Ex Lacrima Remnant

Track #60 – Damn the Machine

Something felt different about the atmosphere. Slaugh could feel it in his bones. It wasn’t just the smoke, the wreckage, the remains of a battle. No, it was a deeper intuition, one without a logical explanation. Maybe, it was the cloudy sky. Maybe, it was the storm brewing above them, with rain and bolts of lightning coming down like divine judgment. Or, maybe, it was his mounting regret. Regret for not having taken into account that the whole advance squadron could be destroyed with such ease. He activated the wipers, cleaned the camera lenses. That was such an annoyance. The original goal of the support team was to gauge what was left of the bunker’s defense systems, report on the number of active flak turrets, on the state of the Tulip Shield – the massive mesh of armed hovering drones that thwarted the first and second attempts to enforce air superiority. Heck, if they were lucky, their quarries might have unleashed some of their alleged hidden weapons first, making their goal of witnessing their destruction power firsthand successful. But no, they were all downed by ‘a small commando of Peacekeeper forces’. A total, utter failure. Now, the shape of the Panopticon Control Center had finally appeared in his cameras, crystal clear under the dark clouds. In just a bunch of minutes, the weather had turned from simply gray with chance of drizzle to hellish landscape – such was the climate in that accursed land. The rain was making it difficult to advance, but also had to reduce the efficacy of the anti-air turrets. A lose lose situation, one that benefited the best soldiers. Which meant that he and his underlings would have had no trouble in dealing with a bunch of starved, delusional, third-rate conscripts.

“Captain, the Tulip Shield is still up there!”

“I have eyes, Kizman.”

Slaugh called his HUD again, traced a route on the map.

“Mad Hounds! Fly as close to the ground as possible. We don’t want to trigger it.”

A choir of affirmative responses echoed in his ears. The Tulip drones were a pain in the neck. Not really advanced and not even dangerous alone, but their focus fire had downed several pilots that thought that hovering above them was the best solution. Staying under them was no problem, but that meant getting up close and personal with the flak turrets and the railguns. It was no question of luck that Panopticon resisted their assault till then: that fortress had so many redundant defense systems that it felt unreal.

A white flash in the distance, a thunder immediately after. The rain poured down harder, flooding the plains, trickling down the paved path to the top of the mountain. The radar blinked. Several shapes emerged on his display, shapes with a built-in emitter. The support team. What was left of it, at least. Slaugh slowed down, treaded carefully on top of the dismantled cores, of the butchered metal of the mechs he once called his allies. Some of the pilots were still alive, trapped inside the security cells of their Seraphs. Still, that didn’t make a difference to him. He wasn’t there to rescue them, he was there to take the fortress – by any means necessary. Another lightning bolt, shining reflexes on the flak turrets, on the rugged surface of the bunker’s gate. The rain ticked and clicked on the Seraphs, dripped down the wings, turned into vapor as soon as it touched the exhaust. The seven mechs entered a diamond formation, with the three red ‘mavericks’ in front , two blue ‘herons’ at the flanks and two behind. Standard procedure. A total one hundred eighty degrees coverage. They hovered down to the ground, as a single, coordinated unit.

Slaugh glanced at the turrets from behind cover, slowly dribbling behind the rock formations. Not a shot. Not a single shot yet. They lay in wait, in wait for his first move. He lifted his Raphael rocket launcher, aimed it up, put the rightmost flak turret in his sight.

“Time to knock at the door.”

The mechanical finger closed on the trigger, pulled it. With a hiss, the Raphael missile left his gun, making his whole mech recoil. In the storm, the hiss of the engine got drowned by the battering noise of falling rain, while the plume shone through the darkness. The flak turret didn’t even return fire, didn’t manage to. As soon as the automated system caught wind of the incoming missile, it was already too late.

