater launched the pair into the distance.

Zagreus noticed a flash of pink from behind him. With another conglomeration of ashes, Zagreus summoned Aegis and blocked an incoming swipe from a ghoul that had (successfully) snuck up on the godling.

“Well, I am rather busy, you know!” the godling snarked, “Ares!”

Zagreus’ shield glowed red, and its three equidistant blades suddenly burst with blood. The godling grunted and shoved hard against his attacker, knocking it back. The ghoul looked up for a moment to see a red blade of hemomancy lodge itself deep down the ghoul’s throat, sending black bile flying everywhere.

“Gross,” Zagreus groaned.

In a swift movement, Zagreus flung the shield as hard as he could. It careened towards an enemy, crashing violently into its head and snapping its neck. It rapidly bounced from ghoul to ghoul, clanging loudly as it crashed from hostile to hostile.

Meanwhile, Zagreus himself was shieldless. He ducked as a ghoul tried to relieve him of his throat. With a sweeping kick, he instead relieved the ghoul of its stance, then stabbed down. Another small wave crashed out from his sword, leaving the ghoul a mess of bile and dented earth. He disappeared briefly before a pile of ghouls could collapse onto him, then he cut at two more, sending them flying again.

At that moment, the shield returned to Zagreus’ side. The godling caught the flying disc out of the air with his spare hand, swiping at a nearby ghoul. Another red blade hung precariously on an invisible string over the ghoul. The godling slashed up with his sword, sending the ghoul flying upwards directly into the glowing red sword.

Zagreus turned around just in time to see a ghoul disintegrate in holy light. Damarioss, the Paladin he met earlier, stood over it with his glowing glaive.

“Save some for the rest of us!” the knightly warrior guffawed. He then twirled his weapon before driving it deep into another ghoul.

“Well, keep up then!” Zagreus laughed.

“This is too easy!” a strange praying mantis woman cheered, skewering two ghouls with his claws.

She was right. This WAS too easy. Zagreus clicked his tongue. They were just testing Cevanti’s defense, weren’t they? This was just meant to exhaust the allied forces.

Still, the momentum was theirs. They had to hold the line. And so they would.

 

[Ridley]

Flak had been prepared for a long, slow assault, with the booming of rifles and artillery over long distances, when they’d first arrived. Markov seemed like the sorta stuffed shirts that would keep this slow and careful. The unmade really favored that sorta thing, at least, according to Lord Ridley, so as a commander, it had made him worried - as a soldier, it had left him prematurely bored, but he still found that kinda fighting interesting, in the intemellectual sense.

Now, as his boys rained down in steel casings upon the enemy, and the frontlines opened up to a wave of death, the enemy forces proved to the big brute that this weren’t no kind of besieging he’d ever seen. It was a knock-down drag-out no-holds-barred brawl!

And as the General stepped forward, up to the war-front, Flak had a giant grin as he surveyed the battlefield.

“Keep my flanks guarded, I’m going in!”

“Is that wise, Lord Flak?” an Ugnaught at the side asked, surveying the area with a modified DC-15 rebuilt to the smith’s own specifications. The Flak jacket on his body was meager protection to the pirate, but given the General refused even a shirt for himself, the incredulity was shown.

“This ain’t no time to wait in an HQ, and I ain’t about to miss a battle like this. It’s gonna get bloody, smoky, Firey, and all kinds of Hands-on smackety, and I’m going to be in the thick of it making sure you yutzes keep alive! got that, Barboch?” Flak asked, looking to the middle of the fighting. the question was where to reinforce…

There! Flak saw his opportunity, a mix of paladins holding a shield formation with some kind of advanced rifles backing them up as they poured in to support the roman lines. They hoped to relieve pressure as the noble warriors pulled the enemy in, but while their protection was up to snuff, three to one gets a small column flanked. He didn’t know if something had gone wrong, the formation had just pushed a little too well, or if this was part of the plan, but in the absence of evidence, action gets through!

“Don’t matter how damn hot it gets!” Flak yelled, loudly enough to be heard by his division of soldiers. “Wyvern commanders lead from the front!”

Flak looked back to his section, a group who went from confused to enthusiastic with just a bit of encouragement. They were a good group of soldiers when it came down to it - easy to discourage, sure, but plenty ready to be inspired, as the commander pointed forward and ordered a charge.

“Just another raid, boys! let’s take some heads!”

The chorus was rousing as the men roared in acknowledgement, a voice heard above the din. Blue streaks of light echoed above the roman column

Flak drew an assault rifle, releasing a stream of bullets under the column as he lurched forward amidst a hail of fire - ranging from crossbows to crimson beams and acidic projections. Turning down into a roll behind a rock, he laid covering fire as his men desperately ran just trying to keep pace behind him.

The unmade kinda responded the exact way Flak thought they would, and as a group of ghouls, Skeletal warriors, and some actual old-school thuggery appeared of soldiers in modern combat armor carrying what could only be described as electrified baseball bats descended in all directions around Flak, he reminded himself he needed to have a chat with ol’ lord Ridley about a bayonet attachment for the DC-15’s. Crossroads people were absolute animals and they did not mind taking a few blasters to the schnozz to engage up close and personal.

Funnily enough, neither did Flak!

The roar of a rampaging gorilla punctuated the dry crack of his battle rifle smacking the skull of a nearby skeletal warrior, powdering its skull as the armoured undead fell to the floor. a ghoul leapt from his right, mouth open to bite right onto his arm, but the massive man just swept a hand out to the side, smashing the ghoul off with a feral grunt. a blur of motion to his side heralded a battle droid, getting a little too close as the B-1 fired off a pair of imprecise blaster shots. The Wyvern general just gave a grin, laughing as he grabbed the battle droid by the head and squeezed. The fragile metal slowly gave as the B-1 gave a slow “oooOOooohhh!” - then, with a sound like a bottle being stepped on, the metal finally gave way as the droid’s head was caved in.

Flak let out a loud guffaw as he grabbed the droid by the head, even as other enemies closed in, and started swinging, using the battle droid as an unruly bludgeon. Metal legs went out in every direction as Flak went for wide swings, the hordes of darkness around him briefly kept at bay. Flak didn’t really know beans about using a close combat weapon, or hand-to-hand combat, in any kinda formal fashion, but when a big guy swings around a big, unpredictable piece of metal, he didn’t really need to!

Still, the unmaking were more than human - so even when one of the battle droid’s feet came off from Flak’s rough handling embedded itself with a wet plap into an unmade romulan’s skull, or when the B-1’s half-disembodied torso smashed a ragged cultist’s head like a watermelon filled with store-brand spaghetti, he knew it was going to work for maybe a few seconds. these boys didn’t give up, and if Flak was alone, he’d be going down like that one really cool scene in the Lion King, where Scar’s all like, “no, guys, I didn’t betray you”, but he totally did betray them, and he calls them on it, and he only slaps away a couple guys but then more jump on him and he just like disappears, and it’s done in this cool shadowy way-

Flak’s train of thought was interrupted by blue lances of light streaking forward and the familiar bwumm of pressure grenades crushing organs and rending flesh, conveniently getting to the point of his metaphor for him as his crew cut in. Wyvern’s irregulars overwhelmed the immediate glut of opponents with volleys of firepower, and with a roar Flak took advantage of his enemy’s disruption to take his rifle and stab the barrel straight through the visored helmet and into the skull of some yutz who’d made the mistake of brown nosing for Darkseid with a bloody roar.

The Irregulars pushed through with a roar of abandon and a fair amount of munitions discharged. The Black hole general felt a flash of pride as his face was only missed a few inches by their raucous lack of trigger discipline. those were his boys!

The thought was quenched as the group surged forward, and Flak caught a peek at the nearest soldier, a man with glowing golden eyes and a shield almost as big as Flak. Wookie Paladins were made of sterner stuff… and yet his scent was a faint aroma of Vanilla and Lilac amidst the blood-and-sweat smell of the battlefield.

“What’s your plan, sarge?” Flak asked the Wookie.

The hairy commander held a hand forward, raowring something Flak didn’t need to understand with the guidance of the Plated gauntlet.

Ahead, a tide of death, thousands of unmade things converging on Ridley’s elite. the familiar trills of the Zebesian blasters punctuated with the sight of WYVERN’s best ripping apart those that escaped the wrath of high-powered plasma blasts with all the brutality and speed of vicious giant crabs.

Which they kind of were, but Flak figured that saying that might be the slightest bit offensive.

“Let’s go get our boys out of trouble before they steal all the fun!” Flak yelled, the standards of the kingdom of Markov accompanied with the boorish cheers of Wyvern as a hail of lasers and magical spells struck the wall of unmade beasts that surrounded the elite Zebesian warriors like a power washer washing away grim. It was like Lord Ridley said - the Unmade were the Arbiter’s mess, and now it was up to them to clean it all up.

So Flak was going to get out here and start turning his men into goshdarned firefighters to make sure this place didn’t have a single ugly speck of Darkseid left when his boys were done with it!

 

[Chara Dreemurr]

The silver rapier glinted in the light even as the purple clouds roiled above the Fade’s main installation. The power of Darkseid was being unleashed in a way to shape the very skies. It reminded her of a snow-covered plain from long ago, one that she worked alongside a selfless hero and a villain dedicated to his own heartlessness to destroy.

Still, while Shademan had been an intimidating foe, the sheer difference in scale was undeniable. Compared to the play-place she had came from, this was a much greater threat. All while so much more of herself had been lost in transit.

The field battle below was raging as she stepped forward, warriors fighting in the thick of battle - Though she wanted to join them immediately, she had learned the value of assessing a situation, and finding the perfect area to strike. Speed could make you slow, if it was not used well. and sometimes a slow, ponderous limp could cover just as much distance and control just as much space as a dash at superhuman speed.

Weiss gave a sigh, as she looked at the unmade hordes coming at them. it seemed like an endless wall of expendable soldiers, a wall of bodies with little protection but the durability that numbers could provide.

Whoever was fighting this was either incompetent… or his tactics were slow and ponderous. someone willing to take hits to learn the powers of his enemy and outlast them until they found the winning move.

Weiss Schnee let out a long, exaggerated sigh. The actual, realistic odds of it were pretty terrible, but there was a nagging piece of herself that reminded herself that the odds were always heavily stacked against her favor - and that something like this was quite on brand for her own terrible luck.

