Plutonian Outpost, 588th Army of Humanity

Intel Sergeant Barry Murphy reclined in his chair, gazing through a window in the outpost towards the horizon of Pluto. Taking a sip of a strange, bitter drink the natives called “coffee”, he yawned, and went back to studying the plutonian relic on his table. It was a strange object with the weight and density of an average metal, but its exterior looked much like a crystal.

Its properties just don’t add up.

He took another sip, wincing at the bitter taste.

Whatever. I’m just supposed to find the history behind this thing. Grunigen’ll see what it’s made of.

However, even its history still puzzled him. The relic was dug up from Pluto’s core; Considering that no one on Pluto had the mining technology to successfully complete such an operation until yesterday, it had to be there for a long, long time. From when the planets had first formed. Barry left it on his desk and went out to walk down the hall, towards the molecular science division. Hopefully, they would have some way to radiometrically date the object.

Barry saw Captain Faraday pass by with a full company of fresh grunts, shouting out the orientation even though she really didn’t need to. He stuck to the right side of the cramped hall as the seemingly neverending train of soldiers passed by him.

He saw some notable individuals come by; a big, rough man who looked like he’d hit the gym every single day, twice. Barry had seen others like him, patriotic to a fault and ready to fight the Bulwark wherever they may be. Hopefully, he could be a real asset to the army. Hell, at least he looked the part.

Another one stood out to Barry, not because he was physically built, but quite the opposite. He was quite thin, at least by military standards, and he looked like he had just come out of high school. Barry knew he wasn't supposed to judge a person solely by their physical appearance, but one’s look can reveal a lot about their character. Still, he had seen the toughest-looking grunts run scared at the first bullet fired, and the wimpiest-looking run out bravely into the fray, only to be cut down by Bulwark fire.

A woman who seemed to be in her twenties or very early thirties passed by as well. Not many would see it, but Barry noticed that her right arm moved a bit more stiffly than her left. It may have been an ache or pain, but he knew better. Most likely, the woman had lost her arm in some fight, and in joining the military, she received a bionic arm. Bionics and prosthetics were in high demand these days, since more and more soldiers were getting wounded as the Bulwark closed in.

Another soldier walked by, this one checking and double-checking his gear. He seemed to be quite handy with technology. Judging by his reserved and calculated demeanor, even when marching in line with a company of soldiers, he was pretty smart.

Hopefully he doesn't die. The tech division could use a few more smart people.

Another giant of a man walked by, around a head taller than most of the people around him, even more jacked than the first one he noticed. With his sickly pale skin, he looked more like an ancient Roman statue than some grunt.

A young woman walked past, looking like she wouldn’t take shit from anyone. Again, Barry knew those types. They could either be the most heroic in a fight, emulating their tough exterior in order to push through adversity, or they’d crumble at the first sight of a Bulwark ship.

As the last grunt disappeared behind the corner, Barry sighed. Those six looked well enough, but the same couldn’t be said about the rest of them. It seemed that High Command was getting desperate. From barely pubescent children to old men well past their prime, almost all of them were conscripted, and about half had never even held a gun before now. The fact that Pluto was the largest object in the Kuiper Belt, and therefore a strategic and symbolic stronghold, didn’t help his concern at all.

He had a headache, and decided to go outside for a stroll. The outpost was smack dab in the middle of a plain, so that Bulwark forces could be seen for a mile. The reddish-brown dirt helped highlight the contrasting greys of the enemy, particularly the Argon. Barry took another deep breath, and continued down the trail, towards the North guard towers.

Linda Lee, or Dusk, as she preferred it, was up on the right tower, as usual. Barry never knew why Command had wasted the talents of such a useful scout by relegating her to guard duty. He gave her a thumbs up, checking if the coast was clear. She didn’t return it. Instead, she had her eye to her scope, her rifle aimed North. When she turned back to him, the look in her eyes was enough for him to understand.

Ahead of the tower, Barry saw an arc of blue light rise from the horizon, heading towards them.

Shit!

He turned to run as the plasmic artillery bolt reached the towers, obliterating them both in a thunderous burst of superheated energy. Debris rained down around Barry, and as the outpost came into view, another artillery blast decimated half the building. Both civilians and soldiers raced out of the molten wreckage, CO’s shouting orders to the grunts and moving them to the North line.

Among them was Captain Faraday and her company, 250 strong.

“Get your asses in gear, grunts! This is what we trained for! Let’s go kick these Bulwark sons-of-bitches out of the damn Solar System!”

As the massed infantry gathered at the front, the Bulwark made their presence known. The first thing everyone saw were the Griks. Swinging their primitive weapons, some even wielding basic firearms, they charged into the fields with no fear of death, kicking up a hellish red cloud upon their arrival. The grunts around Barry were scared, he could tell. Some recited prayers, some said goodbye to their loved ones, and others simply gripped their weapon tighter, pale as ghosts.

A Lieutenant rallied the troops from behind, raising his ceremonial blade.

“Alright, troops! Remember: this battle is bigger than just this base! This battle is the first test of us Humans! This will be the beginning of our last stand! Ready!”

“OORAH!”

The soldiers at the front let out a desperate cry and raised their rifles.

“AIM!”

For an instant, a dead silence hung over the army. Nothing stirred, and not a sound was heard. Then, the Lieutenant's sword came down.

“FIRE!”

And right at that moment, Hell came to Pluto.

Mo froze for a nanosecond at the sight of the charging Griks, remembering that faithful day thirteen years ago when one such monstrosity had hacked her Dad in two. To this day her reaction seeing one was always the same. A paralyzing terror for a nanosecond, followed by a cold anger. She gripped her rifle with her bionic arm, her real one taken by that same Grik and his single fatal slash. She didn't feel her new appendage. Could not feel the cold steel of her rifle. She knew there was a teeny-tiny servo-brain implanted in hers, which made the thing work. And, oh, work it did. Beautifully!

She looked about her and the mass of soldiers. Most were rookies, but some looked like they'd held a gun before boot camp. Most looked terrified, and rightly so. The Bulwark armies were no joke. Some had a determined look about them. Good! They'd need it. If they wanted to survive this. She heard the Captain shouting for them to get ready.

“AIM!” Captain Faraday instructed.

Mo touched her cheek to the stock of her rifle and sighted a target calmly. Come on, you bastards. Come, I greet you with open arms!

“FIRE!” Came the thunderous order of the officer.

Rifles sang in a beautiful symphony of percussive sound.

The Grik were a sprinting mass of hit-points. They did not care for wounds, they would keep going on pure rage alone. But still they were massive and a single shot was unlikely to take them down. The best tactic with them was stagger and finish with vital organ shot. Mo kept with her breathing while sighting her shots. Breathe in. Hold. Fire. Exhale. Repeat! Griks began falling down like fell trees. But that did little to falter the Bulwark advance as the other Griks simply ran over their dead.

