Astrakane City Center, 19:00.

The Crawlers surged across the centuries-old impact craters; their hollow and deep forms a reminder of the destructive nature that Mankind once possessed.

"Still possesses," muttered Colonel Troy, peering at his amassing enemy with the practiced calm of a tried and tested battlefield commander.

A few of his soldiers coughed nervously, or shivered. Their sounds of quietened or masked despair were a shrieking cry in Colonel Troy's mind, but it was too late to make another of his grand speeches. No words would soothe his boy-soldiers, as they stared down at the writhing blackness of sin that was slithering its way towards their positions.

"Easy now fellahs," he said, refusing to take his eyes away from the looking glass he had set up on a pile of sandbags atop a crumbling Old World tower block. "Don't fire until I give the command, our lives depend on it."

Some of the coughs and shivers stopped, but not enough. He could be speaking an alien tongue for all they cared. Luckily, he could count on most of them to obey his command - he was a War Hero after all, lavished like a prized whore with all kinds of shiny medals, courtesy of the President of course.

The Crawlers were getting close, and they would stop as one every few seconds to peer up at Colonel Troy and his men. It never ceased to amaze him how well coordinated they were, as if a single mind controlled them all.

"And a retarded one at that," the Colonel grunted.

"Sir?" one his Lieutenants asked, bewildered by the remark.

Colonel Troy snapped from his reverie like a mouse trap, and eyed the man with his tired stare. "Retarded, Lieutenant Barker, the Crawlers are retarded."

"Yes sir," Barker replied, his youthful smile an uncertain monument to his faith in the man who have saved the Republic a dozen times.

The Colonel paid him no further heed, and went back to tracking the progress of the Crawlers. There were surely hundreds of them, all with their slimy skin, falling over one and other to get ever closer to their prey. Little did they know however, that the Colonel had sent several teams during the daylight to line the rims of the craters with TNT. Furthermore, he'd had several crude anti-personnel mines deployed at the base of the tower blocks. In a matter of seconds, the Crawlers were going to be surrounded on all sides by huge explosions and flying shrapnel.

"Just a little further," he said quietly.

The first Crawler to reach the base of the tower blocks paused as its webbed hand creaked down on something hard and cool to the touch, and then the world became very vibrant and colorful.

An hour later, Astrakane City Center

"Forty five wounded, seventeen dead," Leiutent Barker said sullenly. His youthful features were caked in grime and soot, and his bandaged left hand was generously drenched in his own blood.

Colonel Troy sighed as he kicked over the smouldering corpse of a Crawler, and spat at it. "Nearly half our men, by the Red Pegasus, a few more victories like this and the war will be over in days... though not in our favor!"

Lieutenant Barker nodded, his skin paling with blood loss. "Yessir, but our early estimates put a the Crawlers at a thousand permanent casualties. We haven't won a battle on this scale in nearly a-"

"Year, yes, yes, I know - I was there," Colonel Troy said, giving Barker a warm smile. His eyes fell to the young man's hand, and his brow furrowed. "Lieutenant, I fear you lied when you told me your wounds were superficial."

"Just a flesh wound sir," Barker replied, trying to straighten himself in an effort to appear more energetic.

"Indeed, I've seen many men die from such 'flesh wounds'," Colonel Troy grunted. "Off to triage with you, I will not be spending this evening writing to young Mrs. Barker about how brave her husband was."

Barker smiled sheepishly, and nodded. "As you wish, Colonel." The young Lieutenant staggered away in the direction of a team of waiting medics.

Left alone among the bodies of the Crawlers and the sounds of his men performing a cleaning sweep of the enemy dead, Colonel Troy pondered up at the stars. A warm breeze came in from the north, and for a moment he allowed himself to hope that this time, he could finally drive the Crawlers out of the city and secure the road for his peoples' future greatness.

But he knew it was probably a lost cause. The Crawlers out numbered his men three to one, and the bandits were a cancer that had threatened the western front time and time again. What he needed was more soldiers, and more guns - but where would he get them? His campaigns were bleeding the Republic dry, literally. President Ambrose would not sanction another draft.

"What I need are some mercenaries," he said to no one in particular. A few passing soldiers looked at him quizzically, but soon returned to their tasks when he swept them with his tired gaze.

1st Republican Army Staging Post Alpha, Eastern Front. 21:00.