Daiten stepped forward next to her. “Where are we headed, girlfriend?” The vampire teased, a more serious expression spreading across her face. “if you don’t find the right area for us soon, I might just run off on my own…”

“Snowfall” took one last look across the battlefield. there were certainly flanks they could shore up here, amongst the paladins - ones that would benefit from their assistance. “I doubt any are worthy of your blade here, but we should strike here,” The cloaked huntress murmured, pointing to a position on the right flank that hadn’t buckled - but likely would in short order without further assistance.

Daiten gave a wordless nod and grin in response, leaping down and off the short hillside Weiss had camped on with a single bound, before running forward. “Snowfall’s found a good spot! we’re going to go show these guys some real swordplay on the right flank, boss!” Daiten briefly reported, though the rest was lost on the wind.

Weiss took an extra second to gaze far, far away, to the installation they now besieged. As though she could see the man who taught her of the power of a slow, ponderous limp all the way from over here if she just squinted hard enough.

She hoped, for the sake of the men and woman she fought beside, that she was just a paranoid old huntress who was seeing connections where none could be found. She hoped against hope that Okor Paleblood’s hand was not in this battle.

And a smaller part still hoped that somehow, if they were to meet again, she would not have to raise her blade once again against someone that almost looked like an old friend through rose-tinted glasses.

Either way, there was a sea of bodies she would have to wade through to find the answer, one way or another.

 

[Android XVII]

“Do you know how to drive this thing?” Seventeen shouted as he leaned in between the driver and passenger seats of the armored, open-air transport vehicle. The entire ride had been a jostling, nausea-inducing sea of improper braking, sharp turns, and a (literal, possibly) lead foot. When the robot operating the controls didn’t reply, the cyborg turned to glance at the stern, unwavering mouse in the co-pilot’s chair. “Yo! For real … we’re going to be at the front soon.”

Without looking at Seventeen, Mickey Mouse continued to give his mousey scowl to the approaching canvas of carnage on the horizon. “Blues’ got it. This isn’t a spaceboat … I’m sure he can manage a little longer without crashing.”

“Crashing?” Seventeen rasped before he was tugged by his belt back into the passenger component of the transport. He turned and glared at Beatrix, who seemed a little too confident. “What?”

“It’ll be fine. Just trust them.”

The machine-hybrid hated the look on his companion’s face. She was too calm. “Are you hitting the sauce again?” He turned toward Jaina. “Is she on the sauce?”

“She ha—”

“I just had a crate,” Beatrix rolled her eyes.

“You’re drunk?” Seventeen muttered as he turned to look at Taeli. “That lady over there is drunk.”

The jedi – why the fuck did that word sound so familiar? – smiled and shook her shoulders. “I’ve grown to—” they hit a pothole or some shit, and everyone in the passenger area lurched up out of their seats. Seventeen, who had failed to strap himself in at any point, wound up on the ground, much to the amusement of Beatrix.

The redhead leaned over and jammed her elbow into Taeli’s gut. “And he’s trying to say that I’m drunk?”

The older of the two women grimaced as she tilted her face away from her ally’s booze-soaked breath. “I’ve grown to accept that this place is filled with limitless mysteries.”

“Here here!” Mickey remarked as his little head and big ears could be seen leaning around his chair. “Almost there, Fellas… it’s not lookin’ good, either.”

“Hold on to your butts…” Blues muttered as he wrenched the transit hard to the left.

Seventeen, who had yet to peel himself off the floor of the vehicle, curse as he was thrown back into the seats. On this occasion, Jaina was kind enough to leaned down and hoist him up to where he could buckle himself in just as a mortar erupted maybe ten yards away from their vehicle. Dirt splashed down through the open air of the transport vehicle.

“Are you certain that this was the vehicle they recommended we utilize?” Jaina asked softly to their driver.

“Uhh,” Blues glanced into the little rearview mirror. “I went for speed over function.”

Seventeen scowled as he saw a nearby armored tank belch its payload across no man’s land. “Please don’t tell me you passed on a tank.”

“They weren’t available.”

“We’re going to die here, aren’t we?” Seventeen spoke as he looked at Jaina.

The mage rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should have drunk a little before this,” she jested. “We’ll be okay. This isn’t our first…” she paused as her mouth twisted. “Our first…”

“Rodeo?” Mickey spoke from the front of the vehicle just before they executed another sharp turn that nearly rolled the whole transport.

“Yes!” Jaina said with a snap of our finger as she turned back to Seventeen. “It’s not our first rodeo.”

And just at that moment, another long-range mortar slammed into the ground just inches from their Markov-issue transit. The vehicle left the ravaged surface of Markov and spiraled nearly fifteen feet into the air.

“Bail out!” Seventeen managed to shouted as he grabbed Jaina by the wrist. The two vanished in a swirl of white and blue light particles. Reappearing a moment later on the ground, they both turned their heads up to the still-airporne light transit. There was a shimmer of green energy as Taeli cut off the harnesses that kept her and Beatrix strapped to their seats. The two woman fell and hit the ground just moments before two sheaves of child-sized paper flittered down a few yards from them. One puff of smoke later, and Proto Man and Mickey Mouse were likewise safe.

The group turned and grimaced as the transit slammed into the ground. There was no drama and no explosion…just a crumpled machine lying in a twisted heap.

Seventeen opened his mouth to say something, but they were forced on the move as enemy fire started to zero in on their position.

“Over here!” A voice barked as the group looked up to see and entrenched group of soldiers before a hastily constructed barrier.

Ushered quickly behind the bulwark, the group found themselves in the presence of a whole platoon of Cevanti soldiers.

“Were you planning to drive right into the Unmade lines?” Someone immediately asked as a man shuffled his way through the throng to greet them. He was weary, and he had the eyes of someone who had been out on the lines for the last few weeks, if such a thing was even possible. “Just call me Corporal Axlé … it’s too much of a shit show out here for formalities.” He extended a hand toward the group. “The greenhorn lieutenant and the staff sergeant died within the last forty-eight hours, so I suppose I’m the ranking individual here until they ship someone else out.”

“Where are we?” Seventeen spoke after shaking hands with the noncom. When he got a confused look, he quickly clarified. “Where on the line are we?”

“Near the western edge of the lines.” Corporal Axlé remarked as he ushered them back toward a hole in the ground. They followed him down into what was a reinforced bunker of sorts. “Honestly,” he glanced over his shoulder and didn’t seem to wear a happy expression on his face. “I think we are the western end.”

“What’cha mean?” Mickey asked as they were led into a cramped quarters that housed a piece of equipment the size of a card table. After smacking a piece of equipment a few times, the corporal stepped back as a holographic topography map shimmered to life on the tabletop. A sprawling red line seemed to indicate the land Markov held, with a great purple landmass directly opposed to them.

“This is us,” he remarked as he zoomed in the map on the western end. “Right… here.” A marker flashed to life a few inches east of the western edge of the red line.

“Well, we’re pretty close then.” Mickey spoke.

Axlé shook his head. “It’s not to scale, I’m afraid. We’re about a click east of where the 404th should be. “They have a lot of munitions and weaponry over there, but they’ve been absolutely radio silent for the last three hours. There is…” He rotated the display to show the mountains due west of the 404. “These mountains here, which is why our lines extend so far west… even the Unmade ground forces aren’t going to try and scale the mountain ranges. And the ranges provide a nice screen for us to maul any of their aerial forces that try to cross there.”

“But if the 404 has been taken out.” Beatrix muttered.

“Yea,” Axlé spoke as he waved his hand. The purple mass passed through where the 404 would be, and from there, it was clear what would happen. “Without the 404, our lines run the risk of being outflanked and…”

“We’ll be encircled.”

As if it was necessary to show the point, Corporal Axlé illustrated the purple mass washing over the red of Markov’s lines.

“If we collapse, it’ll be open season on the rest of the armies.” The noncom remarked as he glanced up at the group. “I hate to ask you a favor even though we just met.”

“We’ll go,” Seventeen muttered as he looked at the ragged man’s unkempt brown hair and weary eyes. Corporal Axlé tossed a trio of walkie talkies to the cyborg.

“They’re short-range… nothing more than maybe two or three clicks, but you’re not traveling that far.”

“Anything we should know?” Seventeen asked.

The corporal adjusted the map to show them a number of routes they could take to reach the positions where the 404 should be entrenched. “I recommend you use these routes in blue, because they’ll screen you from much of the long- and medium-range weapons that they unmade are pulling at us. We’ve also got scramblers set up to deter the akata and zoids from hitting our lines, so if you can make sure those are operational… we’d love that.” He scowled as he looked over the topography. “And if you’re up there…, can you check in to see if there’s a Corporal Nessing who is still alive?”

“Friend?” Seventeen asked.

“Aye,” the noncom remarked. “We both re-enlisted when the news about the Fade came. My friend, Corporal Nessing, was actually at ground zero the day the Fade attacked Markov, so this whole thing is a bit… personal to us. Unfortunately, our former platoon leader is a hardass who acted like a jilted lover when we opted to join the Lonely Hearts Club Band to travel the Crossroads for a few years. So, we got separated into different units, given our ‘skill set and back story’.”

“That’s rough.” Proto Man muttered.

“Yea,” Corporal Axlé replied. “He got the more dangerous gig. If they’re still alive up there, lemme know.”

“Understood,” the machine added as the sextet (lol) of off-World adventurers moved into a side room of the bunker to plot their next maneuvers.

Team ‘Proto Jedi BludMaus 17’ is on the front lines, near the western edge of the combat. This area has been tested for a period of time with artillery and occasional probes by mechs and akata. A full-scale assault has yet to happen, but it is feared, especially with the radio silence of the platoon at the northern extreme of the lines.

 

[Ben]

Obi-Wan Kenobi hated long goodbyes - had had too many of them - but he did briefly wish, now, that he had given one to Yuuka. a regret he would have to learn to let go of, as he stepped forward onto the frontlines. He was, to his surprise, not the only jedi knight in this war, and whispers had been made behind his back. Some implying familiarity, even! Others were concerned at his garb, his gear, and he understood their worries.