A white flash, a colossal deflagration. The pieces of the broken turret spread all around, in a cloud of rust and metal scraps. All the surviving cannons turned towards the Seraphs, started vomiting lead on them. Slaugh smirked inside the cockpit. As expected, their resources were low, depleted. Only three turrets were shooting. Two more of them seemed still intact, but were not returning fire. Not enough ammo. The result of three assaults. The reason why they didn’t shoot down the advance team on their own. Now, Slaugh was sure of it. He loaded a second missile in his launcher, the other six raised their weapons too, behind the cover of tall rocks. Slaugh sent a countdown to the screens of all of his comrades. Three. Two. One. They emerged all together, pulled the trigger at the same time. Seven Raphael missiles hissed through the air, spreading, widening like an imaginary claw, a claw ready to close on the bunker. One of the motionless guns In the back shot something in the air, an instant after the first new Raphael left the barrel. The projectile burst, releasing a haze of fireworks, of smaller bluish lights, lights that looked like witchfire. Three missiles changed direction, got lost, hit the decoys. Four slightly altered their trajectory, missing their own target by centimeters, yet still hitting the concrete, the entrance gate, exploding in a ball of flames under the neverending rain. Cracks spread on the surface of the bunker, pieces of wall fell to the ground, crashed on the asphalt. The metal door was bent, its surface charred. Slaugh loaded yet another Raphael, the last one before having to switch to the smaller Michael launcher.

In that moment, an arm flew in front of his visor.

The ‘maverick’ on his right side.

The shoulder was sparking, short electric arcs between the exposed mechanism.

Right as the mechanical limb fell to the ground.

“Kizman, take cover, Lagash blast you!”

The flak turrets had struck back.

That idiot didn’t see it coming. Now, his ‘maverick’ was ruined, due to him being stupid. Still, he had one arm left. Better than nothing. Kizman flew behind cover, sparks of electricity still flashing around the damaged area. The flak turrets launched another salvo, forcing them to remain on the ground. The Tulip Shield above. The cannons shooting every moving target mid-air. It was almost like they wanted to keep them on the ground. That worked for him, worked wonderfully. Their Seraphs Mk. III were more than capable of ground combat. He touched the plasma blades attached to the backside of his mech. They would have spread death and misery, as soon as he got into the bunker.

Suddenly, a noise, a noise lost in the thunders. The gate.

Was opening.

Slowly.

Surely.

And, outside of it.

Peacekeepers.

Walking out.

Guns in hand.

Covered in flowing raincoats, above their armors, above their visors.

Slaugh didn’t wait a second longer, aimed the Michael missile launcher, jumped out of cover, shot his weapon. The smaller missile hissed through the air, falling down on the assembled group of soldiers at incredible speed.

The impact.

The explosion.

The rain blasted away by the shockwave.

“Now, all out of cover! Assault mode on!”

The ‘herons’ and ‘mavericks’ moved out from behind the rocks, switched their thrusters on, boosted forward.

Till Slaugh saw.

The red mech on his left.

Being pierced by a supersonic spear.

Perforated from side to side.

Thrown away like a broken toy.

Breaking down, rolling away as the boosters moved it out without control.

Making it crash against a rock.

Till it stopped moving altogether.

“Sorayan down! Sorayan down!”

Kizman’s voice blared through the speakers of the Seraphs. The thrusters stopped. The mechs quenched their momentum. Slaugh pulled the brakes too, slowed down, focused on the smoke left by the Michael, washed down by the downpour. That’s when he saw them.

Vines.

“…hell no…”

A barrier of vines. Much like the one he met at the compound. A barrier that stopped the missile, that absorbed the impact. A figure behind it. Brown hair, styled in a braid. Bandages around one eye. The Peacekeeper uniform on. A rhizome.

A Shield-type rhizome.

And, behind her, another one. Blond. Short hair. With roots around her neck.

A Spear-type.

Just like then.

Just like during that attack.

