The thrusters on its back flared bright. In an instant, the machine lunged forward, grabbed the fleeing rebel by the collar, and smashed him into the wall—leaving a streak of blood across the concrete.
Blood splattered through the cracks into the hallway. An American soldier on the other side froze, staring at the dripping red through the bullet hole in the wall.
"Blood—shit!" he yelled, stepping back. Through the hole, a monstrous silver face stared back at him, expressionless.
The demon raised one long, metallic finger to its mouth. "Shhh."
The soldier nodded rapidly, forcing a shaky grin, sweat running down his face. The demon gave a low mechanical chuckle, withdrew its head, and left him trembling—pants soaked in fear and urine.
Then came the announcement—calm, cold, and deliberate—echoing through the building's PA system: "Our nation has fought wars for generations," a middle-aged man's voice said. "People always judge what they see. You Americans saw me as the enemy long before I ever set foot on your soil. This land... it's split in two—the calm and the violent. Strange, isn't it? That your so-called heroes always choose to side with the violent ones." Karsarz said.
Three metal demons prowled through the corridors. Screams echoed as souls were torn apart.
Brian crouched behind a column, eyes locked on the blue-plated automaton striding through the central hall. Sergeant Walsh loaded a heavy armor-piercing round into his sniper rifle, took aim, and fired. The shot ripped through the air—severing the robot's arm clean off. Another demon, painted purple, crashed through the ceiling, blades extending from its hands like swords.
Meanwhile, Karsz's voice came through the comms—smooth, mocking: "Rome wasn't built in a day, gentlemen. But to destroy it? Just takes a flip of the hourglass. You'll be the first to carry that message home—that our land needs no foreign heroes. Because once you step on this sand, that word—hero—means nothing here. Especially, on the battlefield—"
The transmission cut out.
"We lost contact with the HQ," Walsh muttered. He reloaded fast.
"Did Karsz just say he's got robots now?!" Simon yelled over the gunfire.
Walsh didn't answer. His face was pale. Brian noticed the blood soaking through the left side of his armor—right where the plating was thinnest.
"Sergeant's hit! I need morphine here!" Brian shouted.
"I'm fine, ghhk~" Walsh hissed, leaning back against the wall, catching his breath. Outside, the mechs were slaughtering the rebels.
"They're wiping 'em all out!" Simon said. "Every last one!"
Walsh gave a weak chuckle. "Listen… you boys need to get outta here. I got one last thing I need to do. Can you pass me a smoke?"
Simon tossed him a cigarette. Walsh bit it, lit it with shaky hands, and exhaled a long, tired breath. Brian knelt beside him, pressing on the wound, eyes flicking with worry.
"Sir, we're not leaving without you!" he said.
Walsh grinned through blood-stained teeth. "You don't get it, private. The story ain't always end pretty. But if you boys make it out alive… that's a good ending in my book. The pack leader always burns so the cubs can run full." He coughed hard and smiled again. "Now go. I'm about to light this bastard up—send him straight to hell. Take the truck, stick together, and live. You hear me?"