Ben Kenobi, clad in black and blue orgosynth flesh, mimicking metal and leather, did not look at all the picture of a Jedi Knight in this battle. His costume was far more befitting a Sith Lord, with it’s audacious armor and it’s dark coloration, and his organic plasma blade was something he could see even count Dooku balking at.

He was not concerned for his own reputation - a true jedi should not care for such things - but what that reputation could do on the battlefield, and as he leapt into action, cutting apart reanimated corpses, snakelike demons, and cultists that for all their trappings of strange trophies and ritually scarred guns and blades, still looked less like the unmaking on the battlefield than he and his partner did.

It brought fear and doubt to the battlefield, concern from his comrades, and that could lead to panic.

Dagor Dagorath, still wrapped around Ben’s body, finally spoke up in the midst of Ben’s statements.

I had no idea mortal psychology was so contradictory.

“a field of study too complex for the students.” Ben would agree with a wry smile, even as his blade cleanly dug through a monster with too many eyes and an equally large amount of pistols, knocking it aside. Fighting on the frontlines, his blade whirled, each shot, every blast that came to him, knocked aside. Like a machine the two had simply strode forward, the plasma of their blade cutting a molten path through the enemy with the power that the Orgosynth had given them. In terms of the actual damage they had done, Ben would wager that the death count was already approaching the triple digits. it was a trail of death that would take countless bodies of the battlefield - but it was no inspiration.

Their bodies may have been kept safe by Bens blades, but the condition of the men’s spirits was obvious to Ben with the few glances he’d sent back between his current term of being a human dervish They were not emboldened by the presence of a Jedi Knight - they were frightened at the power that had been unleashed.

Ben took a deep breath. this could be a problem.

The old Jedi master cleared his mind with no small amount of effort, focusing on the battlefield. ‘Til now, he had fought as a Jedi on many battlefronts, and he knew this was nothing new to his profession. The Clone Wars had been turned on the knights as they turned from guardians to generals, peacekeepers to soldiers.

And eventually, the diplomats and heroes known as the protectors of the galaxy, to villains and betrayers in the eyes of those they once gave their lives for.

Obi-wan gave a simple mental command to Dagorath, and the orgosaber in his hand vanished, consumed back into the Orgosynth costume.

“what is your plan? I thought this method was energy efficient?“

Dagorath’s voice rang in Ben’s head as he gave a slow nod in response.

“For our own stamina - but not for our men.” the Jedi Master responded, as he began taking deep breaths. “We are a Jedi Master, right now - so it is important we act like it.”

The entity gave out a sigh. “I hope the adulation of the mortals around you is worth our limited strength.”

Their adulations? No, Ben thought. as both of his hands went up and towards the battlefield, the jedi master began gently spinning both of his hands, as discarded weapons and armor built up around him. Though the corpses of the most beastly were left untouched - such things that may never truly die should not be handled without care - any equipment of the fallen was fair game, as was any rock or piece of scrap sticking out of the land from this or any other battle.

Ben began to sweat, as a makeshift constructin formed, as the soldiers began to take notice. some of them reacted with dismay, but most were too confused to make an opinion on the ball of reclaimed scrap, a chaotic mix of metal and leather.

Ben’s eyes judged the size of the tallest unmade there, and the line of fire their guns were taking, as he clasped his hands together… and unfurled his right hand, slowly, to the side, as though unfurling a curtain.

A Wall of scrap built up ahead of the troops, as the hail of bullets, lasers, and magical blasts they’d been weathering were quelled by the wall of material in front of them.

Obi-wan took a step forward, with his hands remaining out, pushing, as though he was physically pushing against his own wall.

Scrap continued to build, creating a fortified barrier from every errant pipe or gun. Anything nearby he could take from a cigarette lighter to a concrete barricade was brought into the amalgamated wall. Soon, the great bulwark stood twice as tall as Kenobi and as thick as a , as he pushed it forward. He lacked the strength to continue holding it hovering above the ground, so the great barrier skidded forward against the enemy, skipping up sparks. Through it all, the soldiers briefly stopped their charge, in awe - but no longer in horror.

Had Kenobi been able to pay attention, as he took step after step, slowly pushing it literally through an avalanche of unmade, he might have seen why. For the first time since this battle started, his movements weren’t effortless to the army fighting alongside him. As sweat dripped from his brow, and as he was forced to dig in his heels against backlash unseen, Obi-wan Kenobi’s face was screwed up in concentration and agony was written across his face. The Jedi master did not look like an inhuman monster at the moment - he looked like a man. A man putting all the effort in the world to defend a populace he did not know, in the midst of a war he owed nothing to.

And yet, even as the dirt gave way beneath his feet, even as Dagorath fed it’s power into him and found even its reserves starting to flag, the barrier held. Ben took another step… had it been ten? twelve?...it didn’t matter. The barrier continued to surge forward and push. the Unmade, their snapping jaws frustrated by the rounded bulldozer that pushed their surging advance back on its heels, let out a great baying and hissing as Ben pushed.

Thirteen. Thirteen steps. Blackened leather boots took one step forward…

Something mystical, something in the force, snapped back like a rubber band, and Ben fell to one knee, exhausted. With a grunt, he held up his hands almost pleadingly, trying to put in that bit more force, but cracks began to show in the wall as the barrage of laserfire continued. The barrier blew apart, crack by crack, piece by piece, as Ben did his best to hold it up, falling to both knees as his legs turned to putty.

“Get the Jedi!” He heard a voice scream, one warped and inhuman. amidst it he heard cheers and howls and other unearthly noises from the monsters and beasts there.

He even heard an enthusiastic “Yeahhhh!!” from what he was sure was a B-1’s voice module, and some small part of him felt almost amused at the idea of a common battle droid, even in this insane place of whimsy and magic, being his cause of death. Perhaps the Force really did have a sense of humor.

The scrap fell to the floor in a clatter, a pile of rubble and melted trash now. Behind it was a set of the ugliest faces Ben had ever seen - and all of them turned to him with death in their eyes.

Their focus was their undoing, as gunfire, laserfire, and lightning all arced from behind him, a barrage of protective fire cutting down dozens of greedy beasts in their tracks.

“Protect the Jedi Knight!” Ben heard with surprise. Not just because of the sudden change in tone from the men behind him, but because of the voice of the man who now rushed to his side while the rest of the men huddled around him.

It was the voice of Jango Fett. and he’d heard it many, many times before.

A man with unfamiliar armor but a familiar face helped him up, holstering a plasma gun as he lifted Ben to his feet.

“On your feet, General.” The clone said, as Ben found himself in a familiar situation. he gave a slight shake of his head, a soft grin adding to his smile lines.

“I appreciate the rescue. But I’m not a general anymore.”

“You never stopped being Generals to us, sir. Against the seperatists or the unmade, I’d follow men like you anywhere.”

The clone offered a hand to shake as Ben got to his, clad in black armor-weave. “The name’s Trotter, sir. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Ben. Ben Kenobi.”

That gave the clone a small chuckle. “Really, sir? One of your family members might be getting quite the important house call, then.”

Ben gave a raised eyebrow in response. “Is that so?”

“I’m actually volunteering from the ARC. Scuttlebutt is that the princess has been looking for an Obi-wan Kenobi. You know him, sir?”

Obi-wan’s response was a wry smile. “A conversation for when Cevanti is secure. For now, let’s focus on saving more lives and ending the threat in front of us.”

 

[John Connor]

Marius and Vatallion stared each other down as Roman Centurions, ready for battle, every move and fight mattered now.

What strategy would stick against the zoids? Something within their bag of tricks or something learned from their enemies? Though regrets would come much later, Vatallion and Marius debated something that came from Hannibal’s bag of tactics from the battle of Cannee.

The Cannae tactic, something Hannibal almost took the Roman army down the same way. The only way to learn from past humiliation was to take an enemy's tactic and make it and mold it into their soldiers.

With Marius’s leadership, Vatallion stepped back and both of them started to yell commands in English and Latin.

The horn was blown and the men started to move in formation, grasping their new updated gladiuses, immediately moving them up, the bluish glow showing, large shields and pilems now in hand, at their two commander’s words, the “weak” Roman slow moving center would pull back, giving the Zoids the illusion that they were winning.

While the machines seemed to push forward, Marius looked at Vatallion and nodded, yelling in Latin. In contrast, the Roman legionaries pushed forward and began to surround the unmade from both sides.

Whatever short advantage the Zoids, mostly cavalry, had so far, was lost as angry Roman legionaries forced their formations and started to cut down what parts of the “small fry” were unmade as much as they could with plasma gladiuses.

Marius and Vatallion were cutting down as many forms of unmade and small zombies as they could.

“Tenere Lineam! (HOLD THE LINE!)

From a distance, Marius and Vatallion swore they could see the Gods and Goddesses flanking the battlefield from another fighter out there.

“Is that Neptune?!

Many soldiers and fighters kept it going, trying to keep Marius’s and Vatallion’s lines going as finally Romans surrounded the Zoids and baited them into being trapped in the middle.

“UNLEASH HELL!” Orders in English and Latin were screamed out loud in the chaos of the battles.

 

[John Connor]

Open-air cars and jeeps allowed Connor’s men to wait to start shooting.

Run and gun tactics were always tricky to implement when Connor’s soldiers finally heard the alarm and their junker cars with plasma shots on top were luckily already built to impress the day before.

Connor gritted his teeth, Kyle was nearby as his second in command, they both watched men with communication lines and plasma rifles pull into the Resistance junker cars and open jeeps nearby on Markov.

While Marius and Vatallion’s legions looked like they came straight from the nearest history book, Connor’s soldiers had plasma rifles and the latest armor.

The Resistance soldiers would cut off small zombies and the more dangerous foes crawling toward Marius’s and Vatallion’s line.

The front line was full of shit, and Kyle Reese understood more than not that it was burned into his PTSD when he had to go out on routine front lines in the terminator war.

However, these weren’t your routine T-800s or terminators in general, they were more. Purple glowing from them as quickly as they have gauged them.

John had understood just how dangerous these unmade could be, along with what could happen if the unmade ever touched a metal being.

There were unmade cyborgs out there as well, and John stayed up countless nights and days trying to keep ahead of their weaknesses as well.

Perry bent down while yelling orders at the communicators.

“HOLD THE LINES! Hold THEM!”

