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This is why Vandal hated Walkers. Their metallic hull made for a poor surface to find grip with pads and claws. He fell from one side to the other of this hallway, from getting a face full of rivets from view ports to cold steel on the other. He felt sick and nauseated, wanting to throw up. To make his grief worse, the heels of Clunkers rang out. He drew the Doktor's Assault Shotgun and tried to keep steady as he aimed for the door ahead of him, waiting for his unwitting victim.

Metal "clangs" rung out all around him as the Clunkers fired from the opposite end of the hall. Vandal leapt back onto the cold floor and pulled the trigger, trying desperately to hit something. The end of the barrel glowed deep red as 6 plasma pellet rounds shot forth, flying through the air and striking the door well, wide of the firing Clunkers.

He scrambled to his feet, throwing away the shotgun, realizing he hadn't grabbed any extra cartridges from his Dragon friend. He drew his Carbine as he dove again through the door he was heading for, as the Clunkers reloaded their R14-ASMG. Lucky for Vandal, he was a good 6 meters away, as those R14s lack accuracy and range pass 2 meters. He wasn't stupid enough, though, to fight an entire army equipped with them, least they get lucky.

He was running out of ammo and had nothing else but his Colt King Cobra and two plasma grenades. Suddenly, a voice boomed over a loud speaker located somewhere nearby. Whatever the Clunker was saying, he sounded pissed.

Vandal needed to find a way to remove Alyx from the cannon and escape this monstrosity. Sighing, he got up and head to what looked like a storage area of some sorts. There where boxes stacked everywhere and concealed under thick tarps.

Vandal saw one box uncovered and knew enough German that was plastered over all the boxes to know that this cargo was "Decisive to War" and is headed for Berlin to be united with other material and, finally, shipped off to Moscow.

He pondered for a moment as to what the German's where carrying that it had to be transported by The Grand Walker. His thoughts where cut short when bullets began to splinter boxes around him.

Vandal dove to cover behind another pile of boxes and began to crawl on his hands and knees. The gunfire stopped and he sat up against some boxes. A Clunker was screaming at his troops in a rather furious tone. The soldiers agreed hurriedly and clicked their guns firing mode from full auto to 3-round burst.

Vandal used this moment to rush to the opposite side of the storage room. Crouching behind a chest-high box, the Wolf took aim and fired at one Clunker, disintegrating his head in a fiery flash of an orange-red hue.

The other Clunkers knelt down and ran for the nearest pile of boxes. They began to blind fire burst shots, shooting wide of where Vandal was hiding. He needed to get moving, least more Clunkers show up.

Staying low, Vandal crawled towards the exit, bullets bouncing off the walls and floors and hitting boxes all around him. There was a stretch of open area in front of him. He waited for a moment, kneeling into ready position. However many of them there where, it was enough to pelt the area like their guns were still in fully automatic.

Vandal sighed, closed his eyes, and listened, over the clang of bullets and screaming in foreign language, to hear the clicking of magazines dropped to reload. He heard three or four and the clicking of a pistol hammer.

He leapt forwards, outstretched with his arms and legs, soaring a great deal out into open space. Landing on his hands, back flipped high into the air and he made himself as thin as possible.

Bullets whizzed by, feeling every little wisp of air near his ear, his tail, his arms and legs. The Clunkers took aim as best they could with their guns and tried desperately to kill the intruder they deemed unworthy of living.

Vandal made contact with the metal surface and curled into a ball and rolled. Up righting himself behind a pile of boxes, he drew his Carbine and blind fired back at the Clunkers. The firing stopped as soon as they saw plasma coursing through the air. Vandal ejected the clip and threw in his last one. He slung it onto his back and sprinted for the exit, his claws clanging on the metal floor.

The Clunkers fired again as Vandal dashed through the door and into a stairwell. He looked up to see Clunkers descending the stairs. "Dam it!" he though, and started down the stairs, deeper into the mechanical beast.

The bottom of the well revealed a wrought iron door. Curious, as no one in the world, literally, made wrought iron; everything iron in Europe, Asia and North America was melted down to forge early tank hulls. There were no monuments to preserve of a shattered and dead past. The wrought iron did not fit with the Clunker style of "Steel-and-Steam" war machines. Whatever the reason, the Clunker's did not want whatever was in there to get out, or vise-versa for that matter.

The metal hooves of Clunkers clicked closer. No other way to go but through the door. Vandal grabbed hold of what looked to be a handle and pulled as hard as he could. The door swung with ease, surprisingly, as the Wolf made slow steps backwards, the door opening inch by inch.