From somewhere up top she heard the sound of a high-powered rifle. A sniper! Yeah, that could take a Grik with a single shot Mo observed as pale white heads began exploding one after another. Mo grinned. Want to take what's ours? Like hell we'll give it freely! Mo thought darkly. More like we'll have you return what you've stolen from us, you bastards! She didn't allow her anger to burn hot. She instead sharpened it to a cold blue flame, taking Griks down meticulously with every two-three shots.

"RELOAD!" She shouted stepping back from the front line to replace her mag. Her place was immediately taken by a giant of a man with a fresh clip in his rifle. He seemed pale as the milk her Nana gave her every night before tucking her in.

"Give'em hell!" She shouted at the man while switching out her mag.

Some people would like to think that the Army was all guts and glory, daring and medals and parades, where everyone was an action hero valiantly battling the next big threat to Freedom or Livelihood or something noble like that. Private Hayes knew better than that, but not until he stepped foot on Pluto. Just like the masses he had big dreams and high hopes of performing his duty as a proud human of the human race, unafraid of the Bulwark menace, ready to lay down his life to stamp out the embers of an alien threat. No one was pretending on the frontlines. It wasn't an action movie. Men struggled, gave it their all, and died without further mention in the most painful ways imaginable or in the blink of an eye. Yet he hadn't seen his first battle yet the cues had been becoming more forthright over the course of his month in boot camp.

Soldiers would break under the pressure to perform and the screaming and the chaos that left no hope. They were all made to be broken down into sniveling wretches and built back up into fighting machines that followed orders without thought. The process was dehumanizing, desensitizing, and developing a group of weak people into something that could fight a war. But at the end of it all they were soldiers. Soldiers, professional war fighters and killers for country. If only anyone knew what the hell they were doing. Darius could feel it in the air. It had a sort of energy to it. Panicky fear. Urgency. None of it was calm and resolute save for a few men and women with higher ranks, the people that had done this time and time again well enough to live for another go-round. Everyone else was terrified and anxious for good reason... but they weren't soldiers. Not yet anyway, just like Drill Instructor Captain Faraday had gnashed in their pathetic faces. They were frightened, shivering messes holding bags of gear half would die before using and tools of warfare that a handful had ever touched a month before.

That was when Darius decided to become a soldier.

Even if he was just as lost as all the others he wasn't about to pack it in with his tail between his legs and give in to the hopelessness. Everyone needed someone to look to for an example, and performance is the best role model. That's why their own role models were alive and kicking still. To be a good soldier you need to be a good soldier. Just do as you're told and you get to take a rest when you're done. Easiest job in the world. The night before Darius had checked and double-checked his equipment, once more when inspection came with the sunrise. He could feel the depression in the air thick like steam as his platoon shoveled down rations no different from the past few weeks. Captain Faraday didn't even slay them like usual. But the hustle was still there, a frantic march to the death. Private Hayes didn't think when he filed in to grab his assigned rifle and ammunition. He paid the fuck attention to what the Cap'n had to say, filing it away for when his brain would turn back on. But it wouldn't be here. As the platoon filtered down the hallway at a hurried jog, shaking and rattling with all their gear, he wore his most attentive stony face as he prepared to do exactly. What. He. Was. Told.

The fresh air wasn't exactly a welcome sight even in its alien tranquility. Rusty silt swept across the barren and lifeless dustbowl, swirling in the wind like a choking cloud. Steel-toed boots clomped in a chaotic cacophony in tune to the Captain's instructions of where to be, what position to take, and what commands to follow for battle. As his platoon entered a loose formation he could feel his battle buddies shoulder-to-shoulder with himself trembling. Darius was stock still, mentally checked out. His eyes set forward Private Hayes's vision wandered in his periphery, wandering over frightened faces of pale and metal temporary structures of cast iron gleaming from the bright blue sun. Which wasn't blue. The sun was yellow, just like Earth. And then his brain turned back on.

As the sapphire meteor of death bore down on their position broadcasted with a high-pitch squeal Darius broke ranks, allowing his rifle to dangle by his neck by its strap as he swept his arms out.
"GET DOWN!!" he bellowed as he took the two men by his side to the cosmic dirt with him. The shockwave shook many off their feet, heaving the ground beneath the company as Darius's eardrums sang shrieking songs from the loud. His meaty arms tensed around his fellow man as his equilibrium rocked, and he forced himself and his comrades into the ground again as the second hit landed with a powerful thrum like the fire of a godless dragon. Darius couldn't hear the words but he felt the movement around him. Like a school of fish. He had to keep up with the rest.
"LET'S MOVE LET'S MOVE GO GO GOO!" shouted the broad man as he took sprung to his feet, pulling the smaller young man to his left halfway up before putting his hands back on his rifle and charging into the mob, kicking his eschewed helmet aside as his feet spun into motion.

The throng of soldiers were nervous and apprehensive, hemming and hawing and hesitating into their places as they took the firing line. Private Hayes, emulating a good soldier, pushed his way to the front to sandwich himself in between two other ranks. He threw himself shoulder-first into the trenches, slanting his body in a firing position over the mounds of loose clay while his heart pounded in his ears. Darius looped his sling around his arm just as he'd been showed and practiced time and time again, pulling the stock firmly to his shoulder as he peered down the iron sights.

It was the first time he'd seen the Bulwark outside of the vids, and even then he didn't get a good look. All he saw was a mob of sickly white being trailed by a dust storm as stray rounds plunked into the earth before the FOB. The man slapped the mag on his rifle, pulling it to make sure it was seated and wouldn't feed wrong. Treat every weapon as if it were loaded. Darius eased and fidgeted into a more optimum fire position. Do not point your weapon at anything you do not intend to kill. This time and this time alone Private Hayes didn't listen to Captain Faraday give her heartwarming warm and fuzzy. All he was waiting for were the words he needed to hear. It took an eternity where he let his guard down, wrapping his trigger finger to a comfortable position. Keep your finger straight and off the trigger until you are ready to fire. He could hear the sniffling over the trudging of bestial feet, the heavy shaky breathing below the clack of rifles and magazines. Darius flicked his thumb off "Safe". Keep your weapon on Safe until you are ready to-

FIRE!

