ASAIMC.7.10. The Last Juned

ASAIMC/7/10

They walked to their place without word and slumped against ruined walls, perched atop the exposed upper floor of a farmhouse with its sides blown open, leaving the room free and unbarred to be swarmed by hungry vegetation, thriving under a sky of delicate peach, bright cloud dispersing the faint sun's influence in what the soldiers thought evening. They were lucky; they had been sent somewhere with a descent day and night rhythm, which allowed for rest, and sometimes sleep. But they were not lethally tired; just needed a while to catch their breaths. It had been a long walk here, and they wouldn't be leaving this place for the next few days. They could afford to hunker down and recuperate.

They were waiting for something.

The man supposed to tell them what was dead, ten or so miles back, so they had marched, the last six of twenty, to the farmhouse rally and would now wait, until they were contacted, or something came. They weren't short on supplies, but they had little equipment. Rifles, pistols and a sword. Two handheld explosives. A lamp, too, which Four worked on while the others set up around the wounded wall, laying their weapons against the ridge and keeping to the shade of sturdy stone and wood, brushing aside vines and mossy outcrops to make room. Two nodded and figured that a shell had torn the place apart, waving to the burnt surfaces opposite.

Six shrugged and took off her mud cape, saying that whoever did it was long gone.

They were all mavens and so had their work on show; thin, reinforced rods for shins and forearms, permanently applied to all save for Three and Five, who had retained their limbs. Everyone had a choice, but it was still uncommon for the offer to be declined. For those modified, their hands and feet had been replaced with mechanical replicants, standard of their rank, enhanced to accommodate the strain they would be put under. Welcome relief, never more so than now.

They had never been pushed this hard. Never lost so many in such a short space of time. Not like any of them complained, as the group took their posts around the thin light and the sun wavered and beckoned night forth, sinking so gently as though the glow were falling through water, sending ripples of colour as it slipped, slowly, down the sky. Those quakes of liquid day made the sky, in its soft tones, and the six watched as they worked.

This was farmland; valuable to someone once. Upturned soil told of a hastened harvest as whoever had lived here fled the conflict before it caught them. That, or they were pillaged by Fools, who stole the crop and moved on, only to be pushed back and then advance forward once more, back to the barn they had destroyed. Nobody had been here in months though, that much the team could tell, as rot hid against the corners and wet framework sagged below the fragmented roof. It wasn't much for cover, but it was better than the fields, which stretched as far as the sun did, carved with the scars of artillery and bombardment from above. They hadn't seen any weapons though, on their way there.

No dismembered craft or firearms. Someone had been scavenging, maybe. Or just some locals who stayed behind to lessen the damage to their homes.

The Juned, captain, One, collapsed against the wall and shuffled to the ground, casting her carmine beret upon a knee, letting her weapon slump against the brace as she breathed, thick mud clinging up to her false ankles and splayed across her torso, a speck on her chin which Five pointed out, his attention to the lamp which shuddered before sparking, casting a dimness barley anything more than the dark which chased the emptiness, claiming their front as night set in and everyone fell silent, without instruction or reason other than the Juned's word, as she told Two and Six to keep an eye on the fields why the rest rested, to switch in a couple of hours.

They'd wait out the dark and set about fortifying the cabin when day broke. All they could do now was sit tight, and allow the shadows to pass.

"Feels like there's a new Theatre every call." Murmured a voice, to which One turned and saw as Three's. "When we get a line back, the first thing they'll tell us is that there's another one."

"Their confidence is up." Replied One, her drawl said to ground. "Fools think we're down because of their push. Think that because they're off with everyone else we'll just go in too and get swept away." She drew her leg in close and hugged the limb, the breath of a cold night slipping through her teeth.

"They're doing something right." Voiced Two, his rifle propped against the ledge of the building to survey the approaching planes. "They cooked us up good; forced us out here. Someone said they were using gas-"

"They were." The Juned said, frowning. "Don't act like those are rumours; they were. Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean they didn't do it." Two paused, turning to One at an angle to hide his gesture, knee on a propped stool of ruined stone to give him a better angle.

"You did?" He asked, shifting his weight. "See the gas?"

"Leave it." Five remarked, busying himself with counting ammunition as rounds lay in piles around him. "Doesn't matter, we're lost anyway."

"Think it matters a fair bit. We weren't given any masks." He returned to the fields, eye lined with his rifle as Five glanced up, but offered nothing more. "For all we know, it could have just been smoke."

"People don't fall like that in smoke." One continued, her gaze dormant and empty to the floor. "Fools knew what they were doing. Flooded in, flushed us out with chemical. How'd they get chemical out here?" She shook her head, sniffing, hands rolling as one for a pretence of warmth.