When there was enough room for Vandal to squeeze through, Clunkers began firing from atop the stairwell. Bullets ricocheted around the Wolf as he passed behind the cold door and pulled it closed behind him, pulling a latch down, engaging the locks, and found some chain to tie the fly wheel and armatures together.

It was cold, damp and dark inside. Pulling out an L.E.P.U. (Light-Emitting Plasmid Unit) and giving it two light taps on its glass surface, Vandal held it high and was shocked and disgusted by what he saw. His paw wavered as he struggle to not drop the contained burning plasma, but he feel to his knees, which were now soaked in a puddle of a mix of water and blood.

Before him was a hall that stretched into the darkness, both walls lined with cages covered in bloody messes, with limbs and various assorted appendages and intestines littering the floor around the cages. Maggots, flies and other various bugs crawled and nibbled away at massacred and dismembered bodies. Other carcasses hung from the ceiling off of fishing and harpoon hooks, the skin and muscles peeled back. Blood still dripped and pooling beneath some that look freshly killed, while others where shriveled and devoured by scavengers, the blood spilled beneath dried.

Vandal wanted to cry and scream and howl, but something constrained and tightened around his chest and lungs. He simply panted and growled, filled with a new hatred for the bastered Clunkers.

Then his Wolf ear's picked up the faint clicking of locks, and of metal footsteps. He wiped around, brandishing his Carbine and shinning the L.E.P.U. An old and withered man appeared. He was wrinkled and sagging, his skin going grey in places, black in others. He was strapped into, and a part of, a mechanical suit that surrounded his entire body. His left eye was replaced with a glowing, crimson optic lens, while the right side of his head was completely replaced with metal covering as far down as his neck.

His right arm was fussed to the suit, and metal plates meshed into the right side of torso, the edges tinted black and grey. His left arm was mostly intact, save for a few patches of metal, all tinted grey around the edges. His entire waist and left leg was also part of the metal walker, while his right leg was shrivelled and suspended in the suit.

"I knew...it would end... someday... Finally... found...me?..." The old man struggled to so much as breathe, never mind speak. His chest barely moved as he struggled to inhale. His words could barely be heard amidst his pain wheezing.

Vandal placed the muzzle of his carbine on the old man's forehead. "Did you do this?! DID YOU?!" shouted the Wolf. He scanned the cages and hooks, suddenly afraid he would find his beloved Dion strung up like a tanned hide.

The old man simply starred at the monstrous finger before him. "Your... kind... usually come... in here... dead... or... mostly... in pieces..." The Old Man turned slowly, in pain, and shuffled back up the hallway. Vandal slowly followed behind, Carbine still raised.

Ponding and hammering came from the iron door, accompanied by shouting in Russian. "Never mind... them..." The Old Man whizzed again. They reached a desk that covered in blood stains, save for a computer sitting in the center. The Old Man slowly reached up, every muscle straining to do such a simple command.

He pressed a few keys with his fingers, his hand hovering over the keyboard. A few moments later, the screen lit up and windows flashed across. A few more keystrokes later, and a video began to play.

"I am... sigh... " There was a long pause. The camera slowly pans out, reviling a metal contraption of immense size engulfing nearly all his body. Slowly, he spoke again. "I am the first in the world to receive medical augmentation. In return, for my crimes against The Motherland and The Free Workers, I have willingly given up my body, in exchange for upgrades and providing insight and aiding in research."

A few more images skirted across the screen, showing him working, tinkering and receiving new augmentations. The time stamps in the corner of each folder slowly increased, from 1930, 1950, 1979, 1985, 1990, 1999, 2000, 2012, 2014, 2020, 2035, 2050, 2089, 2099, 2100, 2114... The man aged and withered as time wore on. His mechanical support slowly decreased in size, but soon, after, he received larger and larger augments to support his withered and ancient body.

Vandal stood up and took a few steps back. He raised his carbine and pulled the bolt, chambering a new cap and some gas. "You helped unleash these xenophobic, genocidal... mechanical monsters upon the Earth?! And you are a wanted war criminal! I don't care what command will say, you must die!"

The Old Man kept keying in commands. Suddenly, a disk popped out of the desk, revealing a hidden drive. "Take... it..."

Vandal paused for a moment, and then remembered the Clunkers outside. They had stopped yelling and hitting the door, but began cutting at the locking bolts with their saw bayonets. It made a terrible racket, but did little to even chip away at the iron.

The Wolf bit his lip and removed the disk and tucked it in his armour plate. The Old Man pointed to his right and up to a dangling chain. "Pull..." Vandal did so, to find it activated a metal plate that shifted and revealed a narrow stairway into a space between the hulls.

