Staff Sergeant Jonah Keene gripped the handles of the heavy machine gun, finger resting just shy of the trigger. The mob had surrounded Bastion from all sides, a tightening ring of bodies closing in fast. Jonah drew in a slow breath, then let it leave him just as steadily. His eyes were almost dull now, face set, unreadable.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The heavy machine gun roared to life atop Bastion, spitting fire and thunder into the oncoming crowd. The weapon bucked under his hands as spent shells ejected in rapid, rhythmic clatters—bouncing off the armored hull, skittering across the pavement, scattering through the blood-soaked street.
Panels along Bastion's sides slid open, followed by the rear hatch. Sergeant Mira Lockwood, Lieutenant Kellan Reeve, and Warrant Officer Theo Marn took position immediately, rifles braced, muzzles steady. They fired through the openings, neutralizing those who had pushed too close, too fast.
Bullets tore through flesh and shattered bone with a deafening, relentless rhythm—each round a cold, final verdict. Heads burst open like rotten fruit, skulls rupturing as chunks of bone and hair arced through the air. Gray matter flung wetly across walls, windows, and the collapsing bodies beside them. Eyes exploded in their sockets, pink mist erupting as rounds punched through bone and sinew.
Some were decapitated instantly—heads snapping back or apart, necks erupting as blood sprayed like cracked hoses. Bodies convulsed under impact. Ribs shattered like glass. Spines snapped. Stomachs opened with ragged, yawning holes that spilled intestines onto the already slick ground. Limbs were shredded mid-motion—hands and fingers flung free from the arms they once belonged to.
A young man's leg was torn away at the knee, the boot still attached as it tumbled end over end before landing with a wet, hollow thud. Another, missing half his jaw, gurgled aimlessly as he crawled over corpses, trying—and failing—to scream.
Pierce and his team did not close their eyes. They did not look away. They watched the onslaught with trained calm, faces tight but controlled, moving only when necessary.
The street became a river of blood—thick, dark, and flowing. It ran through the cracks in the cobblestones, pooled in shallow depressions, soaked into torn clothing and tangled hair. The air grew heavy with the stench of iron and gunpowder, layered with piss and vomit as bodies emptied 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 striking pavement.
Children fell alongside adults.
A boy—no older than eight—caught three rounds in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet, ribs exploding outward as his small body folded unnaturally before hitting the dirt. And still they came. Some missing arms. Some missing eyes. Some missing half their faces.
Puppets on unseen strings. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Driven by something that was no longer human.
The machine gun did not falter.
Neither did Jonah.
Three minutes.
That was all it took.
When the last body fell, silence returned. Not peace—just silence.
Jonah slowly released the trigger. Smoke curled upward from the red-hot barrel, heat shimmering in the air. The smell of gunpowder and death hung thick around them. He lingered a moment longer, eyes sweeping across the field of corpses, confirming what he already knew.
Then he climbed back down into Bastion.
His voice was low, rough—almost swallowed by the weight of what he'd done.
"I'm sorry."
The team exited the vehicle, boots sinking slightly into the blood-slick street. They spread out in practiced silence, scanning their surroundings—faces hard, eyes steady, hearts heavy. None of them turned away. They had seen this before. Again and again. War had carved this familiarity into them.
Their stomachs twisted with sorrow, but not one of them trembled. They weren't afraid. They were used to this.
Major Gideon Connors knelt beside one of the bodies—a child, maybe nine years old. Her small frame lay twisted among the dead, her face slack with the stillness of death. He stared for a moment, said nothing, then stood again. His jaw tightened, the only sign of what passed behind his eyes.
Above them, the sky sang again.
The hum returned—the same low vibration that had turned the town's people into puppets. It rolled through the air, subtle and invasive. But it had no effect on the soldiers. One by one, they looked up, searching the clouds, trying to trace the source.
Pierce didn't wait.
He raised his weapon and fired short, controlled bursts into the sky. The rounds struck nothing—no target, no resistance—but the hum cut off abruptly, like a strangled breath.
Silence fell.
Then two figures descended from above, slow and deliberate, like vultures answering a feast.
The Hollowed Saints hovered just above the ground, wings spread wide, robes untouched by the carnage beneath their feet. Blood pooled below them, bodies piled around them—but not a single drop marred their forms. They stood tall and still. Not of this world. Not of any.
Their angelic silhouettes shimmered with a grotesque mockery of beauty—seraphic shapes laced with rot and darkness, cracks glowing faintly beneath pale, almost human skin.
They surveyed the massacre. Then their attention shifted to 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," it said lightly. "Or should I say—killing machines."
The other followed, colder, detached.
"So useless. Not one of them could even touch you. Humans are such fragile little things."
Major Gideon stepped forward, boots crunching against bone and debris.
"Was this your doing?"
A sick grin crept across one of the Saints' too-human faces.
"We only whispered a few words," it replied. "They acted on their own."
Its gaze drifted lazily over the corpses.
"You were the ones who pulled the trigger. You made the streets run red."
General Pierce didn't hesitate.
"Soldiers—ready for combat."
He raised his weapon, pointing it directly at them, his voice hard with command.
"Clip their wings. Don't let them leave here alive."
The soldiers moved as one—rifles up, formations tight, discipline absolute.
The Hollowed Saints didn't flinch.
They stood among the dead as if the slaughter had been nothing more than theater—just another scene in a long, cruel performance.
"If only one of you had a weak mind," the first Saint sighed. "It would have been delightful to break you. To make you slaughter each other."
A faint chuckle followed.
"But no… you all had to be so beautifully conditioned. Machines with bones. Hearts like steel. Minds wrapped in barbed wire."
The second tilted its head slightly.
"How dreadfully boring."
Their wings spread wider—not to flee, but in open challenge.
The soldiers held their ground. Eyes sharp. Breathing steady. Minds locked and focused.
The silence stretched.
And then—
The wind shifted.