The air erupted in a chorus of gunfire, choking the firing line with the pungent odor of burnt powder. Darius had anticipated the shot and jerked the trigger, wasting a round. Eager to correct his mistake he took another one before resetting his breath, aiming low and hitting the dirt. The man paused for a few seconds, taking his head off his stock before resetting his firing stance again. Down the barrel of his rifle he could make out the shapes of men. Not men, but demons. He squeezed off another round, this one coming closer but still hitting the dirt. His forth shot finally found his mark though it was incredibly hard to tell. Finding his rhythm the man took cycles of breaths, walking fire into the vicious targets. Breath in. Breath out. SNAP. Breath in. Breath out. SNAP. Breath in. Breath out. Ka-chink. ...Click click. The man took his head off his weapon once more to eye down his weapon and the shine of brass over the bolt. He smacked it hard and shook it yet it would not dislodge. Pausing for a moment with no functioning weapon, he exercised judgement.

"TAG OUT TAG OUT, WEAPON JAM! WEAPON JAM!" he cried over the din of combat, turning back to the back ranks and grasping on of the timid hangers-on to take his spot. Off the side he huddled down, ejected his magazine, and began to thump his bolt like a madman trying to move the brass and let him get back to work. That's all that mattered right now. Doing as you were told. No matter what.

It was still hard to believe that humanity was standing on Pluto, roughly six billion kilometers from the sun. The planetoid was oppressively cold, even with artificial climate control measures that had been in place even centuries before Taran Burke was born. He looked to the pale orb that seemed impossibly far away in the sky, so far away now that its heat that gave birth to the human species back on Earth tens of thousands of years past could not reach Pluto all the way out nearing the extent of its gravitational pull. In a way, the reason that anyone was capable of standing on the surface of such a barren and inhospitable chunk of rock and survive was entirely thanks to the scientific achievements of scientists and technicians who had died long before anyone currently standing in the base were born was symbolic of humanity’s fate; the only way the species was going to survive was by depending on the ingenuity and bravery of each other.

Six billion kilometers away was the reason that Taran stood here now, a worn down old rifle in hand and a combat harness that someone else probably died in. Somewhere towards that pale white dot was Mars, and knowing what kind of thing lurked beyond the stars, it still seemed too damn close. If he could see which way was home, then the Bulwark could, too. And they were coming; and like the tide, they were drawn forward with grim reliability.

And as if Charon’s gravity brought forth the Bulwark, yet another bright orb filled the sky, and another. The attack had started. It would be the fight of their lives, and losing Pluto meant losing each world until eventually they were swarming down Mars’ tunnels and cracking through the protective domes. Watching the artillery shots obliterate the observation towers with a brilliant incandescence that seemed to belong more to a witch’s spell than an alien war machine, Taran grit his teeth in defiant rage. He knew what happened if he lost this fight, and he’d personally blow holes through the bodies of every single one of the alien bastards himself if he had to.

As Taran pulled himself from the dirt he reflected on what he’d always heard about the enemy; once humanity had been a successful interstellar species that had explored the cosmos with pride and self-assurance that they’d never face extinction because they escaped from their home system and had the means to keep ahead of any cataclysm. Then, without declaration of war or escalating hostilities, the Bulwark made it their singular purpose to destroy humanity wherever it had spread, as if burning the roots out from under a tree until only the trunk remained. Nobody knew why the Bulwark wanted to see every man, woman, and child extinguished from the stars, and they got damn close.

No more. Taran thought, charging the bolt carrier on his carbine, the well-oiled and used machine seamlessly picking up a case from the magazine lip and slamming into battery with a satisfyingly solid clang of kinetic force. Others were already in the firing line, sending heavy rounds downrange that slammed into the vanguard of the Bulwark forces; the Grik.

The Grik were roughly humanoid with pale, deformed skin that was marked by several long and ghastly tears, as if the flesh beneath couldn’t be contained by such unsuitable skin. They were deformed, hideous, and a mockery of life itself. Mo, one of Taran’s fellow trainees, called to reload and left her place on the firing line, which Taran quickly took over. As his thumb released the safety and the padded buttstock found its customary spot on his shoulder, Mo shouted, “Give ‘em hell!” to him, feeling the same intensity that gripped him.

“Finish reloading and we’ll send them there together.” He called back, the front post of his sight hovering over the neck of what was soon to be his first kill of the day. The rifle barked, its bullpup configuration comfortably taking the recoil into his shoulder as the muzzle flash nearly blinded Taran to the exploding wound out of the back of the Grik’s neck, the hollow point making substantial trauma to the creature as it slumped down dead. Back when humanity fought amongst itself, there were rules to war. Here, against something bent on their annihilation, the old rules no longer applied and that included mass issuing expanding munitions.

There wasn’t much time to aim, not like the training range, and as soon as a pale silhouette filled the crosshairs the trigger was depressed, and more often than not, some part of a Grik was taking trauma. The 15 rounds were extinguished all too quickly, and by the time Taran was fumbling for his magazine pouch, Mo was back in action. He could only hope that the Grik couldn’t find an opening in the line to exploit; close quarters was exactly where you wouldn’t want them.

"Fuckin' prick." He mumbled under his breath as a man pulled him to the front row. Apparently, his weapon had jammed. Now, he was going to be among the first soldiers torn apart by Griks. That was a less than appealing prospect. His anger towards he soldier with the malfunctioning rifle was misplaced, he knew. He should be angry at the Bulwark for having a murder-boner for humanity. He should be angry at Command, for essentially giving him a death sentence in the form of a conscription notice. He should not be angry with the man with the broken rifle. He was glad that his words had been masked by the gunfire and shots. He hadn't even heard himself.

He took his place among the line, sweat pooling on his forehead. He felt sick. The Griks charged, steady as a flood. That was the thing about floods, it didn't matter how much water you bailed out with a bucket, someone's floor was still getting ruined. Granted, it wasn't like there was a whole lot of options. All they could do was keep bailing out water, and hope it didn't rise and damage grandma's photo album.

Maybe that wasn't the best analogy.

He shook his head, and raised his rifle. If he turned back now, some meathead with a little too much zeal would cap him in the head. He had no choice. He aimed at the oncoming wave, and squeezed the trigger. Declan was not a good shot. Hell, he was barely passable. Two weeks was not enough time to become a badass. That didn't matter, when facing a Grik Charge. If you shot, you'd hit something. His first few shots pattered into Grik torsos, slowing a few of them down, but only nominally. His sixth shot hit one dead in the face. It fell, and the one dead behind it tripped over it.

Declan chuckled.

It didn't make sense. He was staring death in the face, and laughing about slapstick humor. He must've been hysterical, to laugh at an alien falling over.

He kept shooting. Three kills in total, with 15 shots. He was far from efficient. The Griks were worryingly closer than they'd been when he started shooting. He stepped back, into the crowd.