"Now... kill... me... I want... Death...but... they... keep... me... from... Him... Ironic?..."

Vandal sighed and nodded. The Old Man reached for the chain and feebly took hold of it. The Wolf took aim, and placed a bolt of plasma between the eyes of the infamous Angle of Death. As his head exploded and disintegrated, his lifeless body pulled the chain again with him, and shut Vandal in between the hulls.

It was dark as Iron and cold as Steel. The Wolf let his eyesight adjust and felt around him. The passage was narrow, about 6 feet across and 6 feet high. The tunnel had a slight curve to it, and then suddenly, the nauseating feeling of the shifting floor hit Vandal in the gut. He buckled over and tried not to heave his pre-mission rations.

He leaned up against the wall and slowly walked along it. He could hear high pitch whines and cannons firing. Then he remembered why he was here and stood straight and strong. Vandal gathered his wits and began to tromp down the narrow passage. He swayed form left to right, occasionally losing his footing on the sleek metal surfaces and slamming his shoulder into steel. He kept on, knowing a Dragon and a Neko and so many more of his friends and brothers and sisters where counting on him and his team to destroy this mechanical monstrosity.

The fate of Europe could well rest in his paws. Vandal closed his eyes and concentrated, taking step after step, until he began to sprint. He kept his baring's, feeling the passage become more and more narrow, but the sway of each of the Walker's step had disappeared.

Soon, the hull came to an apex and became too narrow to continue on. Vandal looked felt around, feeling some struts and a beam. He pulled out his L.E.P.U. and tapped it. He saw a few struts jutting out and a beam crossing over head, while two more had actually formed an X a few feet in front of the Wolf, where it became too narrow.

Vandal set the L.E.P.U. in the X and pulled the last brick of C12 out of his back ammo pouch. He pulled apart two halves, and placed one on the corner of where the wall and the roof met. The other half, he placed opposite of the first piece, where the wall and the floor met. He then pulled some fuse wire out and cut two separate pieces, sticking an end of both strings into the C12, and laying the cords along the floor a few paces.

The L.E.P.U is a multifunctional device, having two small insulated spikes on the cap, for both as spark plugs for ignition source, and as well, if in contact with metal surfaces, a mass capacitor of organic plasmid energy. Touching the ends to the spikes caused a sudden and loud SNAP, a bright flash of light emitted before being replaced by smoldering, quick burning fuse.

Running back down the swaying hull, Vandal crouched as low as he could behind a steel support strut. He listened to the fizzling of the fuse through his paws over his ears and patiently waited...

A burning heat lashed out around the wolf singing fur and scorching his protective carapace. His ears rang in the din and his chest tightened as the air was ignited and forced from his lungs. The flames burned around him, the heat intense as we was wrapped in a cocoon of flames, for a moment his world was nothing but flames.

Just as quickly as it had happened, the flames receded, and forced their way up into the barrel hallway, as well as out of the hull in a plume of smoke and fire. Sirens blared and troops readied to defend the 900mm main cannon. Although the barrel was thick enough to withstand even C12, no one was willing to take a chance now with a hull breach.

The Wolf coughed up some fumes, and clambered to his feet. He drew his Carbine and checked it over quickly before beginning to scale the twisted metal into the firing chamber.

He hauled himself up and took aim before being thrown face forward into the floor, his ears rang as did his vision shake, his lungs feeling as if they had collapsed for a second time. He struggled to stand as the floor trembled and shook with violence. He realized the main cannon fired and was standing right next to barrel, shelling his beloved brethren and sisteren. With a new found furry and remembered his love and friends are counting on him to destroy this mechanical monstrosity, least they all be swept to the sea, he rose and readied himself for any who would stand before him.

He brought his rifle to bear and began sprinting down the enormous, long and cluttered passage. Wires hung from the wall where pipes protruded, while pounding of hydraulic jacks and clanking of metalchains working conveyors echoed. Realizing the shells must be housed a floor lower, the Wolf had the bright idea of planting some C12 would put this hulking land titanic out of commission permanently.

The Clunkers coming at him in single-file had something to say about that!

Vandal took aim and dropped the first one, a hole burned through his skull. _"9."_He was knocked over by his comrade behind him, and fell the same way. _"8."_They kept coming, one finally decided to take aim, and went to pull the trigger, until the main cannon fired. They all stumbled, but the Clunkers fared better, having augments to keep them upright. Vandal on the other hand, fell through a door into a smaller corridor. He quickly up righted himself and scrambled down where ever this path lead, the clicking of metal feet echoed around him.