Screams of various soldiers through the frontline with battle cries, stabbing and plasma fire hit various unmade.

 

[Lord Boros]

Boros walked with a neutral expression on his face. Examining the aura of the various Unmade that came before them. While the undead and robots had no aura to speak of the rest he could see as being nothing more than a sea of weaklings. Absolutely beneath him. Either the enemy has completely underestimated their forces or they are being tested right now or expected to be tired out by large numbers.

"While it's great to be on the front lines with you Lord Boros, despite that normally not being my job, what is your plan of attack?" spoke up Geryuganshoop.

"The plan is simple, you three go and clear a path for me so that I may hope to find a worthy opponent to fight. Thin down the enemy ranks and wipe out the weaklings. That is all," Boros decreed.

A smile flashed on Melzargard's face as the five-headed being then separated itself into five separate humanoids each with one head.

"Good idea Lord Boros." "We divide." "We conquer." "We kill." "Simple as that." they each would say.

"Finally I get to let loose, come on let's go already!" said the impatient Groribas.

---

The five Melzargards turned their hands into various weapons. A scythe, a hammer, a spiked ball, a sword, and an axe. And began cutting and bludgeoning the various fodder that the Unmade sent towards them. A cyborg was cut in half down the middle, a zombie was hammered into a fine paste, and B-1 Battle Droids were cut to pieces. And through it all the Melzargards were enjoying every bit of the carnage.

Geryuganshoop was using his telekinesis to grab as much rubble as he could around the area. Even using the corpses and scrap of the fallen enemies. As makeshift bullets, he telekinetically fired them towards the Unmade horde. Heads were blown off, holes in torsos were made, and some exploded upon being hit by the corpse of a fallen Unmade ally. All while Geryuganshoop was surrounded by a psychic tornado of energy, rubble, scrap, and corpses.

Groribas was chomping up various zombies with his mouth hands. The mouths on his hands then spit out the gross rotten flesh. Then he saw some fresh meat in the form of several cultists. He lunged at them and proceeded to bite one's head off with the large maw of his head. After chewing it and tasting it enough he didn't find the flavor too bad as he swallowed before he slowly approached the cultists licking his teeth clean. In fear, the cultists began slashing at him with their knives only for the knives to bounce off of his body as he grabbed another cultist by the arms and tore off their limbs.

Boros watched this and nodded in approval as he slowly made his way forward. He had faith in his minions more so out of anyone in WYVERN's forces. He stepped over the corpses laid across the ground as his minions laid a path of death and destruction in his name leading forward to his goal. That being to face The Fade itself in combat. Or perhaps another threat that the Unmade could throw their way that might prove to be a challenge for him.

 

[Aster]

* ~ * Alexander Anderson * ~ *​

“Are you sure about this, Father?” the voice of the driver asked warily, for the fifth time. “I mean no disrespect, your presence here at all is an encouragement, but…the front lines?” The driver, one Sergeant Reegar, was no meek man. He had participated in and survived the Siege several years ago, even if it was mostly by virtue of dumb luck. He was a soldier through and through Which was to say he was used to the chaos of war and battle, at least as much as anyone could be. To the smell and sound of fire and death exploding all around at any moment and your survival not even guaranteed from one minute to the next.

With a swear under his breath, the sergeant whipped the transport around the smoldering wreckage of another less fortunate vehicle, one of its sides blown out by stray artillery fire. Most of the heavy fire was being neutralized at the front, or focused on the advancing lines of the forward ranks, but every now and then some got through, and blasted apart anything they hit. Reegar could still recall, barely a minute ago, seeing an armored troop carrier go thundering along the roads only to have a shell hit it broadside, huge plumes of oily purple fire and smoke going up as crackling lightning and pressure waves went ripping out from it, turning half the wreckage into smoldering flinders in the span of a single second, the occupants within half melted and half just….gone; disintegrated, reduced to nothing…or worse.

“Calm thy fears, child,” the voice of the foremost passenger in Reegar’s care spoke up. Through all the chaos of the high-speed rush to the front lines, as air fighters screamed by overhead, as the distant boom and thunder of the battlefield drew nearer, as debris and shrapnel pelted the transport’s exterior and cracked its windows…he remained implacably, immovably calm. Seated sedately, almost serenely, arms folded neatly in his lap with clasped hands, and head partially bowed. The shine of his glasses, silvery-blue, was nearly opaque and hid his eyes completely, though his lips were pressed together in a thin, tight line that made the prominent scar on his cheek stand out all the more starkly.

Slowly he turned his head just enough to regard Reegar out of one eye, the lens flickering momentarily to show the bright green of his eyes, staring sternly but not unkindly. A soft, almost musical chiming noise came, the cross around his neck jingling as the transport ran afoul of a crater in the road. Even without saying a word, the message was clear: he was dead set on his course. A moment later he turned resolutely back forward, staring patiently out the cracked and damaged windows ahead.

In spite of himself, Reegar gulped nervously, but he did shift in his seat to straighten up a little. His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, taking in the sight of the rest of the passengers. A dozen more men and women, each of them like a smaller shadow of the, somehow, terrifying priest sat beside him. Smaller in stature, clad in crisp, plain black cassock and high clerical collar rather than the flowing steel-gray traveling coat over black clerical vestments, but with the same eerily silent and pensive countenance, each of them with their eyes hidden behind the steely gray-blue glare of glasses or cast into shadow by their bowed heads.

It made Reegar break out in a cold sweat. Even knowing they were here to oppose the Unmaking and assist in the war effort…it didn’t sit right with him. Not at all. Made him feel like he was sitting in a cramped, confined space with a pack of tigers, somehow.

Quickly turning back to face forward after his momentary distraction, Reegar’s eyes went wide as he slammed on brakes and spun the wheel to one side, trying desperately to swerve around the burning wreckage of an overturned tank dead ahead. All he succeeded in doing was spinning and tilting the transport up onto one side, skidding and wobbling dangerously as it threatened to turn over all together…and then smashed into the wreckage, rolling up and over it before impacting the blackened and cracked asphalt on the other side, rolling and flipping side over side and end over end in an awkward tumble until finally coming to a stop.

Sergeant Reegar couldn’t tell you how long he was out, but when he came to his ears were ringing and the world around him was a blurry mess. Everything seemed hazy and distorted, moving as if in slow motion, as he tried to extricate himself from the wreckage. The way he hurt, the way it was so hard to move, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was it. All his dumb luck, surviving the Siege and everything in the interim, and then going out like this? To a damn…car crash, because he took his eyes off the road? There was…no way…

Weakly, he hauled himself out of the transport with arms that were full more of tingling agony than actual feeling, resisting with all his might the urge to just throw up or curl up as he tumbled out onto his side, rolling with an awkward grunt over onto his back. His bleary eyes stared up into the sky overhead, struggling to make heads or tails of what he was seeing….until it finally clicked. The distant, thin black shapes he saw were another barrage of artillery shells, trailing streames of noxious purple smoke and crackling streamers of lightning.

Even as he lay there, watching them one by one get shot out of the air or elsewise redirected by some means, he knew that at least some of them would get through. At least some of them would be—

His eyes went wide, one of the incoming shells seeming to bloom large and fill his vision. His breath caught in his throat, and he swore he could see it. The black and warped metal of the shell, the corrosive fluids it dripped and leaked as it spun through the air, the infernal and horrific sigils and emblems carved into it, the sheer horrific smell of death and rot clinging to it….

Desperately willing himself to move, Sergeant Reegar managed to flop over onto his side, trying to crawl away. Maybe if he could bet behind the transport, he could at least survive the initial blast. Maybe…

Who was he kidding? This was it. He was in no shape to even stand up and run for it, and he’d already seen what a direct hit from these things did to stuff more armored than he had been driving. He had no shot. He was done for. He squeezed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth and fighting back involuntary tears, and did the unthinkable.

He prayed.

The soft, jingling chime of delicate chains sounded, as if in answer.

A flurry of fabric, shreds of cloth fluttering on the wind like scattered feathers, shards of glass falling like tinkling silver rain, the pounding of boots on asphalt. A shadow passed over him, of something humanoid but with something spread wide and billowing in the air like wings behind it. Reegar’s eyes, blurred both from the concussion and his stinging tears, could barely see what happened, but he saw the twin streaks of silvery-blue light as someone leaped over him, landing on the asphalt between him and the incoming artillery.

“You will not die this day, my child,” a voice spoke up. Cold, clear, strong. “Not under my watch.” A flourishing motion, and a gleam of silver sprang into the figure’s hand, glowing almost like flame in Reegar’s blurred view.

Alexander Anderson stood, battered and bloodied, his clothes tattered from the crash, but otherwise whole and strong. His eyes were narrowed into a steely glare as he spun the bayonet in his hand, twirling it around his fingers to grasp its hilt between his thumb and palm, as several more shot out from his sleeve and into his waiting grasp, their handles clutched between his fingers in some great mockery of a beast’s claws.

Drawing back his arm, the priest hurled the weapons skyward, toward the incoming artillery. Like streaks of light, they rocketed through the air, twisting and spinning unnaturally about each other with an uncanny trajectory, until one after another the blessed silver blades struck the oncoming shell, ripping it asunder and detonating it while it was still well in the air.

The last thing Reegar saw, as the last of his strength left him and he slipped into unconsciousness, was the larger than life silhouette of the priest, towering over him, backlit against the massive plume of unmade fire in the skies overhead.

He would remain oblivious to two of the other passengers hoisting him from the ground and retreating to take him to medical, while the remaining half dozen picked themselves up and dusted themselves off, ready for the last march to the front lines.

 

[The Future Warrior]

”Hungry…”

The voice echoed in her head, along with a whining growl from her stomach. It was true; she was hungry. Positively starving, even. She hadn’t eaten anything since leaving Nos’talgia, and it wasn’t exactly a short trip between planets, to say nothing of how long it had been since actually touching down on Cevanti itself.

Luckily, though…there was food aplenty, just ripe for the taking.

A jagged, saw-toothed maw slowly split her face, the inky blue-black substance gleaming as sharp as blades. A low, rasping breath issued forth, practically steaming in the air as she sprinted forward, half in a normal run and half in a loping all-fours shamble over the occasional pile of wreckage and rubble or crater in her way.

Close now. She could hear it, smell it, could practically taste it…!