With the blessing of the President, Colonel Troy found himself sat at an old table. Upon it, was a radio - a new build, no more than a wooden box with a few coat hangers sticking out of it... though the technician seemed enthused about its potential to reach as far as Lindow.

With a cough to clear his throat, he began.

"This is Colonel Solomon Troy of the Republic of the Flaming Sun, based in the ruins of Astrakane. If you can hear this, we are interested in enlisting the services of individuals with combat experience. Prices are negotiable. There will be a Republican checkpoint north of the city, head there if you are interested, and you will be issued orders and the terms of your contract.

Threaten that checkpoint, and I promise that the full extent of the Republic's military power will be turned on you."

He sat back in his chair, cringing internally. He was not so great at speaking to an invisible audience, but the President insisted that it had to be him to make the broadcast. He looked at the technician, who looked back with quiet respect.

"That'll do, stick it on repeat and broadcast it every thirty minutes," he said to the technician. "Inform the President that I will be taking the 1st Brigade to the north immediately."

Going north was a risky move, as it would cut him off from the Republic, but he dared not allow any potential mercenaries into the homes of his citizens. No, instead, he would create a new army in the north, and once it was ready, he would lead it south and smash the Crawlers from both directions. It was a frail plan, but the Republic could no longer afford a protracted conflict with its eternal enemy.

North of Route A21 19:00

The moonlight illuminated the faces of two men talking to each other in the night. The first had a rather scruffy beard and matted black hair, the other clean shaven with dusty brown hair. They stood in front of what looked like a hill.

"Your sure? This is one of them." His voice shook with nervousness as he studied the mound in front of him.

"I wouldn't have called you out here if it wasn't. We don't know how many are in there, but a small one like this would have 80 to 150, depending on how deep it goes. Jonathan we need to act now. If we don't th-"

"No. We have worse things to worry about than a couple of crawlers. We need to use our resources to keep the bandits at bay. We can't waste them on a nest that will probably attack another city before it comes to us. That's my final say. I'm going home."

Jonathan walked back through the wasteland, stepping on the occasional can, or piece of trash. Ahead he could see the outline of walls towering over him. Even from this far away they were gigantic. Those walls were the walls he would soon be passing through. Those of the murderous bandits that took his home from him.

He trudged on through the dry grass, when he thought he heard something behind him. More footsteps. He stopped, and the sound ended shortly after. He was being followed.

"Nick? Nicholas is that you? There was no answer. He called again and again with the same results. Only one time did he get an answer. A loud hiss erupted from in front of him. In an instant he readied his rifle. The energy gauge was at 20.5. He heard the his again, multiple times. There were more. Without thinking he flipped a switch to automatic and fired into the grass, hearing hisses and seeing movement in the grass as he did so. The crawlers were coming, and they were coming now.

Lifeless Cradle, Road B10, come from Whitebridge and nearing Tregaron

“Hey, neat,” Riley said, bending down briefly to scoop out a gas mask from the old beaten pavement by the porthole-ridden road. She dangled it from its straps, inspecting at it from all angles inquisitively. It looked reasonably effective, and she gave it a final sniff. “Smells of ashes and coppery blood,” she mumbled bleakly. In a split second she was grinning and positively glowing as she slipped it through a loop on her belt. “Perfect.”

With a quick jogging stride, Riley caught up with the rest of the troop that had marched by her. Klaus – a hardened man in his last twenties who looked forty – had his cracked and calloused hands tightened around a rifle. It sprouted from his limbs like an extension of himself, and he was slowly swinging it about in a 160º-angle. A scar blazed over his left eye. Riley loped up next to him, one hand lazily tucked into her belt where she could feel the edges of her blades. “Have I ever told you that you remind me of old Ovin?”

“Only a million times.” The words were delivered with a scowl. Ah. Yes. Klaus was the unfunny one. The serious one. “Most people don’t like being told they resemble dead people.”

Riley waved an errant finger over her own eye. “It’s the…” she trailed off, and Klaus turned to face her, never breaking stride. Another scowl. Right. Klaus didn’t like to think about the eye scar.

Maybe it was Unhinged Kevlar whom Riley was thinking about, called Kevlar for his lucky invincible run in escaping crossfires without so much as a scratch over fifteen years, and unhinged because he was, usually. But he made for a good laugh on a bad day.

Oh, no, Kevlar had gotten shot the day before last back in Whitebridge. Bled out on the stone steps while his girl had clutched him willing him back to life.