"Was it a tactical?" Five asked, his bullets piling from a satchel against his thigh. One nodded, without hesitation.

"Hunters, or something. Using the open space to their advantage. Must have known we were coming." She rested her hands atop her head, keeping close one leg as the other lay flat.

"Maybe." Said Six, her angle adjacent to Two's, but only facing more flatland. "Made us run quick, though. I haven't moved like that in months." Two coughed, letting an arm slip to his side as he took a pouch and sprang it with a thumb, lifting another magazine which he placed next to his rifle.

"If it's gas we won't see them coming." Spoke four, his head leant against a beam and his eyes tight, hanging vines resting their burdens atop his crimson head piece. "It'll just look like fog and swarm us." He looked to One who yawned, steady but undeniably tired, her movements sluggish and alien.

"Then we'll move if we see it coming. They came mid-morning last time, right in the light, and still wiped us. Any hint of gas and someone calls it, immediately. If you smell something, scream and shoot. They'll be in the chemical, moving with it." She was speaking from memory, the Juned, reciting exercises without thought as her fatigue gnawed at the weight of her gear. She allowed a moment to pass, raising her head and blinking into the lamp, before she reached to her side and unstrapped her armour, letting it slip loose as she exhaled, rolling her shoulders and kicking out, flicking her leg and wincing with the motion.

"What do you think their plan is?" Continued Two, taking the seconds break before addressing without a turn, his stare hard on the now darkness beyond. "Send wave after wave of gas; pump the stuff out like bullets until everyone's dead? You know how much gas you need just to push a single line? They can't have much left." He flexed his grip and stuffed the rifle hard against his shoulder, prompting feeling against his numbness.

"These are no normal Fools…" The commander slurred, to herself over anyone else, ignoring Two to her own conversation but one spoken aloud. "I haven't seen them move like that before. Never. They should be peasants with knives and close range, not… They had formation. A unit, manoeuvring through a chemical weapon. Them firing gas is nothing new, but…" She rolled her finger over the ridge of her beret, crimson of her division, gaze glassy and hopeless. Uneasy, Six turned, her look one of unsure sympathy toward a woman she thought she'd never, ever, have to console.

They had not been Two through Six a few days ago. Their new digits had been assigned recently.

"We didn't hear them coming, so there couldn't have been many of them. A couple of squads, at most. With the surprise they flung us but we're expecting them now. We have the height, and they'll have to move with their smoke, which will drift, slowly, out here. We'll see them coming and burn through the fog, fill it with rounds and fall back, until the air clears and he move in to finish up. Besides, we don't even know if they're coming for us or if-"

"It's not me I'm worried about." The Juned growled, not in anger but simple tiredness, her face slouching with the effort. "They take this stretch, they take the Forward, and the guns there will rip though the fleet before it can move. We lose this world and the Theatre collapses. We'll give them a weaponised station from which they can bombard any incoming support. They won't even need to worry about damaging the gear during the assault. Just sit back and watch the air boil." She spat her final words, clutching her hat with wired and steel fingers.

The quiet to follow strangled the camp, as thick as the chemicals they feared, a group, friends from childhood, fallen silent to their lack of words.

It was Five who emerged with his voice, leaning forward and abandoning his ammunition to stand, the only one upright, adjusting his headwear with a quick hand.

"Then we stop them here. I wasn't that tired anyway." He took his rifle and walked to the ruined wall, dropping to one knee while hiding the work he forced into crossing the room, lifting his weapon to the ledge. "We cut the light and wait for morning. If we see them, we fight, if not, then we run when we can see. Take points throughout the house?" He asked the Juned, who took a while to acknowledge it was she in command. She nodded, leaning into a crouch and looking to what remained of her unit. She was still foggy and weak, but urged motion into her face as she screwed her eyes tight.

"Yeah, right." It was pathetic, but she needed that. "Three and Four can go downstairs, make sure nobody comes around our blind." She nodded to the duo, who returned her gesture. "Two and Six can hold here. Anyone see a way to the roof?" She lunged up and grimaced, watching with heavy breaths as Five propped himself against the building's wound and started to climb, taking a foot to the edge and hauling himself up as he moved from sight.

"One of us can take the roof." Two offered, looking the commander up and down with a face of subtle uncertainty. "You can keep this floor instead." But she managed a smile, the Juned, letting it slip into a slight sneer, shouldering her weapon as she flexed her other arm, slipping the wrist in arcs to kick some feeling back into her sore limbs, the mechanical components strong but only as strong as she, her beret cocked with her rank emblazoned on its brow and her Sai Shirkan's sigil upon her bicep, worn and battered but free from dirt.