Flickering blue flame sprang up around her, a rush of ki blazing to life in her excitement as she sprang up high in the air, vaulting in an arc hundreds of meters from start to finish, trailing a streamer of flickering energy in her wake. Razor claws gleamed on one hand as she landed in the middle of a shambling horde of slavering monstrosities. The force of her own landing momentum turned into a scything blow of her claws that rent a shambling unmade zombie from scalp to loins in a single blow and pierced the earth below as if it were cardboard, the decayed body crumpling into two halves in twin, slurried piles of festering meat.

Seconds later, the aftershock of her impact kicked up a huge plume of dust around her that left only the burning blue of her aura and the pale white of her eyes visible. Flashes and flares of light erupted out of the dust, the wet splatter of gore and viscera heard as the real monster in their midst revealed itself, staining the ground with black and red.

Both hands dove into the gore on the ground, cramming fistful after fistful of the viscera and corrupted meat into her slavering maw, noisily crunching and gobbling most of it down without even bothering to chew more than once or twice. The grisly scene only came to an end when a bloodcurdling screech rose up from further afield, the pounding of countless more enemies droning ever closer.

Slowly, one clawed hand still full of dripping meat, the suited form of the majin turned her head about to look at what was coming her way. A veritable horde, mismatched and chaotic by its very nature, each and every one of them malformed and twisted almost beyond recognition. Flesh and blood alongside steel and oil, mindless fervor and bestial hunger sprinting in ramshackle lockstep alongside machine precision and engineered purpose, only the unifying factor of Darkseid’s corruption flowing between them to give a common purpose.

The jagged maw of the majin clamped shut with an irritated huff. “So many of them, getting in the way…” she growled.

”They are weak,” the voice of the symbiote hissed in her head, its tone sickly sweet and creeping across her thoughts like oil over water. ”Barely worth the effort to even consume….but they get in our way. Standing between us and something more…worthy. Something stronger. Something… sweeter.”

Slowly, Graowr’s jaws cracked open again, ugly black viscera dripping down her chin and pooling in the murky puddle of red ichor littering the ground around her as she shifted her stance, back up to her feet from her feral, hungry crouch.

“You’re…all….so….” she hissed, the energy around her re-kindling into a burning conflagration of vibrant pink, scorching and splitting the ground at her feet as she screeched wildly at the oncoming hordes. “....annoying!”

Like a shot from a rocket, she took off. The first one she hit simply exploded, like a water balloon under a sledgehammer as she crashed clean through it, flipping forward into a skidding slide on her heels, whipping around with a screaming voice that spoke in two tones, one of her arms stretching out wildly to well over twenty times its length, curling and flexing as it whipped around in a scything arc, catching many of the unmade horde in a single sweeping blow that rent clean in twain as many as it broke and scattered in all directions.

Throwing back her head, she let loose an angry wail to the sky above, several tendrils erupting from her back. Dripping viscous, oily blue fluid that glimmered like ink, they flailed about behind her, until well over a dozen had grown. Pitching forward, she slammed both of her hands into the ground, the earth under her splintering and cracking as each and every tendril of Syntech’s latest project likewise speared into the ground. Shimmering portals engulfed them all in sequence, and seconds later they burst out from the distant ground; only as thick as her wrist where they plunged into the ground, they were nearly tree-trunk thick as they burst from their matching portals, skewering and bursting through rubble and unmade hide alike, spraying the entire field around her with a fine misting of red and black, a noxious haze of purple corruption hanging in the air around her.

With a wet, sucking sound the tendrils slipped back through the portals, returning to their place behind her and slowly withdrawing into her body. Heaving several breaths, the majin threw her head back and inhaled deeply, her chest ballooning up cartoonishly, as the lingering haze of sickly corruption around her was pulled toward her, funneling and vanishing into her gaping vacuum-maw.

Seconds later, an ungodly belch issued forth from her as she doubled over, staggering down to rest her hands on the ground, wisps of steam and smoke billowing out from her jaws and from bents along her arms and back.

”The burn…” that same voice purred within the deep recesses of her mind. ”...it is a foul taste…acidic, bitter, and spicy. It is vile, is it not?”

“It’s…gross…” Her breath heaving out in long, slow gasps, Graowr struggled back up to her feet, wiping her mouth and chin with the back of one arm. “...but I gotta…” She turned aside, hocking up a gobbet flesh with metal shards embedded in it. “...gotta…get rid of all of them…”

”Yes…of course…” the voice whispered, as the suit around her body pulsed and writhed, squirming and shifting to pull and tug her gently, but insistently, into moving again. ”You must do as you must. Save these people. And I…must feed. I will lend you the strength to do your task…and you will lend me the strength to do mine.”

The faint pink tinge of her eyes faded almost entirely to pure white, as her breathing slowly evened out. “Yeah…” she whispered, her voice a nearly harmonious double with that of the creeping, sickeningly sweet tone of the orgosynth. “...we can do that.”

With a quiet laugh echoing in her head, the majin sprang forward, half-leaping and half-flying further into the fray in her increasingly violent spree of ‘helping’.

 

[The Man in Red]

“Easy.”

The Man in Red’s voice was a disappointed sing-sing as he gave his blade a twisting flourish, deflecting the aggressive strike of an unmade beast and promptly skewering it through the neck. A beat later, just long enough for the corrupt blood to start trickling down the blade, and he twisted his wrist, wrenching it out the side in a showering fountain.

“Far too easy.”

“I’m beginning to think they’re underestimating us, sir.” The voice of one of his cadre of lieutenants, Number 10, spoke up as he gave a sweeping gesture of his hands. A barely visible ripple of psychic energy swept out from him, lifting up rocks and chunks of rubble and fallen weapons and bodies. A light flick of his hands, as if a conductor signaling the orchestra to start…and they all shot forward, raining down a steadily sweeping line of death as they battered and overran the unmade lines.

“Underestimating us, yes…perhaps…” the swordsman-showman murmured.

“Oh, now now, let’s not be so morose.” The shadows crept together, snaking and flowing along the ground into a single point of pitch-blackness that seemed to positively swallow the light, two pinpoints of bright red light shining from within over a cheshire smile of yellowing, fanged teeth. “Isn’t it just as likely our enemy is simply a group of complete fools, rather than so rashly arrogant?” The shadows rose up into a humanoid shape, flowing out into the billowing, ragged suit of Number Sixteen, his cane coming to rest on the earth with a hearty clack as wisps of darkness floated from beneath his coattails and up from his oily black bowtie like smoke.

“Trying to drown us in an endless tidal wave of expendable little peons!” His grin stretched wide, nearly literally from ear to ear. “Just like that awfully depressing world with all the zealotry and skull iconography. You know the story.”

“Hmm….” The masked madman paused, one gloved hand lifting up to his mask as he pondered that idea, deftly relieving a bum rushing cyborg of its legs with a single pirouetting swipe of his blade. “....perhaps you may be onto something. Certainly, we’ve seen they have far more dangerous and deadly opposition to throw our way than this disappointing chaff.”

A bullet ripped through the air, whizzing within milimeters of the struggling cyborg as it clawed after the Man in Red. “You…missed…asshole!” it ground out, through a maw that literally spat sparks and dripped dark ichor.

The only apparent answer was a sharp ping from behind, the errant bullet ricocheting off the ground, bouncing up through the thigh of another target and tearing through the chest of a third one behind that one. The steady mechanical humming of Number Three sounded as he strode purposefully through the fray, his twin guns leveled. “I never miss.” His words were punctuated by the bullet zipping back and punching a hole clean through the cyborg’s head, blowing the back of its skull out of its face. Number Three hefted both his guns up, ejecting the magazines with a hissing of steam. “Asshole.”

“Should we perhaps retreat for the moment and organize a better strategy, sir?” Silent as the grave, Number Six seemed to simply melt into view at the side of his superior. He held up a briefcase with one hand, flipping it open to reveal a set of fresh magazines which his cyborg ally quickly snatched up to reload his weapons.

“For a brief moment, perhaps…we need to rethink our plans, lest we truly do end up drowning under this endless rabble.” With a flourish, the showman sheathed his sword. “Gentlemen…I bequeath to you the honor of holding the line, for the nonce. I have matters of strategy to ponder over.” With a sweeping gesture, he put one arm over his chest and sank into a theatrical bow, then sprang aside and leaped into a startlingly quick sprint, leaping adroitly and expertly over the uneven terrain and the occasional trench and crater as he absconded from the front lines.

“Well, well. Time for us to cut loose a little, then, eh?” Number sixteen’s eyes glowed, shadows in the area slipping away from their sources and pooling about him in an inky mass. “Can’t let the boss go and get interrupted in his scheming.”

“Rightly so. As they say…” Number Ten laughed, giving a wave of one arm over his head and hefting the scattered weapons from the fallen on both sides into the air in an arch over his head. “...the show must go on!”

“I don’t get paid enough for this shit…” Number Three growled in his synthetic voice, as he turned to level his guns at the still-present and encroaching hordes.

 

[Mollymauk Tealeaf]

The Markov Minutemen's pre-battle whiskey shots had been thrown back, tossed up, and shot in the air.

Now, they all raced across the battlefield in a beat up old truck they had found near the front that started up with a knife.

Reaper was in the driver's seat, because it was his knife that started it. Buster took shotgun, giving credence to the name with the semi-auto pump-action in his lap. Everyone else loaded into the bed of the beautiful and roaring piece of junk as they tore off towards the fighting. Reaper pulled out a CD that said 90’s Country Hits from a pocket on his vest and popped it in.

“What is that?” The Wolf asked, looking in through the glassless rear window opening.

“Dunno, never know what you'll find in the markets, man,” Reaper replied, flying on four wheels and questionable shocks down the difficult terrain towards a smattering of defenders as the first song blared from the truck.

Well, way down yonder on the Chattahoochee, it gets hotter than a hoochie coochie…

The Wolf nodded approvingly, then handed out the special cigars she had brought for the party.

They all lit up the war cigars.

The truck stopped, and the six hopped out to find an elf-warrior in gleaming armor and two swords about to be overrun, the elf already bleeding heavily from one leg and barely able to keep upright. They surrounded the injured warrior as she was about to be overtaken, unleashing their arsenal of skills and weapons.