He rounded a corner and slammed his forehead into a Clunker's metal chest-piece! He tumbled back and drew his carbine as level as he could to the Clunker, unfazed as he was, and pulled the trigger. "Ugh!...7..." The plasma sailed out and hit the center of the Russian's chest, who stumbled back a few steps. He had fluid leaking out, muscle and organs suffering burns beneath the protective chest plate.

Through the pain, the Clunker raised his ASMG, before another bolt burned through his neck, burning the lower left half of his jaw off. The Clunker stepped back and fell as his blood and coolant seeped out of his wounds, pooling around his twitching body. "6."

The Wolf was running out of caps, his King Cobra not going to last him much longer against an army of Clunkers. He needed to find a way to free Alyx and escape this boat fast. On his feet, Vandal continued, realizing his pathway was a service tunnel that seemed to have been for helping ease traffic along the cannon's barrel tunnel.

The Wolf peered around the corner, not wanting to make the same mistake, and saw there was three Clunkers left, probably using their fallen comrade as cover in the sparse tunnel. He pondered on killing the three, but decided against it, running out of caps as it was. He slowly crept out into the tunnel, retracting his claws manually to reduce his noise profile, and began sneaking away.

Of course, the cannon fired. He was thrown against the wall, his gun and carapace knocking off the echoing walls. The Clunkers steadied themselves and turned to find their target, the rear guard firing his inaccurate ASMG. Still, the bullets ricocheted around the Wolf, who scrambled and ran on, keeping low and as steady as he could on the metal surface.

He kept on running, a shot fired, and face planted the floor. His vision blurred and his ears where filled with a high pitched ringing. He realized he must be close to the firing mechanism, the drone of pistons and cogs working in unison to bring death on a large scale.

On his feet again, his head throbbing, Vandal staggered on slowly, his carapace suddenly becoming warm and claustrophobic. Steam hissed through massive pipes in the barrel length and wall, the air suddenly sweltering and wet, webbed and winding towards the rear of the cruiser.

He saw a massive circular drum set halfway into the floor, the top of the drum protruding into the roof, and another smaller round chamber set inside. Continuing on, the clanking of massive chain links grew louder, masking the faint sounds of whispered chants and low buzzing.

The noise was intolerable at this point, massive gears grinding along with pistons hammering, steam piping through the roof and walls. Looking up, the massive conveyer hauling the 900mm rounds in slow monotony stopped above the chamber for the artillery piece.

Two workers, with powerful augmented arms, twice the size of any Human body-builder's arms, walked in a dogged fashion. They seem entirely absent to the fact an Anthropomorphic was standing watch. There metallic legs, the upper and lower parts mostly hydraulic pistons, thundered with each step. There chest was reminiscent of an actual flesh cavity, ribs replaced with Titanium bars, and muscles replaced with neural synth-steel.

Both lifted their hands to the artillery shell, planting their legs in a kneeling brace position, a low hum emitted as their low-locking gravity graves activated. The shell was discharged from its overhead carriage, the works showing no sign of pain or injury as their reinforced backs shouldered the burden. Reoriented, the two loaders walked slowly to the firing chamber, steam and heat waves wafting out, they opened their mouths, yet only buzzing and clicking emitted.

The Wolf stood in awe as these Machine-Men soundlessly opened the chamber, a ring emitted as the empty shell dropped to a lower level, and loaded another round. They turned to the rear of the firing mechanism, took hold of an iron rod each, and pulled shut the heavily shudder.

One took hold of an iron chain, the other turning to a console set into the wall, typing in something, his one eye actually a glass optic that zoomed and clicked, as the other soundlessly mouthed words, pulling the chain.

Vandal was thrown to the floor as he had no augments to keep him locked to the floor. His muzzle slammed against the warm metal wall and slid a few steps back. He covered his ears and rolled about in agony as his head rung like he was in a Cathedral church tower as his vision blurred to near blindness.

He groaned and struggled to upright himself, the Machine loaders unfazed by the rolling mass of fur in front of them. They continued their ritual work and set about repairing circuits that had shook loose and a few pipes that detached.

The Wolf heaved and coughed as his he could breathe properly again. What part of his mind wasn't trying to shut out the pain and flooded with Adrenaline, observed and contemplated what he was observing. It became obvious that the Grand Walker was in a state of disrepair and hurried production, ultimately shaking itself apart if it was not taken out. The conveyer rumbled to life once more, another payload being hauled up from the depths of the ship.