"You guys need the cover." She said, passing the group with a hand to Two's shoulder as she swung her weapon and her armour atop the building and let Five drag her up after, her mud cape catching the gentle air as she rose only to crouch, thanking her comrade with a hand already back to her rifle.

The wind was soft and played with loose hairs, and she took a heavy breath to wash thought. As she crouched, her face found moisture, and a rain started to form. It helped her blink away fatigue.

She lay flat, felt the cold against her knees and the falling wet against her back and the coolness of her weapon as she rested her cheek against its slick pad, eye to the scope of her destruction, specialised for greater range over these barren flats, breath calm and steady as Five mirrored her movements alongside, both tracing the side from which they had approached, their silence louder than any gunshot as the captain slipped into the supposed respite she knew well; of her head leant upon a weapon, the winds direction and speed playing with her hair as she pulled the collar of her tunic up and rested her armour by her side, clasps open to allow her more rounds at pace. Below her, she saw the edges of the lamp split and the night consume, as their little building was submerged by the surrounding dark, becoming but a totem against the black.

She trusted these people with her life, and loved them more than any other thing.

They were her family of the Hadoran Uor, her new friends, who followed those stolen from her by the Fools, back when her world had been neutral. Those of Mu had taken her to their homes and welcomed her as kin, as blood of their Emperors, who gave their lives in silence so that one day, a leader could rise from the steam and smoke, not to reset the common order or progress their totalitarian agenda, but to rid the universe of the Fools who sought to burn everything considered good. Everything considered beautiful, without cause. Without reason, but driven to the furthest extents by a logic no Imperial could truly understand.

A thought no sane person could accommodate.

They offered her an education, but she declined them at the age of twelve, leaving to an Imperial College to learn her arts. They had been good to her as she grew, brought her up kind and appreciative of what she had, but what bled as the deepest of wounds, untouchable and incurable, precise and brutal against her small heart, could not be sweetened and healed through kindness.

No benevolence nor promise offered by the loving Museishingen people could change her mind. She hadn't been wealthy, and no grand future had awaited her before the Empire, but with them they bestowed upon her the means of education and employment, and fulfilment away from those demons who scorched her world.

She left at the age of twelve, but it was no little one that walked the halls of the college and entered a programme which would take from her what bleeding sense of childhood she still retained, alongside her teenage years and therefore the rest of her life, claiming her limbs at the end of the process to seal her fate. She had entered at Twelve and left a Juned, a field commander. Still young. Almost too young, but then little of her remained, as her youth fell under the bloody cap she donned and the black uniform she bore. A soldier of the most dedicated prowess.

She had not known the luxuries a good life could offer and had not taken the time to indulge, so that she sought no breaks or rest from her regime as the years sprawled before her, and the body once weak to the gunfire which peppered her and her people emerged stricken with the insignia of one who had devoted herself to nothing but this one vigil for as long as she could recall.

But she could see it now, as she lay alongside Five and held the horizon upon her barrel. These were her people; these soldiers, born of a culture devoted to nothing but combatting the threat which moved to decimate all. They sought, not to claim the universe from the Fools, or to assert their power and claim dominion. The Museishingen people, in their corner of the universe, had but one goal. One destiny, from birth to death. An admirable thing, which they waved upon pikes of slick blood.

To destroy the Fools.

Grind them to a pulp and splatter the mess upon the clean walls of the Imperial chambers. To take them by their throats and rip them apart, piece by piece, without the remorse offered to an opponent who cared for themselves and instead given that which their creed demanded.

Untamed, uncontrollable, insane fury, tamed only upon the trigger of a sharpshooter, trained to walk with both the weight of their bodies and their rifles. She knew not the origins of their conflicts, where their defence had been birthed, but she would leave that to those concerned with the many worlds once her war was finished.

She would not criticise them or cast distain upon their approach and would instead offer them the reverence the Imperial scholars deserved. But she did not need to know, so she never sought the words. The Imperials did not fight for their territory or a persecuted people. They had no race, no ethnicity or religion. They had a lot of guns and swords and bombs and ships and cannons that thay and their silent Emperors had forged and they were willing to give them to anyone willing to bare the Museishingen banner and denounce the Fools Strings, the leadership, and the scum which waded after them.

To say she would have joined regardless would be naïve, but the captain knew she could not fight with such intensity if she hadn't felt the flames of the Fools against her heels, as she'd run all those years ago.

To remember what they'd done to her small portion of the universe was what drove her to stand.

To snarl, against the hoards as a foreigner never more at home, and walk alongside the brethren with which she had become who she was today. Not an advocate of dictatorship. Not the zealot to autocracy.

