Jonah Keene took a breath.
Then pulled the trigger.
The heavy machine gun roared to life atop Bastion, spitting fire and thunder into the oncoming crowd. Spent shells ejected in rapid, rhythmic clatters, bouncing off the armored hull and scattering across the blood-soaked street.
The bullets ripped through flesh and shattered bone with a deafening rhythm, each round a steel verdict. Heads burst open like rotten fruit, chunks of skull and hair arcing through the air, gray matter flinging wetly across walls, windows, and the twisted bodies beside them. Eyes exploded in their sockets, pink mist erupting as bullets tore through bone and sinew. Some were decapitated instantly, their heads snapping back or apart, necks spraying blood like cracked hoses.
Bodies convulsed under impact—ribs shattered like glass, spines snapped, stomachs opened with ragged holes that spilled intestines onto the blood-slicked ground. Limbs were shredded mid-motion, fingers and hands flung away from the arms they belonged to. A young man's leg was torn from the knee, boot still attached as it tumbled end over end before landing with a wet thud. Another man, missing half his jaw, gurgled aimlessly as he crawled over corpses, trying to scream.
The street became a river of blood. Thick and dark, it ran through the cracks in the cobblestones, pooling in the depressions, soaking into torn clothes and hair. The air was dense with the stench of iron and gunpowder, mixed with piss and vomit from bodies emptying themselves in death. The thunder of the machine gun was matched only by the wet crunch of bullets meeting flesh and the hollow, meaty slap of corpses hitting pavement.
Children fell alongside adults. A boy, no older than eight, caught three rounds to the chest—lifted off his feet, ribs exploding outward, his body folding unnaturally as it struck the dirt.
And still they charged—some missing arms, eyes, half their faces. Puppets on unseen strings, uncaring of pain or injury, driven only by something no longer human.
The machine gun didn't falter. Neither did Jonah.
Six minutes.
That's all it took.
When the last body fell, silence returned. Not peace—just silence.
Jonah slowly released the trigger. Smoke rose from the red-hot barrel. He lingered a moment longer, eyes scanning the field of corpses, before slipping back down into Bastion. His voice was low, almost lost in the weight of what he'd done.
"I'm sorry."
The team exited the vehicle, boots sinking slightly into the blood-slick street. They looked around—faces hard, hearts heavy. None turned away. They had seen this before. Again and again. War had shaped them. And though their stomachs twisted with sorrow, not one of them trembled. They weren't afraid.
They were used to this.
Major Elias Vorn knelt near one of the bodies—a child, maybe nine, her face slack with death. He said nothing, just stood up again, jaw clenched.
Above, the sky whispered with movement.
Two figures descended like vultures.
The Hollowed Saints touched the ground with eerie grace, wings outstretched, robes untouched by the gore beneath their feet. They stood tall and still, not of this world, not of any.
Their angelic forms shimmered with a ghostly mockery of beauty—seraphic silhouettes stained by rot and darkness. Eyeless faces turned toward the soldiers.
One of them spoke, its voice soft, cruel, and amused.
"We should've known they wouldn't stand a chance against trained soldiers… or should I say—killing machines."
The other chimed in, colder, detached.
"So useless. Not one of them could even touch you. Humans are such fragile little things."
Major Vorn stepped forward.
"Was this your doing?"
A sick grin played across one of the Hollowed Saints' formless features.
"We only whispered. They acted. You pulled the trigger. You made the streets run red."
Colonel Pierce didn't hesitate.
"Soldiers—ready for combat."
He raised his weapon.
"Don't let them leave here alive. Clip their wings."
The soldiers moved in unison, rifles drawn, formations tight.
The Hollowed Saints didn't flinch.
They stood among the bodies as if the slaughter had been nothing more than theater—just another act in a long, cruel play.
"If only one of you had a weak mind," the first one sighed.
"It would have been delightful to break you. To make you slaughter each other. But no… you all had to be so beautifully conditioned. Machines with bones. Hearts like steel. Minds wrapped in barbed wire."
The second Saint tilted its head.
"How dreadfully boring."
Their wings spread wide, not in flight, but in challenge.
The soldiers stood ready.
The silence stretched.
And then, the wind shifted.