Turned out he hadn’t been so bulletproof after all.

But Kevlar’s death had sparked the move on B10. They never found the sniper that had embedded a bullet in Kevlar's lung, and Heath had decided that a move was what the band needed, after raiding what they could from Whitebridge. Food, supplies, some ammunition. They had left Farl back on the stone steps with Kevlar. The girl hadn’t wanted to move from the corpse, and the bandits hadn’t wanted to wait. Riley figured she was dead by now. She might have placed bets on how long she would have lasted, but she figured no one wanted to wager on something that would remain unanswered for the rest of time.

Shame on you, Riley, a voice – saner than most – rang in her head. Admonishing. When was the last time Riley had had that tone used on her? What would your mother say about your morbidity?

Nothin’, she chided right back almost childlishly to the disembodied voice. On the account that she’s dead. Been dead for eight years. Riley’s reply was sharp and snappish, but she couldn’t lie to herself that the first reproachful voice was something that brought her back from the edge repeatedly. Something that she heard in the dead of night. Something she heard less and less, while her thoughts jumped more and more from thread to thread, leaping further each moment and growing erratic in their game of skipping.

“And my spirit, haunted by vertigo, is jealous / Of the insensibility of nothingness,” she heard herself recite.

“What’chu say?” Riley looked up sharply, to see a boy with a long face peering at her through squirrelly eyes. What was this one’s name?

“Nothin’.” Words darted through Riley's mind, disjointed and confused until she pieced them together. The Abyss. William Aggeler. Riley had a faded memory of flipping through a book of…poetry. She had scanned through those words, eyes moving carelessly before tossing the bundle of pages into the roaring fire, to roast and burn into ashes with the rest of its bookshelf. Their last night at Whitebridge had been cold anyway, and most books were rotted. And if the burn marks on the library floor and the gaping holes on the shelves had been any indication, Riley and her gang hadn’t been the first to desecrate the yawning hall of knowledge.

The boy squinted narrowly at Riley, put off. Ah! Nid. That was his name! “Tell me.”

Riley pretended to consider that, whipping out a blade and tapping its point under her chin in contemplative thinking. “Mm…no.”

Nid’s glare became a scorching thing in itself. “Tell me, bitch, or I’ll – ”

It took only a second to tackle Nid to the ground. The back of his head cracked against the road satisfyingly, and the knife that had been pointed to Riley’s skull became pressed into the boy’s windpipe instead. Riley pinned the boy down, from knee to shoulder, and chuckled while he writhed beneath her. Like a fish gasping on dry land after a pond dried up suddenly. There seemed to be a lot of that going around here. Riley had seen at least three of those on this walk alone. Shit place to live, for man and beast.

Nid made to thrash his arm around, but Riley held that down and nicked his throat. Crimson slowly welled beneath the blade. “Call me bitch one more time and we’ll see just how well I really play.” With her other hand, she clutched his jaw, and watched the fear widen his eyes as her skin grew hot and blazing. Shoving herself off him, Riley got to her feet smoothly and tucked the knife away, looking coolly down at the mess at her feet. The boy was near sobbing, clutching at his neck and making dying sounds when his fingers came away warm and wet and red. Really. It was only a shallow cut.

Riley’s head was beginning to swim as she turned her back on him and strode on. The rest of the bandits walked around him, the stream bending to leave Nid to a vacuum of his own weeps.

“Riley!” Urther called. The man was leading the march. With his stocky muscular build and his hair peppered gray, everyone naturally followed in his wake. She walked up to his side. “Walk ahead. Signal if you find anything. You know the drill.” His gray eyes matched his hair and stubble. All three looked like iron. No mention of the brawl. Of course not. They weren’t trespasses here.

“Aye, capt'n,” Riley said with a grin and a mock salute, before she jogged off. The moment she walked away however, the cheer crumbled and she winced. Her mind was playing leapfrog inside her pounding skull. But all she could do was clench her teeth and make her way to Tregaron.

The sun was shining. Very hard. It scorched the earth and sucked all of it's resources, and despite the already harsh conditions, it decided not to pay attention to any life forms trying to survive. It was at least 42 Celsius and the sun was just about to reach it's peak. It was ought to be another hard day for the dwellers of the outback.