Buster, with his cigar hanging out of his mouth unleashed shell after shell from his pump action, nodding along to the fine song, replacing heads of zombiod invaders with scenery of the space beyond.

...Talkin’ ‘bout cars, dreamin’ ‘bout women, never had a plan just livin’ for the minute…

It was on track four of the CD Reaper the Assassin bought when the Markov Minutemen finally found someone from The Neighborhood, and Brian the Mage knew the soldier as his aunt Tessie’s cousin’s son, Jeremy.

Jeremy and his squad were not doing great when the old pickup pulled up, the sounds of twang rollin’ with them. The Markov soldiers were confused until Jeremy waved a gore covered arm at them.

“Well hell! I know these fuckers, boys! That's my mom's cousin's nephew, Bobby the Wizard!” Jeremy shouted to cheers from his fellows.

The couple akata and wild zoids the squad was holding off were biting and clawing at the flanked squad, separated in the chaos from their whole unit. Brian the Mage rose up with his arcane aura surrounding him like a pink veil as the music played from the cabin of the truck.

...if you're callin’ bout car I sold it, if this is Tuesday night I'm bowling…

He saw the unmade force start to accidentally thin the line they had made as the want for violence and bloodlust made them more unorganized. The attacking zoids and few akata with a smattering of undead were forming a crescent shape, and Brian the Mage couldn't help but chuckle to himself, getting an idea.

A huge ball of electricity with a little spin on it was rounding ‘round the curve, following the path of the unmade like a row of pins. The magic-user smiled under his Markov Minutemen leather tricorn. The smell of burned hair, wires, and something…else? Issued from the sizzling unmade, and the mage nodded approvingly as his fellows took the advantage to mow them down.

“Alright folks! Load your wounded on the bed with the rest,” Buster shouted, jutting a thumb at the truck.

...and if this is Austin, I still love youuu…

By track seven on the CD the truck bed was loaded down with so many wounded from the front lines, four of the Minutemen found themselves hanging off the sides and sitting on the roof as the truck pulled up to another routed and separated group. They had the look of volunteers in a motley of makeshift armor and a mix of melee and ranged weapons.

A human as large as BillyChuck, but with golden-red dreadlocks and just as tall called out to him as the Minutemen’s giant stepped off the side of the truck, leaving the makeshift 4x4 ambulance.

From the radio, track seven played.

I spent last night in the arms of a girl from Louisiana…

“Hello and well met, handsome. I am Sydnee Lionsmane, I prayed for helped, but did not expect to see such an angel,” Lionsmane said, a twinkle in his eyes as he stared at the Minuteman gunner.

BillyChuck Smiled awkwardly and shy, but with genuine interest as the ‘meet-cute’ began, both parties covered in blood, dirt, and oil.

...I gotta send my love down to Baton Rouge…”

An Unmade wolf Zoid leapt over the ragtag defenders and promptly chomped the head off of Sydnee, spitting the dreadlocks of rose gold out of its maw as it muched.

“Aw,” Said BillyChuck sadly, before he raised his two miniguns up and reduced the creature to scrap metal.

...I gotta talk to the girl just one more time…

By track eleven of the country hits album, they were tearing down over the pock-marked earth back to the medical tents. A party of female centaur warriors started to run alongside the slow moving truck.

...She think my tractor’s sexy, it really turns her on…

Reaper tipped his leather tricorn from the driver's seat at them.

“Mornin’ Ladies.”

“You're going the wrong way! The battle is moving that Way!” The lead centauress said, pointing.

...She’s always starin’ at me, while I'm chuggin’ along…

“Well. Alright, alright, alright,” Reaper said smoothly, hitting the brakes and giving them a smile.

All the Markov Minutemen got out and put the least injured of those they had rescued into the driver's seat, oddly enough, it was the elf with the wounded leg that had started the trend. With quick directions, and a lighter but still heavy load of survivors, the pickup tore off and they watched it go…and go…towards back to where the wounded might find respite.

Then a mortar hit it, exploding it far in the distance as it made its way to safety. A fireball and silhouette of smoke joining the ranks of so many other similarly struck vehicles.

“Well…shit,” The Wolf said.

Sadly, she hit play on the makeshift CD player and speakers Pinky had equipped to BillyChucks ammo-backpack. They started the journey towards the bulk of the fighting on foot, following the cloud of upturned dust that the centaur herd had left in its own race to the bulge.

 

[Beatrix III]

Another fucking war. How many of these things was she going to get involved in? Beatrix grumbled to herself as her group shuffled into an adjacent room to discuss their plan going forward. The Mistress was…inebriated, but it wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. The redhead removed one of her flasks and unscrewed the cap, putting it to her lips.

“Really? Aren’t you drunk enough?” Jaina said, slightly concerned.

Beatrix shook her head and threw her head back, taking a shot of the extremely high proof liquor inside. As she removed it from her lips and screwed the cap on, she was greeted by Hakkar’s booming roar.

“Priestess! You must secure victory! Ember Ramsey must be liberated from her prison! She will play a vital role in our fight against Darkseid. With her as an ally our forces would grow exponentially stronger!”

Hakkar roared.

“Have I ever failed you before? I’ll handle it.”

“I’m granting you another piece of my soul. You will be further empowered. Do not fail me, Priestess. With this boon I bestow upon you, you have moved to my number one agent. You are stronger than any of my other subjects. You mustn’t fail.” Hakkar boomed.

Beatrix scrunched her lips in thought, “For the purpose of this theatre of war, protect my entourage. They are my allies and by proxy, agents of your will. Protect them for the duration of this campaign.”

Hakkar roared.

“Very well. Since this is such a turning point in our mission, your companions Proto Man, Mickey, and Taeli walk with my grace. Do not forget this kindness the next time you feel at odds with me. Remember who your master is.” The blood god bellowed.

Beatrix took another drink and gave a thumbs up.

“Who are giving that thumbs up to?” Seventeen asked. “You seeing shit now?”

Beatrix blinked and her red irises ignited wildly with blood magic. She grinned wickedly before capping her flask and returning it to her bra.

You have been granted the knowledge on how to use the modern weapons of warfare, Priestess. Do whatever it takes.

Hakkar’s voice seared through her mind like a burning splitting headache. It was gone before she could wince. Spotting a line of equipment lockers inside the tent they were in the Mistress went to them and began to rummage through. She removed a plasma assault rifle and tossed it to Stephen who caught it.

“Standard issue plasma assault rifle. Four hundred shots per cell.” She mused, tossing him a bandolier of energy cells for the weapon.

“When did you become an expert on modern warfare? By the looks of you, you were going to use that sword on your hip.” Blues asked.

Beatrix laughed. “I’m an expert on all things warfare.”

The Mistress removed a smaller weapon, what looked like a submachine gun. It had a box magazine extending downward from the middle of it. She removed the energy cell magazine and examined how many shots were left in it before discarding it. Summoning a ball of blood in her left hand the Mistress weaved her fingers and the crimson liquid snaked its way across the weapon and barrel. A clear sphere of liquid blood hardened around where the magazine had been completing the transformation process.

“There. Now it’ll shoot armor piercing blood rounds.” Beatrix said with a laugh.

“That’s gross.” Mickey said, crossing his arms. “Do we have a plan on how we’re going to get to the 404th?”

“You can do that, babe?” Jaina asked, taken aback.

“Of course.”

The redhead slung her weapon and offered another to Taeli who raised her hands to deny the offer. “I’d rather use my sabers. Guns are so uncivilized. Wouldn’t you rather use your sword?” The woman gestured to the exotic blade sheathed at Beatrix’s hip.

“The soul blade? That’s for emergencies.” The Mistress said with a grin.

“You brought the soul blade? We haven’t tested it yet.” Jaina protested, but her wife ignored her.

“I’ll stick to my keyblade if that’s okay, Trixie.” Mickey said.

“Of course, Mouse. I assume our mechanical friend is going to use the gun on his arm?”

Blues nodded. Beatrix nodded and closed the lockers. She took a map she had swiped from the other room and unfolded it.

“Babe, if you could.”

Jaina knew just what she meant. The Mistress placed the map flat in the air and it floated in place for everyone to see.

“The 404th are assumed to be here like the Corporal said.” She pointed to their last known position to the west.

“I say we cut west along the line, eliminating anything we find along the way that has managed to creep past our forward positions and cut south…here.” She drew an X with the tip of a quill that had formed on her finger of crimson blood.

“If we swing around their last known position like this,” Beatrix drew a half circle around where the 404th was on the map, “and come in from the south we may catch whatever is advancing past our line by surprise. They won’t expect us to be reinforcing and we’ll be able to push them out and help the 404th take back their section of the line by pushing north.”

“Finally, something you don’t suck at.” Stephen jabbed.

“Are you ever going to give me credit for anything I do?” Beatrix shot back.

“Never.” He said.

The Mistress bared her teeth. Jaina flicked her ear with two fingers which made her wife look her way.

“I can’t take you two anywhere. Does this sound like a good plan to everyone?” The blond asked the group.

“Sounds good to me.” Mickey said with a thumbs up, which prompted a nod from Blues.

Taeli nodded. “Let’s go rescue those troopers.”

Beatrix took hold of the map and folded it back up, stuffing it away into her armor. The group had a plan now. They were going to rescue those MIA soldiers and reinforce the line. They had to.

 

[King Shark]

The gentle swell of the hills ahead stirred something in Nanaue. He felt something bubbling up in his gut, and a rare moment of brain to body connection occurred in the shark man.

He burped.

Thud. Thud, thud, thud.

He lowered his head, the disconjugate gaze of his roving right eye came to rest on his right shoulder, and he noticed a peppercorn smattering of bullets resting in new divots on his obliques. He grunted, then peered back out over the battlefield.

The voluptuous hills spilled out over the horizon; myriad fire erupted between Unmade and Markovian forces and punched the air with the muzzle flare of rifle fire. Bullets careened helter skelter, some of them soaring past their marks and into the sky, some of them felling bodies hither and thither. In some places the odd bunker stood in grey contrast against the pock marked brown of the skirmish. Blood was in the air, and it filled Nanaue’s nostrils. He scented the wind, nose tilting to its tantalizing currentd, and the thrill in his chest grew.