But the Wolf and all The Evolutionaries on the beaches could not wait! He stood and took aim, loading a cap in-

The Machine-Man standing at the console spun around, his reinforced hand slamming right into Vandal's muzzle. The Wolf yelped and crumpled, slamming his head this time off the burning hot plate of the blast chamber. Once more on the floor, dazed and bleeding from his nose, Vandal coughed up some blood and struggled to stand. The Machine-Man kicked the Wolf right in the stomach, his carapace heard cracking. Vandal gasped and heaved, pink and peach colored bile exiting his muzzle in a violent manner.

The Machine-Man showed emotion for once and made a face of vile and disgust at the show of the weakness of flesh. He grab the Wolf by the scruff of his neck and held him up, locking eyes. He opened his mouth, revealing a grill set into the back of his throat.

"Who are you to dare interfere in the God of All Machines' holy work? Your flesh is a liability, you're kind, a perversion of the True Path! We shall rid your vile species from the face of Geo-Machina, and take our rightful place among the stars!"

The Machine-Man finished his speech with some clicks and squalls, sirens blaring and light flashing. "I shall not bloody my sanctified hands with your heretical blood. Any last words, blasted beast?"

"Get slagged!" The Wolf growled as he swung his fist, his L.E.P.U in his grasp, and shattered the glass optic, then shoving the diode tips into the cavity space. The Machine-Man blurted binary to his compatriot as his neural circuitry began to overload, the other looked from his repair work and clambered over the barrel, heading the call of his ranking priest.

Vandal was released from the iron grasp of the Machine-Man and landed on his feet, drawing his King Cobra and firing a slag shot between the eyes of the lunging assistant. He sidestepped the falling pile of metal and punched in the head of the lead Machine-Man, shacking out his paw after realizing he punched a faceplate of metal.

The grinding of gears ceased and the Wolf looked up to see a shell was loaded into a harness and waiting to be chambered. Seeing as the two Machine-Men had more extensive Augmentation to accommodate for the payload of the shell, it would probably take 4 or more Aurger-Men to load it, infantry who were too busy looking for Vandal.

He climbed up the on top of the barrel and reached as best he could on top of the shell, a small chunk of C12 in his paw. He mashed it best he could to make it stuck and clambered back down, grabbing his rifle and continue on.

The blaring sirens and flashing lights were an abhorrent distraction and threw glares around the halls, the shifting hull and smooth surfaces only agitating the Wolf further. He picked up the faint smell of incense, the smell of gunpowder mingling in this section of the hull, and noticed burners hanging from the roof. The area seemed to have doubled as church to the Great A.I., which would explain why the three Clunkers did not pursue him further.

Vandal made use of this and searched for another way out. He need to keep moving out of the bowels of the ship and escape with Alyx. A stairwell served as his way out. He followed it hoping it would lead somewhere closer to the Command Deck. If he had to, The Wolf would let his Feral side take over and unleash total fury and rage upon the abhorrent Commanders of this misbegotten vessel.

Takra awoke, her vision blurred and every nerve in her body fired in pain. She vomited in agony and groaned, curling up on a floor that shifted and rumbled every few minutes. She didn't remember much of how she ended up here, only recalling her fall and desperate grapple for the tangle chains.

She shifted and propped herself up on her arm, which gave out instantly. She moaned in pain, realizing her arm was snapped.

She sat up instead and cradled her arm, panting softly, trying to clear her head and steady her breath. Adrenalin started to block enough of the pain that her other senses returned. She heard the desperate cries of others in agony, and slid towards the grate of her cell.

From what she could see, there was some hung by chains around their necks or feets. Cells ran in both directions, roof to floor. Blood ran down the cells and into a canal along the floor, draining who knows where and for what. Her feline eyes adjusted to the grim darkness and flooded her sight with the gore and brutality of the ClunkerNaughts.

She need to escape. Resting her injured arm in her lap, she extend her claws and slashed at the grate. Her efforts brought a shower of sparks and muttering from deprived and mad prisoners. She tried again. And again. She slashed and punched and kicked, her reward being a bloodied paw and sore feet.

She sobbed softly after some time. She lost track of how long she tried for, only dull numbness and grief making it into her pain riddled mind.

She continued anyway. With tear stained eyes and a low growl growing in her chest, she slashed and kicked at the grate again and again. If she died with dull claws and a septic arm, none could say she did not continue to try something.

For her efforts, after about 3 hours, an irritated Bio-weapon's developer sent his two guardsmen to immolate whoever was making the racket that was echoing through a cracked pipe. It was causing a slight tremor in his hand when he went to server organs from his quickly flat-lining captive.