"Reloading! Someone fill in!" Sure enough, someone slipped into his spot. The air around him smelled of gunpowder. He supposed it was better than smelling sweat, fear, blood, or the rancid stench of Griks. He started reloading his weapon, noticing that his hands weren't shaking as much now. He supposed, if they kept up like this, they had a chance of holding back the Griks. What worried him was what came after. Griks were meat shields. Where were the Argon? The Brumak? God, he hoped there wasn't a Brumak. He didn't see any heavy weapons around him. He ended up next to the man who'd pulled him into the fray, the man with the malfunctioning rifle. He'd survived, so he wasn't about to hold a grudge. He wanted to say something.

Hi! I'm Declan. Please remember me if Griks eat my kidneys!

He opted instead to nod at him, hoping he looked a little less terrified than he had before.

Carol's hands were shaking as she took her place in the line, tagged in by some big brute of a man with hands the size of hams and sweat pouring down her face. She flipped her safety off and peered down the line at the approaching wall of meat and metal. Every time she saw them, it was like the first. Gricks - all blades and twisted flesh, wilder than the savagest outlaw had been back on her planet and totally fearless. And what was worse, this was the easy part.

She spat into the dirt, a ritual of her Uncle's, and her head was clear. She took aim with her carbine down the range and sighted her first target, a big mean-looking one (which was to say he was completely indistinguishable from the others) and fired a three round burst. The creature's head spurted fluid, and like that Carol was in.

"C'mon, you sons a bitches, time to cowboy up!" She called, firing robotically at different targets. She hadn't taken to training easy, but her old instructor had definitely managed to get through to her on fire discipline, and she managed a full five kills with one clip of ammunition. Some crazy fuck next to her on the line was laughing his ass off as he fired, and Carol snickered a little bit at his moxy.

"I'm out! Reloading!" She said and stepped away from the line, her spot immediately filled by some older woman - looked to be in her 40s. The Gricks were falling all across the line, but they just kept coming, stepping over the bodies of their fallen like they always did. And they were getting closer. She'd seen plenty of people get torn apart by Gricks back home - her planet had fallen so quickly, the aliens hadn't even needed to bring the big guns, instead just swamping them in waves of half-living monsters. She'd seen the screaming and the blood and promised herself that that would never happen to her. Four for them, one for you, and one just for me.

Carol slammed a new clip into her weapon, spat in the dirt, and stepped back in.

Plutonian Outpost, 588th Army of Humanity

Line by line, the Griks fell dead like brittle branches swept away by a summer wind. The violent drum of Krak! Krak! followed by the screaming war cries of the Grik painfully pierced Barry’s ears, but he had to keep shooting, at least until his gun ran out of ammo. The Griks were getting awfully close, their strange banana-bread scent contrasting with the full-on bloodshed occurring at the moment.

One of them reared back, spear in hand, and slung it at Barry, who ducked just in time. However, the projectile slammed into the grunt behind him, piercing his armor and sending him flying back into the ranks. The lieutenant dodged the flying body, and raised his sword once again.

“Form up! Do not break rank!” He commanded.

Easier said than done, Barry lamented.

The Griks weren’t even half gone when the soldiers all felt an otherworldly rumbling. The veterans of the army knew the sound all too well. On the horizon, great, lumbering beasts with star-forged hide headed towards the lines. One dreaded word hung in their minds.

“BRUMAK!”

As if they needed to announce their presence even further, a few of them grabbed hold of boulders and began to hurl them towards the North lines, smashing swaths of Human soldiers along their paths. Barry dodged one, and another nearly smashed Captain Faraday’s company. Speaking of the Captain, she was pissed, to say the least; shouting orders left and right and firing back at the Griks.

“Machine guns! Where’s our goddamn machine guns!” She yelled.

A burly man wearing heavy gear ran up next to Faraday, and with him, a big-ass machine gun.

“Got it, cap’n!”

He readied it on top of a sandbag, and let loose. A combination of the thunderous roar a hail of bullets cut a path through the Grik, and they fell faster than they could replace their ranks. Black blood sprayed into the air as the 7.92mm shrapnel rounds all but halted the Grik advance, at least in their immediate sector. Around them, however, the soldiers weren’t doing as well.

Griks had penetrated their defenses, and troops were being mercilessly slaughtered. Barry watched in horror as a grunt was all but decapitated by a jagged blade, and another one had her arms torn off and was beaten bloody with the detached limbs. Barry tripped over a corpse as he tried to run, and as he crawled away, he saw that the dead soldier couldn’t be older than twelve. It was hard to tell though, with the axe buried in the kid’s face.

Fucking hell. Fuck... Just get me away from here!

The Lieutenant was fighting off three Griks, parrying their blows and strikes with lightning-fast efficiency. In a matter of seconds, he had dispatched them. However, his moment of glory was gunned down by another pale-skinned alien who wielded a firearm. Barry barely felt a thing. His instinct was to survive, and as both Grunts and Griks fell around him in droves, he lost his rifle, and shot blindly at anything that looked remotely pale.

“FALL BACK! FALL BACK!” Captain Faraday yelled.

The mass of soldiers began to fall back in a panic, and the Griks chipped away at the unlucky ones at the back. Meanwhile, a Brumak burst through a wall, crushing a few unlucky grunts under its feet. Some soldiers turned around to fire at the stone giant, but their bullets may as have well been pebbles. The Brumak simply swung a chain attached to its wrist, wiping out about a dozen grunts in a single strike.

The five notable soldiers were lucky to make it away from the massacre, and away from the captured outpost. The bad news was, they were on an open plain. And once again, Griks spewed out of the rubble, followed by the Brumak.

Goddamit, you fucking Bulwark!

Electricity shot through Captain Faraday’s nerves, and without delay she reloaded, switched her rifle to automatic, and fired a storm of bullets at the approaching Grik. The other grunts, including the notable five, raised their inferior rifles to let loose a final hail of bullets towards the surrounding enemy.

They were getting closer, and Barry could tell that people were beginning to panic. Grunts dropped their mags, others threw whatever they could find at the approaching Grik in a futile effort to slow them down, and some simply ran out towards the savage enemy, trying to bat them away with their empty guns. He couldn’t help but feel hopeless. Truly hopeless.

Is this where I die?

Things were happening around Mo at a lightning speed. She reloaded deftly and took the place of a soldier that had tagged out to replace his clip. She found herself next to the milky giant. She'd heard him shouting back at her to return quickly so that they could send the Griks to hell together. Well, here she was!

"Let's do this!" She shouted with grim enthusiasm that was short-lived however. There was an ominous rumble and she witnessed the veteran soldiers, including the officers, pale. Shit! This can't be good. As soon as the thought had formed in her mind the cause of the rumbling made itself apparent.