"This is Colonel Solomon Troy of the Republic of the Flaming Sun..."- The mysterious sound suddenly came in from all directions, and then it calmed down slowly. It was like a thunder in the middle of the silence created by the wastes. It was only the occasional wind picking up and carrying sand into one's eyes, making them regret the day they set foot outside any camp or caravan. And the earth that cracked under the feet like paper. But apart from all that, it was relatively silent. Then this sound came in. "...based in the ruins of Astrakane. If you can hear this..." - William stopped and decided to investigate the source of the sound. He took a quick glance over his shoulder to the right. Nothing. "...we are interested in enlisting the services of individuals with..." - Most interesting. He tried to frown. Then he remembered he still can't frown. His face is nothing more than wielded metal plates. It has been far too long since anything made him try to frown. He gently peeked to the left. Nothing. "...combat experience. Prices are negotiable. There will be a Republican checkpoint..." - Hmmm. Where is this sound coming from? It wasn't left or right, and it was most definetly not coming from the front. Bugger. That leaves one more option. He slowly rotated backwards, head first, then his upper body followed. Nothing. A most precarious situation. "... north of the city, head there if you are interested..."- He took his hat off and scratched his head. The sound of metal scraping metal quickly reminded him not to. He is a terrible detective, he thought to himself. Sherlock would most likely solve this at an instant. If he lived in a wasteland that is. But where on Earth is this irritating voice coming from? "...and you will be issued orders and the terms of your contract." - Then silence. Now this was a mystery to be solved. But nothing is too hard for Sir Williams the best dete- "Pre recorded message ends. Repeating in 30 seconds"

Blast it. He couldn't help but shade his face with his hand. He beleived this motion was called "facepalm" amongst humans. A fitting name indeed. He used his radio so long ago, he forgot it even exists. No wonder he couldn't find the source of the sound. It seems he became too much of a human in some areas. He accessed the radio frequency and listened to it again. Now without searching for the origin. Mercenaries hmm? Might not be the job for a gentleman like himself, but who doesn't need Sir Williams, the best dete- A bullet suddenly put a hole in his hat.
- Piss! This is the second time today I can't finish my dialogue. That runs in my head. It seems today is not the day of my life.
- Don't worry about that! - a man in ragged clothes, with a pistol in his hand exclaimed. - If you don't hand over all you have, this might be your last day!
- Oh lord! That would be terrible! Why do you seek to shorten me of my properties? I am merely a detective looking for work!
- Nothing personal detective, but you gotta do with what you got. - He shrugged his shoulders and lowered his weapon - You must understand that your...
The man stood with a bleeding bullet hole in his chest. His shirt was a crimson mess, and his eyes stared like milk glass.The stock of the walking stick smoked and William politely bowed, raising his windy hat.
- I do good sir. And that is why I cannot let you get access to my valuables. You already put a hole in me hat. Corridors and openings. You never lower your gun. But I'll be on my way now. Have a good day sir!
He swung his stick around and started to continue walking towards the checkpoint, whistling an old song, and leaving the man behind for the vultures.

_

Colonel Solomon Troy

The journey was slow and treacherous; four diesel chugging metal beasts leading the way through torn and scarred countryside.

From atop the leading Protector's copula, the Colonel chewed on a cigar. A new cigar. All paper and brown mush. The smoke was bitter, and the lining of his mouth burned a little, but it didn't come across to the wily soldier as a particular health risk. The Crawlers or the Bandits would get him first, not cancer. It was just a matter of time, and his luck was going to run short sooner or later.

The towering and dull ruins of Astrakane could be seen on his left, made barely visible by a partially obscured moon. This was a perfect Crawler environment - little light, plenty of cover and a bunch of humans all grouped together.

But they weren't coming, the Colonel knew this. He wouldn't have set out in darkness otherwise. No, the blow he'd dealt them earlier in the day would have sent the survivors skittering for the darkness of Astrakane's underbelly. There they'd regroup and lick their wounds first. He reasoned he'd bought himself a day or so before they threatened the Republic for the millionth time.

A high powered rifle cracked from the darkness; a Republican Guardsman a few feet away from the roaring Protector fell to his knees with both hands warpped around his throat. It took several seconds for the Colonel to fire up the enthusiasm to deal with yet another sniper.

"Fan out, guns up, identify and eliminate," he barked through his cigar's smoke.

He hopped down from the tank, and joined his men as they scrambled to find the sniper. Another rifle shot sounded, and yet another son of the Republic fell down for the last time. The Colonel growled, but stood tall and refused to cower. Better a sniper take him, perhaps, than a Crawler. He could get a clean death, with a bit of luck.

