Brian flipped down his thermal visor and tapped the chest plate of his armor. His adaptive camo shimmered, blending with the surroundings. The upper turrets began loading shells, ready to rain hell the moment they got the signal.
"Private Party, what's your status up there?!" Walsh yelled into the comm.
"Working on it, Sarge! They just lit this place up!" Dan sprinted toward the top gun turret, dodging debris. It was heavily armored, safe from small-arms fire—for now.
The rebels started rushing the ridge.
"Didn't wanna do this…" Brian muttered, then held down the trigger. The heavy machine gun roared, spitting a wall of lead. Marines and Warfly fighters joined in, mowing down the charging men in black robes until the dunes turned red.
Then—a dirt bike roared out of the dust. A suicide rider.
Walsh swiveled his rifle and fired. The bullet hit center mass. The biker flew off the seat and disappeared into a crater. Incoming rounds ripped through the walls; a few Marines went down. The Warfly rebels dragged them to cover, firing back.
"I'm out! I'll grab more ammo!" one rebel shouted, dashing toward the next room.
"There's a tank! Right flank—watch it!" Dan screamed over comms. An old rust-stained tank from the World War era rolled out from behind the dunes, turret aiming straight at the building.
Dan saw the cannon tilt upward—right at him. "Aw, hell!" He bolted from the turret just as the tank fired. The round smashed through the upper floor, blowing the gun nest to bits.
"Puta—my back! Damn it, did that break my spine?!" Dan groaned, clutching his side before scrambling to another room.
The tank rotated toward the west wing—Brian's position. "Oh, fuck!" he shouted, diving into one of the escape holes as the shell hit. The blast tore through the wall, flinging him into the lower tunnel. His vision blurred, ears ringing. Something heavy pinned his leg. When the dust cleared, he saw a slab of concrete crushing it.
"Damn it! My leg's stuck! Ghh~," he hissed, clawing at the debris. He could barely feel his foot anymore. Voices echoed faintly—a football crowd chanting inside his head.
"Never shall ceased, fight till we bleed, fight till we bleed, till we die!!"
He pulled out his knife, ready to do the unthinkable—when a hand suddenly grabbed his wrist. He looked up. A man in battered football gear stared down at him, a faint scar running along his lip. Recognition hit like lightning. "S-Simon?"
"Hey, bitch. You about to cut your damn leg off?" Simon smirked.
"How the hell are you here? Thought you were with another unit!"
"Mission changed. We're your backup now."
Brian let out a shaky laugh. "I was just… gonna use the knife to chip this rock, man."
"Sure you were. Now push—come on! One, two—heave!" Together they shoved the slab aside and freed Brian's leg. Explosions still thundered overhead. The enemy tank was reloading. The two men sprinted through the connected tunnels toward the main hall, sand and debris raining down with every blast.