A warrior; the same as everyone else upon these many worlds, but she had the guns and the swords and the soldiers to bring the rest to their knees, and an aptitude for something beyond simple combat. A tendency, innate and animalistic.

An urge, drilled in by force, as she lay even now, worn and tired, without reinforcements and without hope, upon a distraught world gripped by her conflict. She may fall. She may even cry and stare, mindless and sore, blind toward a blank wall. But nothing could sever the connections within her mind, honed over so many years of perpetual torment.

If the chemical Fools crossed her again, she would not turn. Her fear had sent her running for the sake of her team, but now nothing would catch her unawares. Her fellows could offer her consolation, but they needn't give her a plan.

She already had one. She always had.

She let loose a tense breath and sank into the roofing, becoming still and silent with observation cast to the fields as below and beside her others mirrored their combined thoughts.

Because they all knew, in that space and at that time, that they would not leave this place, and would die here before the sun rose. Together they gazed, empty and thoughtless, for the high rolling waves of dark they sought, surveying the farmland without a need for caution or discretion.

Counting ammunition by hand and without eye, sizing up their price for what felt like but a moment.

A set of seconds, racing to become and then go.

Then the air slowly bled and started to really rain, influenced by something else, cutting the sky as ribbons of sickly, ochreous gold advanced, illuminated by the high moon until it was crossed by the lines of illness, swaying like streamers miles and miles above. Gently slipping through the clouds, and consuming the natural light, blanketing a darkness to shroud the motionless, who waited and watched.

"They have the wind." Five whispered, his words lethal but spoken without fear. One did not move, and read the still clear horizon, which slipped down below and hill and to the still invisible beyond.

"They think us cowards." The Juned replied, face flat to her rifles aim. "And they think their path clear." She levelled with the distant field and stared, vision empty but to the flowing smokes above, which oozed from beyond that mound, delivered in quantities capable of drowning the heavens as it passed high and continued without a sign of relent.

"If the wind changes it could loop back and take us from behind." Five muttered, his voice almost lost to the now cascading waters, turning an inch to watch the dying shades flow overhead. But One let a grunt slip, shaking her head a fraction and keeping sight. The downpour steadied, before weakening a little, the first raid of consumption passed.

"This will all be well and finished by then." The words ran from her mouth like venom, pale the slick, echoing from an unmoving form which lay a finger atop death and waited for something to move among the drizzle, crest the hill and fall upon their fronts before they'd even truly risen. Massacre whatever had deployed chemical threats and ruined the land of thousands who relied on these crops, to burn her best soldiers from the inside out. Five made a noise which implied a grin as he too steadied, spying the mound under the rippling effect of the smoke above.

Its intricate pattern running itself like water over the murdered space, streaming from a horizon which was, at a moment, was bare and barren.

Then, invaded by a line which rushed the slope, momentarily imposing combat before all guns ceased their pursuit and a frown became the Juned and her team, as they spied terror and fear in frantic and uncontrolled movements, illuminated by the bright yet marred moon which observed a trail of prey in Imperial gear, stricken and helpless, coughing as a few of the rear fell, their rifles cast over loose shoulders and their minds shattered, as the captain shifted and rose to a knee, wide eyed and confused, as she herd voiced below.

"The light." She called to Two and Six. "Turn the light on." They did, and cast their beams before the building as she reached down, a hand beckoning the lamp to be passed. Taking the bulb, she held it high and with the other raised her weapon as the runners slowed for a moment, before bolting, taking uneasy strides which outpaced their attention as a few tripped, giving them enough time to look back at their fallen comrades, some of whom still crawled but without hope of survival; just to get away from whatever sat against the back of that hill.

"What's the play?" Three called from below, his barrel emerging from the shadows of a bullet torn doorway, following the incoming figures on the precipice of command.

"Let them come. We can form a line." She could taste objection but she moved before it came, descending from her perch to the second floor, wet with droplets cast in lamplight, to land among growing puddles, and then down to the first, crossing the stationed duo who offered looks of objection before she left, walking the field to the approaching line,

Maybe fifteen, maybe twelve, the leader of which came to the front to her raised rifle, which stared them down as they came, her motionless form a slither of black against the harsh light, halting the team immediately.

"Please, we don't have long." The runner voiced, panting with a hand raised toward the gunner, soaked and heaving. Basic armour. Basic Kit. A detachment or broken division, fleeing the swarm. A division, eaten. As she thought, he noticed her cap and the marks across her body, and straightened slightly.

