Scene One: Green
#1 of Steel Opera
Ferro stared at the trembling pistol in his hands. His wavering, emerald green irises traced the tendrils of smoke rising from the barrel, that tell-tale scent of gunpowder filtering through his nostrils. For what felt like an eternity, he could not look away, transfixed to the iron sights. His legs and arms shook and screamed for mercy. Two meters away, a draconic woman in a dull gray uniform stood, a line of crimson slowly trailing its way from her azure lips, a death grimace chiseled into her expression. Her rifle slipped from her gloved hands and clattered in the soil. She fell to her knees, and Ferro at last snapped out of his trance. He let his arms fall back to his sides, the pistol barely remaining in his tenuous grip, hanging by the trigger guard. A final, deathly sigh echoed forth from the woman's lips, her painful expression slipping to one of peace. Several crimson-tagged bullet pits dotted her chest and abdomen, and blood spilled from the wounds. Ferro blinked for the first time in several minutes, and the dryness lead him to rub his face with the back of his sleeve. All it did was smear grime and dust across the bridge of his snout and cheeks. His hearing returned, and all at once, snapped back into context.
A shell detonated in the ruins of an administration building to his left, showering him with shrapnel and broken stone. The explosion threw him off balance and to the ground, landing with force upon his right side in the open street. He gasped for breath, trying to shake the ringing out of his ears. A mysterious, disembodied force pulled him to his feet, and he barely made out the words issuing forth from the Sergeant's mouth.
"You want to live forever, scum? Get back in there, this war isn't won yet!" The Doberman shouted, his right eye put out. Ferro nodded, the ringing still echoing in the furthest corner of his mind. He dove for cover, scrambling for his sidearm which lay in the dirt. The pale-blue Chameleon altered the shade of his skin to a deep grey, tucking his shoulders closer to his torso. He had to slide down to fit into cover, cursing himself for being somewhat on the taller side. He looked over the low wall of what was once a pasture fence, and eyed the resistance mounting on the hillside. He could make out through the smoke and haze the blurry outlines of artillery, with massive thuds and muzzle flashes identifying their position on the ridge. The screech of incoming shells forced him from cover, and the distinctive crack of air-bursting gunfire came from somewhere behind. There were screams, too. A bullet ricocheted off a tank trap erected to slow the advancing force, and the disfigured metal tore in Ferro's scaly thigh. He gritted his teeth and fell into the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust. He pulled himself a few meters to a long, sturdy looking barricade and hastily inspected the damage done to him.
"Dangerously close to the femoral artery..." he noted, digging into the wound with a filthy gloved finger. "Missed it. Good." The pain was drowned out by the adrenaline flowing through his veins. His uncomfortable regal blue uniform and gunmetal chest piece caught on his sweaty skin as he turned to get a better look at the fight. The Erejrian 113th was making good progress. Most of the force was already prepping to make a death-march up the hillside toward the pillboxes and artillery platforms. It was suicide for the conscripts forced into the vanguard of the action. Ferro held his breath and waited for a small platoon of infantrymen like him to make their way through the rubble of the village and up to the barricade. They crouched near him and nodded in unison. Colonel Dien, a well-liked, broad shouldered bull had affected command of the unit, and held up a gauntleted fist to keep the thirty or so soldiers still with him at pause. They slid up to the barricade, each one of them checking their ammo and grenades, securing wounds and wiping the soot out of their eyes. Ferro slinked along the barricade towards Dien, the Chameleon tapping on his shoulder as a bullet grazed over their heads.
"Private First-Class Terrence Ferro! My unit got wiped out in the ruins near the administrations complex, mind if I tag along, sir?" Dien eyed him for a moment, and offered a wry smile.
"Be my guest! We're waiting on the order to make the advance!" he shouted over the discord. "I need you in A-squad! Find Sergeant Taylor, she'll take you in for the remainder of the action!" He pointed to his right, further down the barricade. Amidst the throng of blue uniforms and gunmetal armor, he spotted the Sergeant by the insignia on her pauldrons. Ferro moved at a low crouch, and slid on his knees to Taylor's side. The fox was well-built for a thirty-something, with deep-red fur and a wicked gash running up her left arm, holding binoculars up to her long, tapered nose. She handed the lens to the soldier on her right, and eyed Ferro suspiciously.