Cold sweat ran over Mo. She'd only seen them in the pictures in the briefs. No picture worth a thousand words could adequately portray the intimidating pressure that were the Brumak. Mo didn't panic in her almost primal fear at the sight of the hulking beasts. She never did after the death of her father. Her fear made her angry. Oh, the fear itself wasn't irrational. I mean one would be a fool not to fear the Bulwark! No. Mo's fear angered her, because it stemmed from her ineptitude against the alien threat. I mean, save for the Wisseram, every other soldier of the Bulwark took a dozen or two dozen human soldiers to put down. They were fighting a losing war and that angered her. And her anger spurred her on. Gave her the focus and the drive to persevere. She would defeat her inadequacies! She would prevail!

She kept with her shooting, not giving in to the frantic feel of the battle. Griks were falling left and right, permeating the air with their bizarre sweet banana-bread aroma. Despite herself her stomach rumbled in hunger. She gagged! Clenching her jaw she kept shooting trying her best to keep whole the line. But the Brumak had already torn sections of it, hurling boulders at human flesh and buildings. Soldiers began screaming in pain and in their death throws. Lines of a half forgotten ancient poem popped into her mind. Do not go gentle into that good night/Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Captain Faraday shouted angrily for gunners and a bulky man with a machine gun appeared next to her and let loose on the Griks. The heavy weapon started cutting down white alien flesh like a knife through banana bread. And that sweetly smell filled their nostrils again. I'll never look a banana the same way ever again! Mo thought, but had no time to linger in her mind as Griks were swarming them despite the machine gun dude's efforts.

"FALL BACK!" Shouted Captain Faraday. "FALL BACK!"

Panic took over the more weak-willed. They started scrambling back blindly. Some forgetting to cover their retreat. Others dropping ammunition in their haste to get the hell out of Dodge. And those less fortunate were cut down by the Grik. The Brumak was wreaking havoc left and right swinging the massive chains attached to his arms, killing dozens with a single swipe.

Do not go gentle into that good night/Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The poem rang in Mo's mind again like the crystal clean sound of a bell.

Rage you say. I'll rage! "Give my you're bloody grenades!" She shouted out loud, swinging her rifle on her back, and without waiting started unclipping the grenades from the four closest soldiers, the milky giant next to her included. "COVER ME!" She yelled, waited a beat and sprang up, pulled the pin of the first grenade, wound back her arm, sighted her target, and released. She didn't have to think, she knew the servo-brain of her bionic arm would throw the grenade with deadly precision. As soon as she'd released the first she armed the second, shifted her aim a bit to the right and released. And again. And again. And one last time.

The five grenades flew in perfect arches. When the first reached its intended target it exploded in a canvas of white flesh, metal shrapnel and a thick banana-bread aroma. As soon as the first explosion blossomed, a second followed, and then a third, a forth and finally the fifth. The grenades flaring up like Chinese firecrackers on a string, popping one right after the other. Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop! Grik body parts rained down on the retreating soldiers, bathing them in the jelly of their banana-bread scented blood.

Mo crouched down, scanning the ground, she found a fallen soldier with unused mags still attached to his battle harness. She took them and slotted them in her empty mag pockets. "Sorry, buddy, but I'll need these more then you. I don't want to go gently into that night." She said a silent prayer for her fallen comrade who appeared to be a fifty-something old man probably volunteered to protect his family. "I'll carry on your torch!" She promised, slapping a new clip into her rifle. She reclaimed her place next to the milky giant. If we survive this I'm gonna have to get a name out of you, buddy. Can't keep thinking of you as the 'milky giant'. Mo stepped close to him, wanting to feel some of his burly stability and set her gaze forward in grim determination. When the bloody plume of flying Grik gore died down, her eyes squinted in disappointment. She'd hoped for at least a torn off arm. Instead she'd only managed to somehow tear the chains off the Brumak’s wrists. Apparently he'd used his ape-like arms to cover the bulk of his already fortified enough body.

"Shit!" Mo muttered opening fire while still retreating.

Even after palming the living shit out of the bolt the heap of scrap wouldn't budge an inch. Darius had worked up a sweat pounding away at his rifle, though whether that was through exertion or panic sweat was a little uncertain. The gravity of the situation certainly didn't escape him, the more rounds downrange the company placed the more time they bought away from the barbaric monstrosities that threatened to descend upon them. After over a minute of unsuccessful whipping on his weapon the man resorted to drastic measures, pulled out his E-tool, and hammered the damn thing like a cheap nail on plasterboard. After a few hard swings the bolt snapped and moved, although roughly. Darius charged the bolt over and over to work out the kinks, but it never got smooth even after all the cleaning and maintenance he'd done to it the night before. Fuckin' swell. Probably some brass that snapped off in the bolt assembly, that's what happens when you recycle your material like a poor family with eight kids hand-me-downing a pair of ratty jeans. The man kept manhandling the rifle even still, hoping to at least snap and bend something into working for at least one more Godforsaken day. It could break in its own time, but this was crunch time.

As he sat racking the bolt back and snapping it reluctantly forward, he noticed a familiar face in his periphery take a seat next to him and look at him purposefully. Drawing his gaze, it was the soldier he pulled in to take his place at the firing line. A kid, college age, swept up in this hot mess just like the rest of them. Guess war couldn't wait until a young man had a little time to start his life first. He'd barely recognized him, everything had been a blur in his hustle to throw rounds into bodies. The kid looked... different from what he'd seen of most. Resolute maybe, like the tiniest glimmer of hope was living within him. With an expectant expression he gave Darius a solemn nod. The man knew what it meant. They were in the thick of it, but even in this hellhole a man could recognize what was what. Their position as equals, what awaited them at the end of the dusty plains, it was that sort of kinship that made soldiers strong. A complete stripping down of all concepts, what mood you were in, what you believed... They were all people in a struggle. Everyone could see the end, everyone understood. To think he'd find such humanity at the end of it.

Darius chewed on his tongue as he responded in kind with an equally-knowing nod. The larger man turned his gaze toward the approaching mob growing closer with its cloak of dust and gave the boy a firm slap on the back. It was an odd sort of moment, the two of them staring down impending death hobbling along with slobbering jaws. Someone get the camera. But Darius didn't sit still for long, an impossible feat when there was work to be done.
"Back in..." he muttered as he saw a place open up on the line, charging his rifle with a little difficulty as he sprung up to stalk in a crouch back toward the trenches as if he'd never slowed down in the first place.

Maybe this time would be different. Once more the fledgling soldier shouldered his firearm, wrapping his arm through his worn sling as he sighted in. Not terribly difficult considering the Grik were hardly more than a few hundred meters out now. With a firm trigger squeeze a round popped off with a loud CRACK. Darius grinned wind, breathing in and out for his next few shots.

CRACK

CRACK

Pop!

...Click, click!