"How far?" She let the silence fill her words, a statue of skeletal limbs with a cannon in her hands, her armour behind but her cape, peppered with dirt, still clinging to her shoulders, wavering with the winds which pursued the fleeing mob, which seemed neither inclined to stay nor to leave, as they quickly surmised that their retreat would be halted regardless of whether they met Fool or Imperial. The leader, breathless, shook his head.

"We can't fight them. We need to run." The Juned nodded slowly, feeling the scopes of her brethren behind.

"How far?" She repeated, holding her weapon to his head as the uncertain warriors around him exchanged glances, their own firearms out of reach but baited by their desperation, as they faced execution either by a fellow or a bloody, retching fog. "You're not going anywhere. Tell me what you know and then pitch around this building." He blinked, lips wavering. "If they push any further, then they'll take the Forward."

"You're ridiculous." He mumbled, looking back to the clouds while his cohort weighed their chances upon the tips of their grip, as tentative grasps wavered before the red beret, who raised her head a fraction above her scope.

"I'm better."

She called, loud and embracing among the lurching clouds which only thickened as time passed. "I don't need you, yet I can't let you desert. Your weapons would be more useful in our arms, anyway." She didn't want to shoot him, but as the sickly, diseased shades advanced, she lay her aim close, envisioning blood against the man's comrades as they resigned themselves to their fates, on the precipice of attack to be halted by an outcry, a roar from behind as the Juned turned to an outstretched hand, pointing to the horizon, which vanished under the waves of lethal fumes which spilled the bank, rippling at their highest peaks under the rainfall but holding strong as a swarm which bled down the mound and started across the open stretch, leaking like a wound over the ruined crops and choking all air it seized. The Juned didn't move, but her new opposition did, their heads turning with animalistic, untamed fear in the face of two deaths, seeing the speed of the river and its closing distance and then looking to the farmhouse, with its raised ground, their eyes either widening with the realisation or squinting with a true understanding of the situation. The leader of this detachment let his eyes tighten with his lips, as he rolled a freezing hand and blinked again.

To watch that silent, rolling swell approach inspired emotions the Juned thought never before experienced. At least, not in such severities.

The rains slipped through the smog and swamped the fields, ringing against the cold steel of poised rifles and playing its song atop the broken roofing, but the greatest of all sounds was the rhythm made against the Juned's cape, which still swayed with the dying air, icy waters rolling down her face and suit and fluttering from her short coat, the sky echoing a strangled gold against the gas, like a sun in its dying hours, as the leader of the deserters raised a hand and offered it forth, taking his shouldered weapon with the other and waiting for his fellows to do the same, grimace closed as some seemed indignant to follow but did so regardless, as broken minds started without instruction toward the barn, leaving their figurehead in silence until but he and the Juned remained, who turned and followed the others, abandoning the soldier who turned, careless in gaze toward the smoke, hesitation taking him for a mere second, his legs beckoning him toward relief, before he followed his comrades to the barn.

There was no retreat, the commander saw, as the wet dog of a warrior entered the hut and she watched, waited as they arranged themselves in defensive points within and outside the house, seemingly closing their minds to the sight of the unstoppable, perpetually advancing smog, which crawled toward the stationed line.

She would wager, the formation's chief decided, their survival on the arrogance of the Fools, and take their survival from there. If the gas was left to move without control it would choke each and every single combatant without a bullet fired, and those atop the roof would only live long enough to hear their fellows plead before they too breathed their deaths, or were shot by those among the fog.

She would wager, then, that these Fools found humour in their kills, justifying their murderers with a shrug as all of their blood did, and prayed as the churning demise advanced that, at least to spare those on the higher floors, the demons who sent their chemicals forward to do their work would halt or dampen the stream, and allow the remaining force at least a chance to redeem themselves slightly, as the last remaining vanguard of this worlds defence hid among the thin walls of a shack, and aimed their weapons toward a sightless, emotionless foe, which promised to kill them all in a way so efficient, it brought laughter to the sight of rifles. The Juned rolled her wrist and took a breath, walking toward the stairs up as the man she had forced to surrender reached out and caught her arm, holding her still as he took her eyes.

"They want us because we killed one of them." He said, leaning in. "They'd want us regardless, but they've been on our tail specifically. One of then strayed from the cloud and we shot him. Saw a patch with their name against it. Their squad, or whatever they are." His gaze wavered under the pressure, and he blinked hard.

"What did it say?" She asked, letting him keep her arm as those nearby fell into their ranks. His eyes fluttered, but he stood true as a worn face spoke.

"It said Uakaris."

A pause.

"I don't know if that means anything to you, but it doesn't to me. Something we didn't know about, maybe?" She raised a brow.