Slaugh screamed inside this cockpit. The pictures of the assault. Bantam. Rupta. The reprimand. The humiliation. He gripped the controls, gritted his teeth.

“Not you trash again!”

He blew his cover up, wielded his Michael launcher, shot another missile, another one, another, yelling like a madman. The missiles hissed, swam through the rain, impacted on the wooden wall. A thunderous roar, clouds of smoke surrounding them. Slaugh breathed. Breathed. Breathed. Thick clouds of smoke were raising from the scorched ground, slashed by heaven’s tears, covering whatever was left of those foul plant abominations. Breathed. Breathed. The rhizome at the compound wasn’t able to stop two Raphaels in a row. Michaels were far less powerful, but four of them? They had to have left a dent. No way. No way they didn’t. Breathed. Breathed. Breathed.

Brea…

The smoke thinned out, went away.

And the shield was still there.

Burned.

Partly torn.

Yet, still standing.

But now, behind it, there wasn’t only a rhizome.

There were two more.

Both taller than the blond Spear-type.

One had long vines coming out of her wrists, something like branch stumps bursting out of her head. The other had no arms, kept her leg up, standing like a flamingo. In the rain. In the deluge. Surrounded by soldiers with flowing plastic mantels. Soldiers that were aiming at him. Soldiers that pulled the trigger. A symphony of bullets hit his ‘maverick’, scratched the red paint, scarred the metal, caused him to retreat, to fall back behind cover. His mech kneeled behind a rock, keeping a low profile, while he ran a quick scan. The damage was minimal – the physical one, at least. Slaugh breathed. Breathed. Four rhizomes. One of his soldiers severely wounded. That wasn’t possible. That had to be a nightmare. Yes, it was a nightmare. He was going to wake up. He was going to…

“Sir, what do we do, sir?! Sorayan needs medical treatment and Kizman’s Seraph has lost one…”

He wasn’t going to wake up. That was no nightmare. That was the crude reality. Slaugh gritted his teeth, pushed buttons on his sticks. Going up was useless. Going back was a failure. One thing remained, though. One last, desperate tactic. He put away his rocket launcher, attached it to the magnetic supports. Then, he unsheathed a plasma blade. Two plasma blades. One per hand. His voice echoed in the microphone, burst out of the earplugs of all other pilots.

“We must take Panopticon. We must take it while it’s still functional.”

The twin needle guns of his Seraph emerged from the chassis, aimed at the soldiers, at the rhizomes.

“Mitsugashi! Oriola! Blades out! Sanbucco! Kizman! Koshnatta! You cover for us! Spare no missile! Spare no bullets! On my mark…”

Two blue ‘herons’ went for their blades, unsheathed them, activated them too. The others armed their missile launchers, readied their Raphaels. Right while the Peacekeepers opened fire, trying to deny them the approach. Those soldiers had the high ground, as long as they stood on the top of that mountain.

“Now!”

Not for long.

A shower of rockets hissed through the sky, fire trails burning through the rain. The red Seraph of Slaugh Hasegawa floored the throttle, its thrusters burning at maximum output. Mitsugashi and Oriola followed behind him, in an arrow of shining swords blazing through the dark, burning like wildfires, as the plasma circuits flooded the blades. Slaugh boosted faster, his mech crossed its arms in front of its main body. Before performing a cross cut, spinning around like a top, in a perfect circle of destruction. Edera shouted, ducked, pulled Prim down, slamming her on the asphalt, right as her shield was torn in half, burned by the incandescent metal. The missiles roared, blasted down from above, the flares and decoys not stopping all of them. Another flak turret got hit, exploded under the deadly salvo. The concrete punctured, cracked. The main gate shaft bent, charred. As more and more missiles fell, the two blue Seraphs, the ‘herons’ of Oriola and Mitsugashi slashed their way through, mowing down barricades, cutting vehicles. Another explosion. A group of Peacekeeper fell to the ground. Right in front of Oriola. Right in front of her raised blade.