"Deadass no-good muthafucka!" he shouted in frustration, spiking his rifle powerfully into the ground with his rage, bending the barrel slightly as it hit the hard clay. As anticipated, Darius's weapon was irreversibly fucked. He was almost ashamed he'd gotten his hopes up. But the Grik were upon them, not even 50 meters from the line, some even further. He could feel the rumbling ground underneath their mindless feet, smell the... pastries? The fuck? Darius had just enough time before the Grik met the trenches to eject his magazine and place it back into his ammo pouch, sling his rifle, and grab his E-tool. Gotta use what's available to you and right now that wasn't any gun. He was more prepared than most when the mindless zombies broke through the barbed wire. Their scent of freshly-baked goodies just like grandma used to make sickened the senses, contrasting against the gore they began to unleash. While his comrades emptied their weapons more frantically into the enemy Darius held something with a little more stopping power on the line. Acting completely on reflex, as a Grik charged his position he lashed out with the sharp edge of his shovel, catching the pale mutant in the eye but only stunning it slightly as the abomination twisted its neck up toward him to hiss a banana-scented warning.

Now there were several people in the world, but all of them fell into three groups when the shit hit the fan. Fight, Flight, or Freeze. All were evident as soon as the melee began, with some soldiers abandoning their posts in full-blown terror, others emptying their magazines more frantically or lashing out with the stocks of their rifles, or freezing only to be caught in the jaw with a stray blade from a sickly-looking crime against nature. Darius had always been the Fighting type. With a guttural roar not out of place for the enemy, the man brought his shovel down on the neck of the Grik, causing it to lurch and raise its hunk of metal again. He swung twice more like a madman as the alien almost collapsed against him, head hanging loosely and barely attached as it gurgled thick, syrupy blood from its neck.

BRUMAAAAK!

As Darius shoved the limp corpse off of himself to fall with the bodies at the front of the firing line, both man and beast, he could see the rocks flying through the air crashing on his left and right flank by tens of meters. The rolling boulders skipped and bounced through the Grik ranks, crushing the sweet-scented lunatics before skidding across the line turning once capable soldiers into paste on the foreign clay. He could hear the anguished screams from the men trapped under rocks, those being sliced into or riddled with bullet holes and the panicked shouts of people scrambling away from the trenches as the pale menaces began to filter their way through the holes. Time stood still for Darius, a spectator in the bloodbath around him when the shock took over. In slow motion he could see the men to his left flank begin to edge back from the sandbags, drifting his eyes to the team to his right shouting in bloody rage as the flashes strobed from the front of their weapons in a dangerous light show. And toward the front a Grik was charging straight for him with an axed limb held high, the drool flying from its mouth in a guttural scream of murder.

The soldier flinched and brought up his E-tool, holding it out defensively as the rusted metal crashed down into the tungsten. It hit Darius like a freight train, smashing and snapping through the shovel, digging into his body armor, and cleaving into his sternum. The force of the blow knocked him back to sprawl with his back to the dug-up dirt like a boxer on the ropes. But he wasn't dead yet. The blade might have pierced the center of his chest all the way to the bone, but it was dead center and halted after getting a few millimeters into his ribcage. Worst he could notice was that it knocked the wind out of him with the adrenaline coursing through his veins but the Grik was soon on top of him, spreading its disgusting body across the length of the trench as it tried to finish the job. And then the first stroke of luck Darius had had all day. As the monster bore down on him with clacking teeth, dripping jowls, and tropical scent it was viciously ripped in half in a hail of bullets, flopping on the ground like a fish as it reached for any living thing within its grasp with its death throes.

FALL BACK! FALL BACK!

Darius didn't need to hear it a second time. They were already in the trenches and marauding about the FOB in a gory rampage. The line was long gone. The wounded soldier forgot all heroism as he vaulted from the dugout and sprinted through the vicious melee like a rabbit among the wolves, ducking swings of jagged metal with friendly bullets whizzing past him with harsh cracks. It felt like it had taken minutes when it was really less than half of one. And then he pushed to the clearing where the scraps of his company were backpedaling against the invading threat stripping them clean like locusts.

The ragged man looked behind him heaving in heavy breaths, covered in blood both black and red. He gazed back at the dregs of those still inside the FOB fighting for their lives and realized that he had failed them. Darius ran. Soldiers didn't run. He didn't even take anyone with him, he just powered through to save his own skin and now here he was, useless and without a weapon with whoever was left. A whole fireteam... among them himself, the Captain, Intel Sergeant Murphy, the kid, a girl that couldn't have been an adult that long, a fierce man bigger than him, and the older woman with the bionic that was digging into his blood-stained torn-up vest.The man nearly jumped a mile when she shouted about covering her, grabbing his grenade and the grenades of others as she charged forward back into the bloodbath. It wasn't until then that he felt the sting, the ache, the driving pain in his chest rocketing across to his shoulders. The wounded soldier winced. It was like a heart attack, robbing him of breath as the blood oozed slowly from the almost 3-inch long gash.

But Darius wasn't about to be useless when his fellow soldiers weren't quite willing to lay down and die yet. Setting his jaw, the man grunted with hurt as he undid the only buckle holding his body armor on after nearly getting chopped into bits.
"Hey!" he called out, tossing the bloody thing to the feet of the remnants of the company.
"Four mags! Make'em count!" The wounded soldier had, more or less, not fired most of his ammunition. An extra magazine for a handful of soldiers would be a lot more useful than what he was about to do. Darius gave the group a wide berth to avoid the outgoing gunfire as he charged toward the enemy without a weapon, armor, or helmet like the madman he was. No one else but a madman would sprint straight into the mouth of Hell eager to stab the Devil in the eye.

As Darius ran he slowed down for a moment in his reckless bullrush to pick up a nasty-looking cleaver one of the alien scumsuckers had dropped. It looked like a chef's knife if someone had bent it out of sheet metal, the blade bigger than he was from the waist up. The notched killing instrument looked like it belonged more in a horror movie than on a battlefield and the damn thing weighed at least 15 pounds. And Darius was gonna jam it down their abominable throats.
"RrrrrrRRRRRAAARGH!" he shouted as he charged with the blade forward, ramming it deep into the chest of one of the advancing Grik to the middle of the blade.

Karma's a bitch, motherfucker.

The battle was doing a fine job highlighting why recruitment across the remaining Sol colonies was at an all-time low, why joining the military seemed like a guaranteed suicide mission. Taran’s first battle with the 588th was looking more and more like it could be his last, and for many of the soldiers, it was. The firing line had wrecked hell upon the Grik, their foul visages only improved by the numerous entry and exit wounds that whittled down their number. Taran himself wasn’t exactly counting his kills, but he was counting his shots. He had 4 shots left in his second magazine, and while the ferocious woman who he had partnered up with on the field of battle was taking on the fight with enthusiasm, both shared a look of apprehension when the ground began to shake and a deep seated fear took hold of every man and woman on the line. There was no way in hell any of them were going to be able to withstand the Brumak, not with the kit they’d been issued. And so, the hopes of rallying and driving back the much easier to kill Grik were washed away as the sight of the giant rock-like monster came into view, the distraction enough that the Grik were starting to crash into the line.