"Maybe." She replied, removing herself and keeping his eye for a second longer. "But none of that matters. Block it all out. The name, the fears. We die here." She let a smirk slip. "Make them remember you, instead." She turned from the others and ascended, passing faces of worry and hands to steel, addressing their ammunition and counting their rounds as they stationed themselves at every available opening, trailing up through the floors to her five, who had all relocated to the second space, observing the advance from behind their decrepit barrier.

Among the abundant and free greenery, she looked to the group, illuminated only faintly.

"Can't see anyone." Two grunted, glancing to her as she took a knee. "No lights or anything." The water fell lightly, trickling in thin streamers down the opening.

"Wait for them to come up close." She said, allowing all others near to hear her too, and then turning over a shoulder, to call to all. "When they're right on top of us, unload a magazine. Burst your fire, keep it as neat as possible. Don't all run out at once. Stagger, so we have a chance to reload. We will wait for them to return, hope this smog slows enough to give us a chance. Then we keep on shooting, and beg the chemical is compensating for something."

She nodded to her five, who returned the gesture and fell to their positions, pivoting in single motions to address their presumed targets, as the dark clouds marched to a soundless march, seething as a mass of shadows toward the single lamp and the single structure, the rain beginning to swell and engage its true strength again as the cabin fell silent, haunted by the pretence of a final assault to come calling, ringing, roaring against weak framework and weaker bodies, as the fog charged the line in slow motion.

The Juned, who could see each individual tendril lurch and each coil slither, rolled her jaw and shifted to address her fellows, as the final captain on a front considered lost, pinned by cold and rain and an invisible enemy.

"The Museishingen Empire fights for all people, and all places." She had to shout against the sounds beyond, her voice to be lost but regained as she gave her everything to those final words. "So think of something you love, and fight for that. Give your all for the universe we have rightfully inherited, so that what we cherish may prosper forevermore." To keep her nerve, she twisted into her final terms and levelled her rifle with the opening, a thin spray from her barrel whipping, hard against the woodwork as a snarl took to its scope, and eyed the vapours with an untamed trigger, prepared to give herself to what she truly believed, this time, would be her final stand.

That which she may be remembered for. What would leave her impression against the Fools.

She waited, letting the smog come closer.

Let approach the fire and the bile of lethal apprehension into her lungs, so hot that she thought she was already breathing gas in.

Heard the waters and the breathing and the screaming quiet of the oncoming threat. Felt her beret atop her skull and the implanted connection points for all her limbs.

Felt what made her a Juned, as those around her dreamt of home. Felt what separated her from her comrades.

She felt at home, surrounded by those with places to which they could return. She felt her family, who all dreamt of their beloved blood.

She felt what made her a Juned. What gave her that rank, and separated her from those nearby, to the point where it was but she, alone in this barn, facing an army as a drenched, hopeless, furious thing.

One fired her weapon, and unleashed a bombardment of firepower set to turn its apprehension to fire, and splayed the gas in a firestorm as it pooled and rumbled and tore, moving like fabric as the lamp was dwarfed and the rain was dampened, forced to grow to contend with the roar which seemingly echoed between each chemical particle, screaming in shades of gunfire as the edges of the shooters flickered in an out of view, slipping for a second from the darkness as they unloaded their pockets into the swarm, which writhed and seethed under their influence. Curling against the onslaught.

The Juned ran dry.

She pulled back, already reloading as those around her followed, draining their magazines as the sound calmed and the lights dimmed, and the last of the Imperial survivors drew their weapons home, barrels slipping back within the buildings walls as the thunder of their final attempt shook the fields, ringing to its furthest points and its highest peaks but only as far as the chemicals allowed, the flock circling its prey as a creature of likeminded murder.

Wounded, yes, but of an insignificant amount to an insignificant area, the captain thought, as she breathed and stared at the approaching mass, which seemingly recoiled under their onslaught, and had slumped below their assault, the cloud shaking under the influence of the rain which picked up once again, retaking its pride and battling the peaks of the smog, forcing them down as shapes started to shift within the conglomerate, appearing to the adjusting eye which corrected itself in the wake of the attack, and appeared as figures within the mist.

The Juned watched as several agents stood, straightening below the brace of bullets, slow and steady.

Fools, their faces guarded from their immoral tool by vivid red masks, which moved from the plated respiratory apparatus up to a predator's goggles, in shielding of their gaze and up the crown, from which lurched a thicket of tubing, considered from afar as hair, which trailed from their heads and down into a mane of heavy fur which lined their shoulders, as though of some animal.