But no.

He was standing because nothing would shake his fighting men more than an officer who shows fear. He offered himself to the sniper, dragging on his cigar to make himself an obvious target. The rifle cracked again, and for a moment some shrubbery a hundred yards off to the east lit up.

"Everything we got," the Colonel yelled, pointing at the sniper's position.

His men began firing in the sniper's general position, and a Protector fired a couple of its 40mm cannons too. It was a short battle.

"Three humans dead, and for what?" he asked, more annoyed than anything. "What were they trying to achieve?"

Something warm and wet dripped down his neck, and it was then that the Colonel realized his left ear had been grazed by the sniper's last shot.

"Yup," he sighed, adding a sarcastic smile. "It's going to be Crawlers. Not today, not tomorrow, but some day they'll get me. What a way to die that'll be."

West Tregaron

Distance. It was a beautiful word sometimes. Riley always wanted to wedge it between her and a Crawler. She always wanted more of it so roaming the world would be limitless, something to do till her literal dying day. And now, unspooling between her and her family of bandits, she finally came to realise she had been drowning this whole time.

"There's a sickness about them," Emy used to say, as she kicked aside the head of a bandit she had shot. "And it's infectious."

Funny that Riley had forgotten that little memory when she had squirmed her way into their ranks. Her head was clearing, as she strode by destruction on all sides of her. Best to take advantage of the clarity, while it lasted. Before she returned to her company. Ruins of an empire surrounded her, and her newfound mask bouncing against her thigh rhythmically. She was making good time and pace, as she passed by the first crater. It was wide, sprawling, a pit of devastation. But it was small. Riley had seen worse.

All about her, silence ruled. It was smothering. Quiet had its own thunder, and it resonated in Riley's ears. But even in the gaping absence of throaty birdsong and the mechanical whirr of oilless machines and beaten-down tanks, there was the creeping sensation that there was not just one spirit in Tregaron.

But there were no signs of life - only death. Was this paranoia speaking? A self-inflicted sense of being watched? Was this madness? As Riley neared the centre of the city, she reached for her pistol. "Set something ablaze if you find the presence of an enemy; throw a flare if you are faced with one," Riley recited under her breath, as she kept walking, step after careful step.

North of Astrakane, B9

The sun was already going down, and the starts slowly conquered the night sky. One by one their dim lights added to the dozens to create a dotted picture that would burn into your eyes after centuries. He could tell the name of all that came up around these parts. He liked to navigate around using them, even though his built in navigation never let him down before. In the last rays of the sun, the light reflected from a long abandoned skyscraper. So that must be Astrakane, and where his new employers will be at. It was still a long walk ahead, but at least the local wildlife didn't bother him. Not like he tried to get away from them, no. He barely radiated any heat, and even if anything was to get drawn to him, they would soon realize he is not much of a meal. Saying that he lost too many hats to feral beasts that roam the outback.

He opened his pocket watch, and looked at the display, illuminated by the light coming from his eyes. It was 3 minutes past 8. He closed it and put it back in his pocket, sighing. At least making a sound. He couldn't really sigh after all. If he would to run, which wouldn't be a problem, he would most likely rip his trousers, and likely make more of a dangerous approach. Someone with a trigger finger might make another hole in his hat. And that would make the fifth hat lost this week. Now that he thinks of it, he loses too many hats. Thank god there is no short supply of hats around the wasteland. Which is, yet again, a mystery that is left unsolved. However this time he would rather keep it as it is, as long as he can get hats no problem. A gentleman must always attend to his looks.

By the time he finished his inside speech about how a gentleman should dress, he was only about a 100 meters away from the checkpoint. He shone his reflector to reveal a few armored vehicles, and a makeshift wooden barricade. As soon as he lit his lamp, the reflectors that sat on the wall instantly lit him up too, which was a bit too much for his eye. When you go around not noticing your eyes are already in night vision mode, you can get really blind all of the sudden if someone switches a light on. Nevertheless he waved for the guards and raise his arm up to show he means no harm.
- Greetings gentleman! I have come with haste as soon as I received your radio signal. May I ask you to not shine those lights of yours into my face, please? Or is that how you treat new candidates? - The guards turned the lights away and looked at each other with confusion.
- Thank you fellas. May I come in now? I want to talk to a man called Solomon Troy if i remember right. Is he here now? Or did I arrive in his absent?