Close-quarters. Exactly where you didn’t want the Grik. Taran’s scowl tightened; if he survived this, he’d not be able to go into a bakery for years without being reminded of the damned things. He fired off the last few shots in quick succession, not bothering with aimed accuracy, just to buy a few extra seconds of time to swap a fresh magazine in anticipation of close-quarters combat. The first of the Grik arrived, mere meters away from Taran before he could charge the newly slotted magazine. His bayonet had been affixed before first contact was established, and he was glad for it; the beast fell upon him with the intent to kill. With a defiant roar, Taran charged into the pale-skinned monster and plunged the blade into its chest where its heart would be – if it even had one. The momentum and the weight of his frame and armour pushed the creature down to the ground. He stomped the Grik in the chest, reaching forward to pull the charging handle of the rifle and pulled the trigger. The recoil and impact of the round not only made the Grik stop moving, but loosened the bayonet from its new home, allowing him to pull it free easily.

“Give me your grenades!” his partner, the one with the bionic arm, shouted. He freed a couple from their pouches and tossed them to her as he took aim at the approaching Grik, keeping the weapon in semi-automatic; the heavy recoil of the 7.62mm rifle was substantial, and he didn’t want to miss a shot. Him and his comrades couldn’t afford it.

His partner’s grenades popped off one after another as the Brumak closed in on their section of the trench, its heavy shipping chains wreaking havoc on the flanks as they tore through soldiers like a scythe through wheat. The one of the grenades managed to get caught up by the chain dragging back for another swing and the detonation managed to weaken the integrity of the metal, the weight of the chain’s momentum ripping apart at one of the links as it flew back towards the Grik ranks, smashing into bodies.
“Excellent work!” Taran called to her, skimming the head of a Grik with one round before the next found its mark and made the skull burst like he was shooting at an overripe melon. Still, the tide was closing in, and they had a window to fall back… to where was the real question. Taran and his partner picked themselves up and moved back, Taran turning to open fire as Grik filled in the trench where they had been moments prior and the Brumak caught his eye; it still had a long enough length of chain to be devastating. “DOWN!” he called, tackling the woman moments before the heavy chain skimmed overhead, bouncing off the ground less than a meter from where his arm was. Turning on his back to face the monsters, Taran fired four shots before getting to his knee and killing off what was left of his magazine.

The last round was a failure to extract, the casing bent half way out of the ejection port while the neck was still lodged into the breech. Cursing at his shit luck and ammunition that was hastily manufactured by the millions of rounds with minimal quality control, Taran spotted a downed NCO with sergeant chevrons a shot distance away. Dropping his rifle so it hung from its sling, the Martian sprinted to the body, taking a knee to pick the pouches and pulled free the sidearm from the sergeant's holster, flicking the safety off with a thumb and lining up the fiber optic sights with the charging monsters. Another soldier had taken a severe laceration to his chest from one of the Grik’s cleavers but had managed to turn his pain into rage and he gave the Grik back as good as he got, driving his own bayonet into the monster. There weren’t a lot of troopers left, and this was very much so a last stand. Taran’s hatred for the Bulwark filled him as he stood his ground, taking quick aim at each advancing target with his sidearm. He’d die here, he was sure of it. But they sure as hell were going to pay for every inch.

“Come on, kill me if you can!” He yelled defiantly, dropping a mag freely as he slapped another magazine into the receiver and pulling back the side, the barrel nearly pressing against the head of another Grik as he pulled the trigger, ending its advance. “I will not let you reach my family!”

Plutonian Outpost, 588th Army of Humanity

All hope seemed to be lost. The Griks surrounded them, and grunts were falling left and right from falling axes and blades. The Brumak seemed unstoppable, the soldiers’ bullets bouncing off its hide like rubber. Barry’s mind raced at light speed trying to discern what was going on around him, and the choices he had. He didn’t know whether to focus on the orders given by the officers, shoot at the Griks, help injured soldiers, or just curl up and die. As more soldiers were mercilessly purged by the savage aliens, the latter choice seemed more and more appealing with every passing second.

Barry felt something crash into his helmet, and he fell flat on his back, dazed. The broken helmet rolled away, trailing bits of brittle metal as it went along. A particularly nasty Grik towered over him, club in hand. The thing snarled and gnashed its rotted teeth, and Barry could smell the pastry bread scent emanating from the otherwise ferocious beast. He raised his rifle to fire, but it clicked. No ammo. Dropping his empty rifle, he couldn’t help but let out a dark chuckle.

Heh, I guess I made the mistake of thinking I’d live through all this. Who wouldn’t?

With that final thought, Barry closed his eyes as the Grik swung the club, and smashed in his skull.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________



“Come on, you fucking pastries! Just try to kill me!”

Captain Faraday smashed her rifle’s stock against a Grik’s face, stunning it for a few seconds before shooting it, spraying black blood and bits of bone across the masses behind it. However, even with her boasting, even she knew that they couldn’t hold out forever. They were down to about a thousand soldiers from their original 100,000, including other sectors and outposts that had retreated to the same position.

Faraday reloaded her gun, cocked it, and was about to jump into the fray when a maelstrom of bullets nearly decimated the entire Grik advance. Utterly shocked, she looked around to see the source of the supporting fire, and found her answer when she looked up. She saw dozens upon dozens of troop transport ships arrive from orbit, and the one that had just saved them opened its hatch, and four figures flew--no-- leaped out, and landed on the plutonian surface with seemingly little issue.

All four of them were fully encased in gleaming metallic armor. Despite their strange look, there was no doubt to the grunts that these four were superior to them in every way, shape, and form. In an instant, they fanned out in four directions, slaughtering every single Grik in the way. Their speed, their precision, their strength… There was no way that it could’ve been possible. Every trigger pull from their impeccably maintained and diverse weapons resulted in one or two Grik deaths. Even when the Grik came into melee distance, they were still no match for the armor-clad warriors, as the banana-scented aliens were beaten into bloody dough when they got too close.

The transport ships landed and opened, letting in the tides of soldiers who wanted so desperately to leave. Faraday refused to leave until all of the soldiers in her company were “safe” aboard the transport ships. Instead, she tried to resume shooting the Griks, but all of the ones previously in range were now dead. All that was left was the Brumak, which swung its chain in a wild arc towards the newcomers. She made her way to one of the transport ships, knowing she’d be of no use to the remainder of the fight.