They stood tall, cradling weapons, turning their cardinal attention slowly to those of Mu who busied themselves silently with preparing for another volley, observing from cover as the Uakaris, plagued by the same rains which made sodden their pelts, reached around their backs and produced canisters, large but portable, with which they played for a moment, unperturbed as the two parallel forces worked their counters, with the red headed division finishing first, shifting to cast their canisters with speed and accuracy as sickness drained from their nozzles, spiralling with the projectile as the Juned on the upper level cursed and shouldered her rifle, already moving to the building's wound as those below started to cry.

The grenades blew and chemical erupted throughout the ground floor.

Instantly vaporising any clean air within the room, the gas burst from shattered windows and cracks in the walls, draining in excess as a lethal fog which ensnared the floor, rising through the boards to the second level as the Juned's five followed her up, the rest looking to fire back upon the Fools who were already moving, raising rifles to the fleeing Imperials who burst from the door and collapsed on the mud, raising bleeding faces to quick execution before the crack of a rifle.

Those who had stationed themselves outside the building retaliated but fought a battle of ammunition and sight as they rubbed sore eyes and choked on bladed breath, many collapsing even before the Uakaris shot and tore them to shreds, peppering the thin clouds around them as the channels of gas moved with the bullets which divided them.

Any still inside the lower level had already drowned and any slipping survivors were being dealt with against hurried cries and grovelling roars, as the Fools worked silently, apparently content to let those higher move while they dispatched those down low, firing blunt and close into the Imperials, who crawled and stumbled from the shack.

The Juned glanced back, and saw the scene which made the sky cry.

Mechanical fingers dug into the stone and wood and hauled the captain up, her other hand working to assist her closest fellows until another, Two, was up, before she turned back on the enemy and raised a wide, merciless eye upon the masked abusers who drifted below, legs still submerged in the fog as their forms slid in and out of vision among the rising fumes, her aim centring on the one definitive target she could locate.

More joined her on the roof and she let a long sigh loose, allowing her finger to tense, as the trigger flared and she rocked the red head below, severing cables and metal and skull before moving to another, her legs falling into a crouch as the water cascaded and the sky burned illness under a great moon and a sickening advance, and the red berets of the Museishingen specialists rose in a defensive stoop, to lay a final assault upon those approaching, who now emerged from all angles, advancing from the surrounding miasma as ruby ghouls, stalking a trapped and already reeling foe it thought to be defeated.

Rising from the effluvium from all sides, draped in their fleeces and ordinance and rain which persisted, orchestrated by the chemicals as waves of cold drenched the final stand.

The Juned saw more arms flail, reaching for the ledge but falling as shots now pursued the heights, crashing against frail supports and rotting sides and destroying those not already with shielding, as the low unit crouched ever lower and rounds passed overhead, the last of the calls from underneath churning toward silence, collapsing as the onslaught pursued and the thrown gas joined completely with that moving from around, taking the ground totally and leaving the decrepit spire the last object among a sea of disease, among which walked the architects of this sprawling plague, their attentions turned heavenward, careless postures holding heads which rose up, with their weapons in toe.

Heavy breaths and grunts of effort played against her ear, the resounding noise as the only indication of life against the belligerent downpour, the fatigue starting to seep through again as the circle of six stood, with their bodies soaked and their minds burning, one way annihilation and the other their home, beset by the red devils who stalked forward, firing whenever anything flinched beyond cover and forcing the already tight formation tighter. Still the vapours rose but they gave their pace to their architects, who cleared without fear the lower rooms, confident of their apocalypse and rising to take the ascending stairs, sights skyward in pursuit of the final combatants, who needn't share glances nor present their ideas.

But fell into their common mind and lowered their weapons, slow but in synchronisation with heaving, heavy gasp as the liquid bombardment persisted and they fired, letting loose a burst through their ground and down to the Fools below, who traced themselves back to the shelter of another floor.

From amid the smog, a building rose, illuminated by lamplight and a rotting moon, a group of black-clad figures seething atop, soaked in rain and hate.

The Juned felt the base below her shudder and become weak with the assault, her daze removing any true thought as instinct claimed her body, and dull imagination pulled at her initiative for a plan. She had accepted her death, but to accept that and then allow these crimson-faced murderers to walk free was something she could not let pass, as her failure sealed the fate of the Forward and therefore their campaign in this region.

There was nothing left for an Imperial to do here, yet she shifting to address her five with their final command.

"Level this thing."

A faint wind played against the weathering sheets. "The impact of its collapse will clear the gas for a couple of seconds. Five, maybe six, maximum. Six seconds. I can give you six seconds."

She was sluggish and worn but still alive, still breathing and therefore still fighting, speaking without breath and thinking without thought but felt the nods and faces of those around her and didn't need a verbal response, didn't need confirmation but just wheezed, the threads of lamplight spearing through the new-born wounds in the building and crossing through the rains as a trailing loose of ribbons, still but shifting at their points over the shaking forms which stood, decided on their fates and exchanging final moments of silence as they all lowered once more, truly once more, to descend upon the bodies of their brethren and the evils who had slaughtered them.