Where the sun hit the hill peaks, they were bright red, like a rounded baboon ass. Something about it felt aesthetically correct. King Shark’s gills flared. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

“Get down, Nanaue,” Coda hissed. Her hand clamped around his ankle and yanked. “You’re exposed!”

He turned slowly and felt the gentle drum of small caliber slugs struggling against his strong hide. He was standing on the roof of a bunker, and several eyes and scalp tops leered out over its rounded concrete edge. The beckoning of hands was like blades of grass in the wind.

He lifted a ham fist, Sword of Omens in hand, then pointed at it with his free sausage fingers.

“Sword,” he explained.

“It’s a good sword. It’s a great sword, but you’re standing out of line, and you’re drawing enemy fire,” Zayin explained. “Enemy. Fire. Come down. Doooown.”

Nanaue looked at Zayin, blank faced, then turned his neck back to stare at the battlefield. How many soldiers were there out there? He’d never seen such activity.

“Look!” he pointed out towards the horizon. “Pretty lights!”

In the distance mortar fire barked its deafening exclamation about the battle; the facility in the distance was roaring. Above head, low flying aerial fighters punched entire machine gun fire out over the battle at hand. Far off in the distance roving zoids moved to engage the ground mech forces, and the very soul of Markov pushed against the uniform unpleasantness of the Unmaking.

The earth was ripped asunder by trenches. In places, the moving tops of heads both helmeted and unhelmeted were bobbing along to strategic points, and their occasional meeting was punctuated by screams and gunfire.

But those hills. Markov’s cloudy atmosphere let in a little sunlight, which fell in pinpricks over life or death struggles.

Nanaue gestured emphatically with his sword.

“See?”

Hercule took a deep breath and stepped up over the hump of the bunker’s roof, coming to place a hand on King Shark’s shoulder.

“Buddy-” he began.

A bullet punched through his afro, and the Champ’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Alright, I tried. He’s gonna get us all killed!”

Nanaue took three rotating steps, let his forefront point towards the entire enemy line, and breathed in the blood again.

He walked forward, dropped, and thumped onto the ground before him. There he stood, while a racing line of Akata tore towards him. He squared his stance, raised his sword, and growled.

Zayin stepped up beside him, taking his left. Moments later, Majima stood at his right,

“That’s how it is?” Kiryu asked mildly.

He began to run.

Not a half-second followed before Majima was running alongside him. They met the Akata in force; one tackled, Kiryu rolled back and mule kicked upward, and the Akata took it full in its chest cavity. It soared backward in a parabolic arc, which Zayin leapt to meet. His sword licked up in a flash of steel, bisecting the beast and raining ichor down in a bucket dump of gore.

Majima bucked right mid-run, grabbed one of them by the tendrils, and swung across it as if it were a horse. With a whoop of delight, he rode it towards Coda, who had emerged beside King Shark. She paled, then braced herself.

When Majima reached her, she ducked low, extended both arms, and squeezed two fingers over the triggers of her dual pistols.

Pop! Pop!

The Akata’s gait staggered, then fell to a slide. Majima dismounted gracefully beside Nanaue, Coda, and Mister Satan.

“Set ‘em up,” Majima said, raising an elbow.

“Knock ‘em down,” Coda stood and clapped his hand, grinning and lowering her sunglasses.

King Shark brought his sword to bear, loosed a roar, then charged forward.

When he reached the fray, there were only shredded Akata and his comrades celebrating.

He looked around, glowing sword in hand, and breathed heavily.

 

[Josuke Higashikata]

War is thrown into action in the world of Cevanti, with soldiers willing to die for their homeland before the unmaking claims another world to go alongside Govermorne. Many lay their lives down for their home and are not the only ones being thrown into this situation. Just like Josuke, others gather away from their homes and bring help to assist those in need to protect their livelihoods. In response to these actions, bombs fell, and gunfire rose in these lands, which were apocalyptic but became active with a gigantic battle brewing between warring factions that would determine the fate of Cevanti. Markov and their allies stood tall against Fade’s army at the beginning of the fight.

Josuke is thrown into the scene of war, making him really unfamiliar with the environment since he’s accustomed to the peaceful suburbs that Morioh holds, but the badlands of Cevanti are a different environment. Even though this young boy has been in the hostile wild of this planet as a contestant in the Abyss, Cevanti hasn’t become routine for him.

Bullets or plasma laser bolts fly above the dug trenches that the armies of Markov in record timing for the looming war. Mud builds throughout the trenches from the harsh rain earlier in the day, ruining Josuke’s nice shoes even more. Boots would’ve been nice right about now, but his fashion taste opted not to borrow some back at the barracks. It’s too late to turn back since others are looking for his support in volunteering with aid. Before being put in the trenches with other troopers, they issued Josuke to bring a physical weapon to the war front.

He’s never held a gun before nor shot one at any moment in his current lifetime, only using physical fists to beat some sense in others that aren’t morally right. Markov’s professional armed military did offer Josuke a gun for self-defense on the deadly waterfront. Still, he denied the offer since Crazy Diamond’s stand power hasn’t failed him, and believing it will remain reliable. They attempted to pressure him into taking a firearm but eventually gave up on where he stood to rely on his intertwined supernatural power.

While stuck in these trenches on the front lines where soldiers gather and face their enemies to defend their dug-in positions, Josuke couldn’t help but think for the safety of the recent friendly faces he met back on base in the safety of Markov. His buddy, Dr. McNinja, appears capable of bringing safety to others on their spec ops mission alongside his tarot card holder companion, Molly. He also hears Caboose accompanying them on the unique mission and is a little worried about his naive nature but thinks that the blue-armored soldier could hold up for the task.

More unique faces were seen on the front lines charging into the great battle to bring a blow to their enemies. Josuke overhears from others that a team of heroes involving the recent Dante’s Abyss champion is planning to head out for a platoon that’s not reporting on the vast front lines. A Cyclops warrior with monster followers began to carve a path of destruction on the battlefield for a potential victory. Many more fighters join in on the battle, increasing the intensity of the war to push back the darkening unmade forces that pour away from the Acolyte base. Not only did action happen with boots on the ground, but overhead, Josuke could hear the intense dog fighting and air superiority fight happening high above where he stood in the trenches.

The young stand user wears a white armband with a red cross that identifies Josuke as a volunteer among the mass group of soldiers. His feet slip some in the muddy mess underneath their feet, but he catches himself against the wall of the trench while explosions rain muddy chunks over the soldiers and him. The ground shakes underneath Josuke’s feet while gunfire and an uproar of all sorts of noises drown out his ears greatly.

Nothing in his life had prepared Josuke for seeing all the carnage of war unfold before his eyes. Soldiers get shot inhumanely and killed instantly, depending on where the bullets or plasma bolts land on their fleshly bodies. Some lost limbs flew depending on where the explosions landed, with fresh blood spraying. As time passes, Josuke becomes lost in the horror of war he has never encountered. Sure, he’s often seen people die in the Abyss, but this was different with pure chaos that remains heavily present.

What feels like an eternity in his eyes for brief minutes suddenly gets interrupted by a soldier carrying his comrade who lost both legs through the muddy trenches.

“You! You’re a volunteer, right?” the male soldier yells loudly over the chaotic battle that remains heavy overhead.

Josuke stares blankly, becoming deeply lost in his thoughts on never experiencing war before.

The soldier spots his white armband, which signifies the young stand user’s position in the fight.

“Listen, get a hold of yourself! My friend here is dying and losing blood fast, I need your help now!”

Pleading fills Josuke’s ears, which helps get him out of the despairing void and jump back into reality.

“Y-yes! I’m here to help! Let me see how bad your partner looks!” Josuke yells back over the loud gunfire and plasma fire that’s happening.

The soldier shows that his squad mate lost both his legs by laying him against the trench wall while Josuke kneels down and examines the wounds.

“Where’s the med kit?” The GI worriedly searches over Josuke for a med kit but realizes that the young stand user has nothing.

“Stand back, I got this!” Josuke pushes the soldier back, but not in a harsh motion, to reassure him that he needs space for concentration.
He breathes calmly and focuses within himself to summon his stand power, Crazy Diamond, with chaos still happening around them. The soldier thinks Josuke is probably succumbing to shell shock since he sees him doing absolutely nothing and doesn’t possess the standability to see Josuke. Crazy Diamond reaches down and touches both bloody severed thighs that were missing a pair of legs, activating the restoration ability that the stand possesses. Within seconds, the lost limbs return to their proper body and attach to the dying soldier, who becomes unconscious from the shock. The other soldier watches and becomes utterly baffled at how Josuke healed the insane wounds in record timing.

The young Morioh’s protector picks up the unconscious soldier in a fireman’s carry, having safety in mind to get the two out of there before their position gets overrun. Other soldiers move back in preparation for their part of the trenches to get invaded. Soon, unmade ghoul soldiers with glowing dark yellow eyes moaning and screaming at their enemies. Their path gets blocked by several enemies that stand threatening and ready to attack Josuke and the pair of soldiers.

“This is just great!” Josuke speaks with a now cool-headed manner, showing bravery against his foes who dare to attempt to harm their lives.

Before the unmade ghouls could even touch them, Crazy Diamond releases a barrage of furious fists to protect its stand user and the soldiers, and Josuke shows the will to defend their souls against their threats.

“DORARARARARARARARARA!!!!!!!!!!!!”

 

[The Living]

War was always a concept that in practice, many thought to be ugly, brutal, and unnecessary.

Today, it would only need to be the latter two, as the Living spread its infection across the unmade troops, using them as puppets for its own concocted plan it had hatched along with the wretched amalgamation that it shared the battlefield with. The havoc and chaos that was spewed forth upon the land was glamorous, and each life that spilled into the soil became an easy plucking for the hungry horde of ooze.

The main branches forked three times, East, Center and West. Thick, gelatinous veins held firm on the ground, linking each unmade to the hivemind until they were snuffed out by the enemy.

At least the first time.

Though the ooze had taken care to provide its minions with plentiful protection, it would only be a matter of time before some would fall. Their corpse would make even easier puppets, filled with its own vital ooze and thrown back into the fray to die for darkseid once more.

Even further, once the body had been battered and torn, and nothing but a husk remained, it was to be consumed. Slurped back into the network of tendrils and sustaining the Living for boosting the rest of the army.