One of the four, a large brute in his own right, wielded a massive gun which had sparks of electrical power dancing off it like a lightning storm. He set it up on the ground, angling the open barrel to face the Brumak, which only came closer. The gun seemed to charge up, and with a second’s delay, let loose a literal lightning storm. The thunderous bolts of pure voltage drained all surrounding light and struck the Brumak in the head, and detonated its skull, chunks of molten rock raining down upon the dwindling Grik.

Cheers from the grunts and soldiers pierced the silent fighting, whoops and yells emerging from inside the transport ships. Faraday, as well as the other commanding officers, were just as amazed and dumbfounded by this show of absolute military turnover. Before, the Griks were about to massacre all of the soldiers, no matter how hard they fought. However, with the arrival of this small squad of four, the Griks and Brumak were rendered null and void almost instantaneously. It was a miracle. Almost.

As Faraday continued to stand there amazed, she noticed something on the horizon. It wasn’t an army, but a lone, dark figure; barely recognizable as a humanoid. It held something, and pointed it at the four. It was too late to say anything. A blue bolt of light shot from the silhouette, and travelled at an impossible speed. Faraday barely had time to think of shouting “Look out!” before the bolt slammed into the leader of the newcomers, who flew back into the transport ship Faraday was in.

Shit, this isn’t good.

The blue bolt had burned a hole into the newcomer’s armor, exposing charred skin and flesh. The three others ran back into the transport ship to check on the injured leader. One of them took off their helmet, revealing an angular, feminine face topped by auburn hair and dull green eyes. She had a small bottle in her hand, and applied some kind of foam onto the affected area. She looked up at one of her companions, the previously unmentioned one who carried a sniper rifle in his hands, with a bland business-like demeanor.

“Go tell the pilot that the Argon are here.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and made for the cockpit, the mass of soldiers parting way for him as he did. He opened the door, exchanged a few words, and immediately they were off, the hatch closing.

The battle was all but over, and the feeling of acute dread filled Taran's heart knowing that any moment would be his last; the Bulwark would claim Pluto like every other world, and countless lives were thrown into the grinder like meat to be discarded to buy even another day for humanity to continue existing; lives spent were the currency of survival, and that exchange rate was only getting worse. Taran's magazine was on its last few rounds, and after that it would be over. He frowned, thinking of Brigid and the daughter he'd barely spent time with. He'd missed all of the important events of her upbringing, telling himself that he had to sacrifice time away from his family to make sure they could afford to live. To late he realized that he would never get the opportunity to try and make it up, he was a shit father.

"I'm sorry." He said, both to a family millions of kilometers away and to the endless bodies with stories not unlike his own, their entire lives leading up to this final moment with nothing to show for it except that it was unlikely they'd ever get a proper funeral.

The screeching engines of transports arrived, giving Taran hope that maybe, must maybe, they'd get an extraction and live to fight another day, to make the amends he never did before enlisting. Instead out of the hatch of one of the lead transports departed four armoured figures that began decimating the ranks of the Bulwark, including the Brumaks that were up until then unstoppable forces of nature. The initial satisfaction of being rescued in such a dramatic fashion came with a sour thought; had even one of those soldiers been at the Pluto garrison, how many lives could have been saved? Instead, they ride in and take control of a lost battle after countless soldiers laid down their lives in a desperate last stand that was more like a culling than a military engagement. The entirety of the Bulwark contingent was eradicated with only one casualty out of the 4 power suits, and knowing the danger had passed prompted Taran to collapse onto his haunches, exhausted and simmering with anger. "They must be so proud, winning battles all by themselves." Taran growled to his partner. "While we aren't even issued anti-armoured weaponry to kill the Brumak and rifles that barely function, they get state of the art hero tech that makes it clear that the brass does not care that their shit logistics wipe out entire regiments. Listen to these idiots cheer at their saviours; we were bait to draw the Bulwark to one decisive location. Mission accomplished."

Mo was exhausted from the prolonged campaign. Her left arm, supporting the rifle, was fatigued and shaking ever so slightly. The Grik kept flooding them and the Brumak was decimating soldiers left and right without so much as an effort. She and her companions were barely holding on. Fighting with salvaged rifles, sidearms, ammunition. At this point there were more weapons laying unused on the ground then there were soldiers to wield them.

The air was thick with the banana bred scent and Mo was sure none who had survived an encounter with the Grik could ever walk in a pastry shop without heaving in disgust. Mo looked about the battlefield. Small pockets of soldiers were left alive here and there from the original numerous army stationed on Pluto. And now it seemed like it was all for naught. Mo kept shooting out of pure spite more then out of hope they would survive this. If her right arm was not bionic, her trigger finger would have cramped by now from fatigue. She began missing shots because of her left arm shaking more and more.

No, gods damn it! This can't be it! Mo thought desperately, just as she squeezed the trigger to produce a shot and the rifle emitted a quiet and at the same time ominously loud 'click' announcing she'd expended her magazine. Mo looked angrily at her useless, shitty-ass rifle. "Skanky-ass piece of trash!" Mo exploded in a curse, throwing her feeble rifle on the ground and balling her hands into fists as if that would do her any good against the Grik.

And when all hope seemed lost and every single soldier and officer was fighting for dear life, a hail of bullets from above the ground cut into the lines of Grik, shredding the pale aliens and saturating the air with more of their banana pastry scent. Mo looked up just in time to see squadrons of troop drop ships above them and four bulky figures jumping out to land with no effort what so ever among the huddled survivors of the plutonian forces.

"What the bloody hell!" Mo muttered as she witnessed the newcomers finishing off the Grik without even working up a sweat. Their state of the art battle rigs and weapons no match for the cleave wielding pale foot soldiers of the Bulwark. And then the bulkiest of the foursome placed his fancy-ass electric weapon or something on the ground, aimed at the Brumak and fired. And splat went the behemoth without so much as a peep, when the five grenades she'd tossed at him hadn't managed to even scratch him.

"What the bloody, actual, hell are those things!" Mo cursed. "Why send us here to die when you've got these motherfuckers that can decimate a Grik platoon with just a sneeze. What were we? Bait?!? Appetizers?!?" Mo heard similar expletives spilling from the mouth of her milky white giant partner. "I hear you, buddy." She answered grimly. The rest of the soldiers however cheered enthusiastically the arrival of their apparent saviors, not bothering to actually consider what it meant. The existence of these ubersoldiers and their late deployment.

Just then, however, amongst the cheerers and excited shouts, the leader of the foursome got tapped by a mighty blast and went hurtling towards one of the landed transport ships. “Go tell the pilot that the Argon are here.” One of the foursome, a female, instructed a sniper wielding ubersoldier as she went to tend to their wounded companion.

Mo hardly realized when the remaining plutonian forces were loaded onto the ships, but before she knew it they were flying away from the place of their utter and abysmal defeat.