"I suspect Dien sent you over to me?" she shouted. "Get in line, we're making the move as soon as the 7th Armored starts shelling!" Ferro pressed his back up to the barricade, waiting through the gunfire and screams of desperation. He thought the assault was purely infantry-based. It filled him with hope to know that tanks would be supporting.
A few minutes passed, and through the smoke and rubble trundled the easily identifiable outlines of MK 32 Koerke Battle Tanks. Their trapezoidal frames shuddered as shells burst forth in clouds of blue-white smoke and impacted on the desolate hillside, sending vaporous clouds of soil and rock high into the sky. Under cover of the rising smoke, a thunderous warcry built up all along the 113th front. With what courage left in his heart, Ferro reloaded his battered weapon and leapt over the barricade, the words echoing inside his ears, Do you want to live forever? Normally, he would have stopped to think on it, but nothing remained except the mission. The Commissar had made it quite clear when he addressed the assembled 113th Regiment before the attack.
'Serve the Thirteen Saints, or serve on the firing line,' he had said, that iron mask he called a face staring down on them pathetically, as if their faith was somehow weaker than his.
The past faded, and Ferro moved at a sprint up the hillside, the scant remains of the village left behind him. He felt his heart struggling in his chest, beating against his ribcage as if to escape. Smoke left from the shelling filled his lungs as he took in a charnel breath. His head spun, but the dizziness drove him forward. The world seemed to vanish. The ground beneath his feet was tangible, but he could not see it. The war raged around him, but he could not perceive it. Every instinct struggled to stop him mid-stride, but his body would not have it. There was only one way, and that way was forward. He emerged after a few moments on the other side of the smoke. The sound of shell impacts was cacophonous, Ferro ceasing to hear in any real sense. The tanks were still shelling when the first of the Erijrian infantry erupted from the smoke. Some were caught in the blasts and their mangled bodies were flung into the air, casting a crimson mist on those nearby. Ferro's eyes adjusted quickly to the light filtering over the ridge, and he made out the defense line. A single artillery platform sat sentinel against the backdrop of grey-hued sky, with a semi-circular arrangement of sandbags sealing it from assault. Along with it was sixteen or seventeen soldiers staring down targeters, lining up their shots. Ferro felt the presence of soldiers behind him as the first volley of gunfire erupted. He weaved and felt a shot graze past his ear, then pushed further, holding out his pistol and dumping a series of wildly inaccurate shots up into the sandbags. A few of the defenders crouched back into cover, while Ferro reached for another magazine hanging from the harness strapped to his abdomen. It was the last one. He pulled back the slide, allowing the first shot to enter the chamber and continued to charge. From behind him, grenades arched overhead and into the dugout. The gap was growing increasingly small, and Ferro felt his allies behind him drop from volleys of carefully controlled suppressive fire, even though the defenders at the barricade had crouched back and behind. They're overlapping their fire lanes, he thought, and began to serpentine as bullets kicked the ground up at his feet.
It was only a few more meters until he would reach the hilltop. He scrambled on his hands and the steel toes of his worn service boots, until the hastily erected sandbag defense line was in reach. A gray uniform sporting a blue-black face-mask popped up from cover, and the barrel of his automatic rifle was leveled directly at Ferro's chest. Without thinking, Ferro leapt onto the weapon, tossing the soldier off balance and sending his weapon skittering away into the dust. He leveled his pistol as he hit the ground rolling, and let loose a triplet of shots, the third of which bore into the defender's skull. Allies crossed over the barricade around him, and poured onto the defenders of Auroch. A white-shield ran past him on the left, and a spray of blood showered over Ferro's chest armor and face. He fell to the ground in confusion. The white-shield's body slid into the dirt, rolling a few yards before finally stopping. A panting Aurochian Dragoon stood with a massive trident gripped in a pair of power armored gauntlets, his bright purple armor glinting in the light of gunfire. His weapon oozed blood, pooling on the ground beneath the lowest prong. Ferro, wide-eyed, froze in terror. He had heard stories of such warriors, bio-augmented murder machines with no compassion for life. That one would be here, defending this ridge indicated there was far more strategic significance to this position than the Commissar had let on. Ferro struggled to his feet and turned to run from the armored monstrosity, but in a flash of color, he was back in the dirt, the trident raised above his chest, threatening to descend into his flesh. A cold desperation washed over him, and Ferro willed his limbs out of a fog. With an outstretched hand, he fired his pistol until the chamber was empty, clicking once, then twice. The sound was the most dreadful thing he had ever heard. In a roar, the Dragoon thrust the trident down, and Ferro awaited hopelessly the icy chill of death.