It was just so… efficient. Terribly, terribly, efficient.

None could truly be prepared for the horrors that the slime brought to the already intimidating forces of darkness. To stare down the insectoid creatures and cultists, valiantly slay them, sacrifice and honor their brethren, only to come back time and time again.

Not yet to even say of the fallen of Markov herself, who were also subject to the same desecration of the opposing army, leaving those affected to fight even their own brethren.


***

“Quick, get them on the gurney, we need to treat their injuries.” A woman in support gear commanded from a newly staked tent.

“Set the grievously wounded here. They will need immediate attention, then they can be sent to the back line medical.”

Soldiers fell in line and erupted was defenses they could, forging a temporary F.O.B on the western front. The unmade forces had been pushed back, and ground had been taken for the side of Markov. Her brave soldiers dug in their heels to keep the dark forces at bay.

“Maam, this one is reported to have some type of infection. Similar to the whatever keeps reviving the unmade.” One scout reported to the Medic commanding the medical tent.

“Bring me to him, send for a senior aide. We will need them.”

The man in the tent screamed as the two entered as quickly as they could. A healer had already been attempting to mend the wounds.

“The fucking thing just puked all over me and then went limp! It’s all over my legs!” The soldier cried out in panic as the healer simply shook her head and tried to heal him again.

“I can feel it eating at me, please! I beg of you just cut the thing off!”

The bubbly substance that covered the man’s wounds gave off a putrid smell, nearly vomit inducing as the senior medic attempted to analyze it.

“We’ve seen this before. Back in Nausicaa.” The aide mentioned.

“Was it this advanced?”

“No, it seemed to be much more localized. Somehow it seemed to have been able to spread throughout their army, but more reports have yet to come in with more detail.”

“I can’t wait anymore, I-“

The man suddenly seized, shaking violently.

“Stabilize him!”

“I’m trying!” The healer feverishly pushed magic into the wound.

The man’s eyes fluttered for a second, his breathing coming to a halt, before jolting back awake.

“Soldier, are you-“

The man suddenly lunged forward and snapped their teeth around the healer’s neck, clamping down and severing flesh in a foul surge of speed. The gurgle of her shriek was silenced by claws severing what was left keeping her skull mounted to her body.

BANG! BANG!

Two shots from the handgun the senior medic held and the zombified man was still once more.

“By the fucking Arbiter.” The aide sorrowfully exclaimed.

“Have we taken samples?”

“Yes, but should we-“

“Cut them up to milliliter sizes. And use the adamantium-reinforced vials and case.”

“Understood.”


***

Meanwhile, towards the east, the slime-emboldened unmade became seemingly more empowered. Reports came in about unmade in full slime armor that spewed forth vile acid once broken through. Close quarters combat with the forces seemed impossible, and they were slowly inching their way forward.

A single scout reported seeing something further back on that front that seemed to be stationary, watching. Tendrils and oily webs seemed to come from it, and with it, more powerful unmade.

***

The center line seemed to be at a stalemate, though many have reported that veiny webs of goo had definitely spread across the field, and saw many similar reports of empowered unmade through them. These veins spread back further into the armies, and their sources could not be located. Scouts would need to be able to penetrate further to map these webs of ooze for strategic planning of assault or defense.

The Living has moved on the battlefield, and is on the Eastern Front. You can directly confront them if you can get past the harsh front line here.

Reports on the Center Front are uncertain, some scouting may be needed in order to get more information, though influence from the Living remains.

Western front seems to have been lifted from the Living's presence, for now.

Vials are being sent back by courier for analysis from the Living. They will need protection and the vials will need to be analyzed for a possible upper hand against the biotic ooze.

Feel free to directly ask me questions based on your characters actions!

 

[Don Isaac]

"Casualties are mounting, Lord," said his attendant, the pale, soft man cowering at his side as he tried to collate an accurate summation of the battle from disparate means clutched in bleeding hands. Digital tablets, basalt slates- a wretched bird clinging to his shoulder, black ooze drooling from empty eye sockets. "The, ah- 'meat' is starting to be expended," he swallowed, looking up at the monolith kneeling next to him.

"Good," the monster replied, staring with unblinking lenses at the distant flashes of combat burgeoning over the horizon. "They have… limited usefulness beyond this juncture- had our positions been reversed, they would have served to stumble into our Foe's traps. But tell me, child- what have we learned?"

The man swallowed again, a bead of sweat rolling down his brow as he licked his lips, looking to the distant battle. There was a twinge in his legs. He wanted to run- to flee, to be gone from this place and evade the consequences of his choices.

But you could not run from what you had done. He'd learned that well, countless aeons ago.

"We've a- variety of combatants, Lord," he continued. "A small number of mages- a great deal of soldiers, a- a mouse," he said, an involuntary shiver running through his body at the mention of the vermin. "All quite combat capable, from what we've identified- a particularly troublesome knot is pushing up the west front."

"Good," the giant rumbled, gesturing towards a battery of artillery pounding away at the witch-shield raised in the distance, his movement unhurried even as an emplacement went up in flames, a particularly reckless and fortunate fighter jet skimming over the trench-tops to unleash its payload. Another, less fortunate craft plummeted from the skies, crashing into a flaming heap of shrapnel- the unmade pulped beneath its bulk hardly a fair trade for its life. "Commandeer their munitions and crew- I want the others to synchronize their fire. Punch through the shield in a single area and force their sorcerers to remain committed. Then-"

Silence reigned, for a moment. A pall of absolute nothingness fell upon them, an ache in the back of his ceramite-fused skull pulsing in time to his hearts, intensifying, until- they both laid still, his mortal frame slumping forth slightly, as if a burden had at last been lifted from his broad shoulders.

It was not to last.

The great, gangrenous bulk slowly lifted itself upwards, dragging his scythe upwards with him.

"Our Master calls," he slurred, clutching his weapon tightly as he watched the ruined earth roil before them, The Living's influence permeating the very soil. Rusted, ancient cogs turned in his mind as he re-assessed the situation. He'd seen the likes of the warriors arrayed against them countless times, generations of dead 'heroes' left in his stride.

"The carrion call has already been… sent," he mused, the lenses of his helmet clicking as he looked upon the slaughter unfolding before him. "Spare the Marked Men, for now- scatter them to the flanks, aim for a full encirclement," the great, murderous monolith rumbled as he began to walk forth, descending the modest hill that he had made his home for the past few weeks.

"Lord?" Asked the weary servant in a querulous voice, pale features haggard with the sheer effort of spending time around him. "The- the defense!" He called out, panic filling his tone as he came to the realization that he no longer had the bulk of his master directly between him and Markov's armies.

A peal of warm laughter, entirely incongruous with the dilapidated frame of the Unmade general, vomited forth. "Doesn't matter, my child," he elaborated, resting his scythe across his shoulders as he half-turned towards the simpering man. "We win, or we die. We die today, or we die later. Darkseid has decreed that we bleed them. Our lives are nothing more than the currency He must spend to bring about our escape from this realm. Do not be fearful of the End. for what other freedom do we have in this place?" He said, a corroded claw brushing against the underside of the man, his eyes closed as he whimpered in terror.

"Now- gather the munitions, the prisoners, and anyone you dislike. It is time."

***

Mortars belched smoke from within the trench-lines, black clouds obscuring the battle even as Markovian and Unmade forces clashed. While the smog and chaos did much to stymie the advance of the men of Markov, the Unmade had the benefit of The Living's ever-present infection and utter madness as they fought to hold that line.

And Kilo Squad's carrier rolled through the barbed wire, the drones adhered to its hull spitting death into the darkness as the men within checked their weapons, a last-minute ritual to steady their nerves as they spared glances towards the armoured hatch, ready to open wide, for simple steel to transform itself into a yawning hellmouth to transport them into the horrors of the battle beyond.

"Looks like Uncle Maurice's been busy, lads," called Sarge with a laugh, feeding a grenade into the underbarrel launcher of his rifle. "Think you can handle it Rookie?" They asked, weathered faced grinning at the latest addition to his unit, the spry youth cringing backwards in his seat as they bent their head down, trying to focus on their weapon, rather than the rambunctious battle-joy of his fellows.

"Sure he can," drawled the soldier simply called 'Wretch', their elaborately decorated helmet eternally grinning, a death's head marking their features. "Just check out these reflexes," they laughed, tossing a coin- their lucky quarter!- towards the unfortunate rookie, the young man scrambling to catch it, only to fumble and collapse to the floor of the vehicle, much to the laughter of his comrades as he scrambled to recover some degree of his pride, chasing the talisman about.

"Listen up ladies," called Sarge as the suspension of their vehicle was tested, cascading over a mound- whether it was dirt or corpses, nobody wished to speculate. The rhythm of the guns began to shift, outside- no longer delivering bursts of accurate gunfire to errant Unmade, but instead delivering a concentrated stream of lead towards its target. "Ol' Murray's got himself into a bind, here. His back's against the wall, and we all know that's when beasts like him get the most dangerous, eh? So let's keep our heads about us, and-"

He frowned, his grey moustache drooping as he pressed a hand to his side, wincing. "Hell of a time for an old war wound to come crawling b-"

There should have been a sound, the Rookie reflected in the moment after. The shearing of metal, the screaming of reality at its violation, anything more than the utter void that occurred. Desperately crawling after the good luck charm, he was beneath the devastation that occurred- a black void carving through the hull of the vehicle and his friends, severing steel and flesh alike and letting them fall in place. For a moment, it seemed nothing had occurred- until the severed halves of his squad fell to the floor alongside him, splattering him with spilled blood as the greenhorn fell utterly silent, too afraid to scream.

Heavy steps, far too loud to be that of anything man-sized paced along the flank of the tank. The Rookie's throat ached- as if he was getting his tonsils cut out all over again.

"Ahh," drawled a deep, inhuman voice, talons tapping against the roof of the butchered personnel character. "A beautiful day for liberation," the monster hummed, the silent prayers the Rookie was chanting being answered as the beast moved on.

"Set loose the prisoners," it said.

And then the screaming started.

Okor has joined the battle- pushing into the center in an attempt to draw the most attention to himself. Released into the battlefield is also a host of prisoners, masked, bound, and marked with the Omega sigil of Darkseid- and burdened with artillery shells, rigged to detonate. Good luck!