“No!”

A guttural scream, the realization of being lost, of the end approaching. The soldiers braced for impact, as the last instant of their lives flashed in front of their retinas.

But the blade

never made contact.

Oriola saw a red indicator on her HUD. A problem with the arm motor. Something that didn’t make sense. She commanded the arm down again, saw the same error. The arm. The arm was stuck. She tried to pull it away. Nothing happened. Something was stopping her motions. She run a visual scan of her mech, looked for explanations. Vines. Two vines, two whips were wrapped around the arm, forcing it up, blocking its movements. On the other sides of the vines, the rhizome with the branch stumps. Oriola growled, activated the boosters. The dash caught the rhizome off guard, almost dragged her down to the asphalt. But the vines were still there. Still wrapped around her blade arm. Projectiles bounced on the armor of her mech, right under her eyes. She ignored the plant for a second, returned fire with the nested needle guns. A Peacekeeper’s head exploded just in front of her. Then, a torso. A left arm. The gun kept mowing enemies, all while her main weapon was disrupted. It was then that she saw something. A shadow in the rain. Jumping from the ceiling. A shadow who lost her arms. A shadow with a blade sticking out of her right leg.

A blade that slashed the mech clean, severing the forearm that was trapped by Felce. Oriola recoiled, as her mech lost a limb. She directed the needle gun fire at the shadow. A shadow that wasn’t there anymore. Another metallic screech. The other arm. Cut away at the shoulder. By the same shadow, falling again from the sky, in a perfect pirouette. Oriola screamed, boosted back, shot her needle guns once more. The walls of the bunker cracked under fire. Yet, the shadow was nowhere to be found. She breathed heavily, tapped the communicator, shouted into it.

“C… Captain! One of the rhizomes… one of the rhizomes is…”

Her mech shook. The vines. The vines of the Whip-type plant were stopping her from disengaging, causing her Seraph to slide on the asphalt, to grind on it. She frantically pushed all buttons, increased the output, re-oriented the wings.

Till something pierced the cockpit. Oriola shrieked. The tip of a sharp razor blade. Had just. Peeked into her secure cell. From the front of her mech. Going through the armor. Cracking it like butter. Cutting through the screen. Leaving a hole large like a fist. A hole narrow enough that a person couldn’t enter it.

But wide enough for the tendrils to be seep in.

And delve into her body.

Sucking her water out of it.

Slaugh saw the scene in his cameras. The armless rhizome standing on the downed Seraph. Her back tendrils violating the gashes on its armor. He gasped for air, roared like a lion.

“Mitsugashi! Help Oriola, now!”

Just like that time.

Just like that time he saw people melted and being sucked alive by that red-haired plant. The time that made him learn that rhizomes are monsters. The time that scarred his psyche forever. Now, he was there again, on the fields of Komezia, in the middle of the explosions, all while his commander was turned into sludge by acid mist and absorbed while still screaming his lungs out. Slaugh gritted his teeth. Rhizomes. Monsters. Hellish creatures unleashed on Lagash by amoral scientists. Inhuman. Incapable of empathy. Incapable of positive emotions. War machines in the shape of women. He grasped the controls of his Seraph, turned towards the open gate.

Whichever country allowed them to lay waste to the battlefield, to kill people in such a gruesome way, wasn’t a country worth existing. Its people had to be rotten too, rotten to the core. So, the only solution, the only acceptable way to finish that war was total annihilation. Not one of the survivors of New Babylon deserved to live. New Netherlands had to be deleted, all its people had to be deleted, to purge the world from their presence.

Slaugh broke into laughter. It was simple. It was so simple. He just had to forget he was fighting against human beings. Because they weren’t human beings at all, they were just puppets, meat constructs acting like humans and failing miserably at it. So, he abandoned all regrets, aimed at the open, broken down gate of the bunker.

Before unleashing a salvo of missiles right through it.