Strangely, it never came. He blinked once, realizing he had been shielding his face. A geyser of blood erupted forth from the Dragoon's neck, spraying outwards and coalescing in the thick air. With a groan, the creature fell in one swift motion, armored plates clattering loudly as they landed atop of Ferro. He forced himself to his feet and wildly looked about for an answer as to why the Dragoon fell. A glint in the corner of his eye forced him to look right, and he fell immediately into a defensive stance, expecting another of the armored beasts to charge him. Instead, his gaze met the blood-slicked blade of a slender, white furred creature. He was slight in build, his stance evoking confidence and prowess. His childlike, vibrant orange eyes were contrasted by black eyeshadow, and a sly smile barred a mouth of well-kept teeth. His hair was long and silvery, braided in eight long strands that danced about in the wind, his features angular and felin, yet their origin strangely imperfect. He wore the blue dress uniform of a Erijrian officer, but his armor was died a deep crimson red, and the curved, flat-pointed blade he grasped was unlike anything Ferro had ever seen. The immediacy of explosions and gunfire reentered his perception, and the mysterious, blade-weaving soldier approached Ferro quickly over the din of battle.
"Come on!" the soldier urged, his voice pleasant even over the violence, even with the visual distraction of another being's essence splattered on his face. "Keep your head down if you want to live!" the soldier pulled a protective facial covering up and over his mouth and nose and sprinted to the gun crew still frantically trying to disembark from the artillery platform. With an adroit leap, the soldier was on the platform, and crescent waves of blood shot out with each swing of the razor-sharp blade. Ferro realized he was still holding his gun, but had no more ammo. He let the slide snap back into position, and holstered the sidearm in a leather case hanging from his belt. He slid into the dirt and started looting the dead, scooping up a targeting rifle previously utilized by a breathing Aurochian sharpshooter. Ferro knew he was not that great a shot, but at the right distance, it was hard to miss. He slipped in the one fresh magazine he could locate amongst the Aurochs, and reevaluated the battlefield. With any luck, he thought, they could turn the guns back on the enemy rearguard and disrupt their retreat.
Amidst the tactical thinking floating through his surface thoughts, he could not get the mental image of that blade out of his mind, slick with vital fluids. Nor could he erase the soldier who wielded it. He turned for a moment, visually scanning for the blade-bearer, but turning up nothing. A familiar hand grazed his shoulder, serving to break his momentary absence from the immediate situation. Sergeant Taylor was crouching beside him, as was half of the platoon, and she examined him with a scowl.
"Glad to see you made it. Good work." She gestured toward the adjacent hillside, still bathed in smoke. "I want you and the boys left from A-squad to support the assault on that platform. Flank them, and it should minimize casualties from the advancing force. Go!" she shouted, shoving him forward.
Ferro secured his helmet, and sprinted across the ridge, with fifteen other soldiers behind him. Hopping over a section of ruined fence, he felt the rookie blood flow, and wondered momentarily at the mortality rate for first-timers in combat. As he cleared low walls and maneuvered through rubble, he thought about it less and less. Out of the corner of his eye he noted, on the timepiece secured to his wrist, that it had only been twenty-one minutes since the first round was fired.
It was going to be one hell of a long day.