The Juned let loose her aim, softened her grip, expression convoluted but not fearful, never scared. Resoundingly resolute, as she had abandoned her terror for the sake of her people.

But she truly was not scared. She could say it with confidence. A fact. And as she gave a glance to each of her combatants, she saw that familial kinship she regarded as the premise of her devotion.

The spark in each scowl and sneer which gave weight to the Museishingen cause. A purpose. The reason they fight, beyond long dead beliefs and philosophies.

Other than this observation, her thoughts decided to cut itself and bleed within her skull, to save themselves from the gas, leaving her body to act.

A blaze erupted, an inferno of fluctuation, splintering, shattering flames and the building shook, collapsing in on itself as beams gave way and plumes of viscous dust billowed from the foundations, splitting the mist as the Uakaris inside were crushed and those near retreated, stumbling back to their perimeter as the Six fell, keeping their weapons tight but falling with little grace into the clouds, caught in a fit of coughing similar to the toxin's influence, beams and rods coming apart under their weight as hard stone and wood impacted against tiresome bodies, crumbling into dirt with a shockwave of force which gave the tumbling group the opening they desired, as still slipping forms wavered upon knees and palms, already raising their offensive before their foes had returned.

The Uakaris rose from their stoops and steadied but found stance too late, rounding on flared colours as the now submerged torch shone its embers through a patchwork of debris and water, illuminating but the backs of the surrounding force who took their rifles in two hands and found sight, not rallying so much as lurching into their strikes as a volley cut through their empty space and sent the Fools slipping, retaliating in retreat as an encounter which must have only taken those predicted seconds stretched across days, as the Five and their Juned held their triggers to never release, and turned on each new foe, already firing, spraying as images of harsh shadow and hard illumination, cloaked and skeletal.

She felt as though she'd been fighting for campaigns, her arms cumbersome and her legs throbbing when the chemical menaces regained their composure and lined up straight shots, scything now with expected accuracy through the ring of Six. She didn't even know she'd been hit before a round took her hip and she fell, the moment of stillness allowing every other wound do declare its entrance as her brethren succumbed also.

Her whole body shook, surprised by the sudden messages of so many components torn apart, and she rolled upon all fours, abandoning her rifle as the attack persisted inches above her crown, the others who still stood taking the blows while she wheezed, dropping on knees as they held their deaths and spat them back.

They hadn't killed many, she could see that. She hadn't expected anything otherwise though, as those hit but able to recover did, and stumbled up to add their bullets to the fray.

Another ripped through her chest and took a breath, the moisture in her lungs icy against the cold night winds.

Someone collapsed by her side, toppling unceremoniously and landing in an awkward turn. She reached over to help, but couldn't raise her arm.

Her hat spiralled and her back shuddered, pressed against the nothing by a blast behind her. The explosives, she thought, as the approaching Fools were illuminated for a brief second before the dense rain and gas consumed them.

She was going deaf, she could fell it, but then she blinked and considered it a lesser of her troubles.

She looked up to one of them, fur and mask and boot, and he kicked and sent her back, against another body.

She lay there, staring up at the water and the moon and the dead clouds, and tried to move.

She could but blink, and feel another piece of her die as all gunfire bled, and the silence stuck its banner.

She blinked again and tried to breathe.

She'd never liked dying.

A Uakaris walked over and crouched, primitive in his observance as he surveyed the fallen and nodded to a passing comrade, their convoy already continuing as half moved forward and the other half traced back, presumably for the chemical.

The Last Juned gazed at him, emotionless and drawn simply by exhaustion, as the effort of shifting sank into the pooling mud and rubble. Motion, becoming dead, subject to rain which played with her pain, and mocked in chemical shades. He noticed, and seemed unsure of what to do, wobbling slightly but not looking away. She tried to make words, her lips wavering on the unpronounceable, and he changed his angle slightly to indicate he could see this too. Instead, he reached down and rested his open hand upon her forehead, pushing her back slightly as she struggled to hold her skull, and she fell to his gesture, letting her face relax with the wet, her features twitching with each hit of rainfall.

"We won't take your base."

His voice was like a stream, rolling down to her.

"We just need the equipment and the craft. We apologise that you had to give your life for this." He looked away, catching something off from her vision, and reached to draw loose the sword in their provisions, holding it loosely in one hand. With a slight lean he pulled the steel free, and placed its case flat, moving the sword near her.

"Rest easy now." He spoke, sliding the blade through.