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The whistle of artillery shells are loud and sharp, painful to most of the ears of Anthros', or perhaps the Clunkers purposely etched the fins of shells to make such high toned music play from the sky. It was when a full battery fired together that the whistle became a deafening cacophony.

Either way, it was usually the first sound before someone was obliterated into red mist and gore, inexplicably having been in his wrong place at the wrong time. Such was fate, Vandal would say, knowing that the chaos of the universe was just as great as ordered faith could make the universe orderly.

It was no good to anyone except those few who believed as he did. For those who didn't, he taught them of another life beyond this one, of rest and ease, where all souls go. If only it was so simple.

None the less, he kept his head down and shouted out reassurance to his brothers and sisters, trying to fill their minds with more then the sound of metal rain. He told them why that had to stay strong, to be the bulwark against the rising tied of genocidal monstrosities that was bearing down on them, the need to stay strong for the one they loved back home, warning of the death and destruction that would befall the free Anthros should they falter for but a moment.

And if they should falter, to die upon the foreign land that owed them nothing, but they who gave everything, to die upon their feet, to die standing, rifles blazing red and orange from the heat of miniature suns, surrounded in the burning carcasses of the metal men who dared to take everything from them.

"Stay strong! Tend to your weapon for it is what stands between you and Death itself!" Dirt rained down upon Vandal, pebbles thumping off his helmet. "We will hold the road to Bastogne! If we falter, there will be a straight line to the flanks of our Armies!" Another shell landed, some troops screaming in agony as they were vaporized in the explosion. "Stay your ground! Look to those beside you and keep them safe! They will watch your back as you watch theirs! For what we of flesh and bone share is forged first in the womb! No foul-forge could ever recreate that eternal bond between souls!"

More screams, wailing choirs to the orchestra of Death that played before them. "This is it! They are throwing all they have before they charge! Die standing and rifles blazing!"

Just then, the metal rain stopped, the wounded cried out in anguish for mothers and fathers, for medics and for morphine. Just as quickly, they were drowned out by a screeching static that built into a painful alto, then a

roaring crescendo of guttural war cries. Reports of large calibre rifles rang out amongst the revving of hungry chain-bayonets.

Then they were upon them. Limbs flew and blood was spilt as the Clunkers dove into shell craters and fox-holes, quickly evicting those they called rats and vermin. Some Anthros made to fight, to defend the wounded, and to die standing.

Vandal was beset by a Clunker in an augmented rebreather. The Wolf used the barrel of his Doe Carbine to avoid a shot to the chest, knocking the barrel wide, dirt flying in his face as the round missed. The Clunker lost his forward grip, Vandal grabbed hold and pulled himself up, dropping his rifle and pulling his combat knife in one swift move.

The Clunker had the same thought and pulled his saw-knife. The two blades met, sparks flying as the monomolecular edges caught and fought each other. Vandal struggled as the mechanical monstrosity before him was pushing his arm back. Even his engineered muscles struggled to keep a man's worth of metal from toppling onto him. In a desperate move, Vandal pushed off the blade as he drew himself up and forwards, yanking the Clunker off balance by pulling on his rifle.

The Wolf pushed off his legs and rammed the top of his head right into the Clunker's rebreather. He wasn't sure if he heard the shattering of metal and parts, or the cracking of his skull. He cared not, for the Clunker dropped his rifle and knife, gripping and pulling at his rebreather as he screamed and cursed Vandal in Russian.

Vandal took the opportunity to bury is knife in the Clunker's throat and twisting it violently. The man quit screaming and choked instead on his blood. The Wolf yanked his knife back out, ripping out a chunk of the Clunker's throat. The man fell limp to the ground, gas hissing from his ruptured rebreather. The Wolf meant to help his brothers and sisters, when the man's rebreather and a chunk of his back exploded in a shower of metal fragments and bone chips.

Vandal's ears rung and his vision was dazed as he was thrown back into the crater, caught off guard. He laid there for a few seconds as he heard the distant and disjointed cried of his fellow soldiers. It was the grinding of tank treads that snapped him out of his daze. Peering over the lip of the hole, a heavy tank was rolling up, its twin barrels smoking after firing a salvo, the co-axial .70 calibre spewing rounds across the road.

Vandal made to the next shell hole, dirt flying up around him as Clunkers took shots. He found the hole vacant, shell casings and blood smeared everywhere. More screams rose as the Clunkers pushed forwards, the heavy tank opening with another salvo. The Wolf was on the move again as he traversed the pitted road, finding his comrades bodies and more disfigured, exploded Clunkers.

The barricade at the city was hastily reinforced for heavy troops, but was no match for the armoured might of the Clunker tanks. What troops could not take or destroy, the tanks obliterated entirely. Vandal found the Regiment preparing defences and tending to the wounded as he surveyed the blockade.

"Agent Vandal!" called a lilith-looking Horse. She was about 6 and a half feet tall, well-built beneath her dusted brown grey pelt; her mane dirt brown and curling about her pointed ears. Her hooves where chipped and stained with mud, her cuffs blending in. An Eagle Rifle with an ACOG scope and straight blade bayonet was wielded in one hand as she thumbed through a data-plate in the other, most likely trying to co-ordinate with that few vox-men left under her command.

She saluted hastily, not waiting for a return, handing him the date-plate. "First Lieutenant Claudmer. I'm glad you and your squad showed up at least." Vandal waved off the salute and took the plate, seeing the Division was reduced to a Regiment was down a Battalion of soldiers, the rest understrength. He bunched his nose up at the mention of his squad and shook his head. "We're scattered all across the front-lines, repositioned to aid other sections in need of a commanding officer. I'm here by myself..." He returned to reading the data-plate, another salvo of shells landing nearby. Some soldiers flinched and took cover, a high pitched squeal coming from a goat who was struck by the blast wave.

Claudmer frowned and dug her hove into the dirt in frustration. "Fuck it. I'm reforming the Regiment into two Battalions then. I was hoping you and your squad could lead four companies, one each, and pinch the incoming Division of Clunkers at the outskirts." She sighed and snatched the data-plate back, keying in some new orders and tucking it away. "Can you lead the First Battalion then and hold the line while I have Second set up traps and barricades. We'll do a staggered retreat and ambush them in the city. Follow the barricaded streets."

"Affirmative." They quickly saluted, Vandal breathing out hard after that engagement. He had nothing more than one sentence of input, yet a battle plan was made out entirely without him. Never-the-less, it was sound enough and all that could be done with an understrength Brigade and little to no heavy weapons. Although, the thought of how many would most certainly die in the defence of this city, and more if they failed here sent a shudder through his back.

Returning to the barricade, he found a vox-man coordinating the troops into two new battalions. Just as quickly he turned to Vandal and introduce him to the troops he'll be leading. In a flash, the vox-man was off, the second battalion formed following him in to the city.

They quickly reinforced the barricade with rubble and debris, forming tank stoppers out of scrap metal, topped with some HE grenades. Two Anthros positioned behind each, hiding in a hole at the end of the trenches, ready to heave and roll the make-shift stopper against the tank as it entered the barricade. It was what little they could do with no heavy weapons. Spread out behind the rubble barricade while others dug the trenches to the left and right a little deeper, creating a kill box for any Clunker troops piling though, and avoiding the arch of the coaxials of the tank.

All the while, the tank continued its shelling, its own bulk slowing it down and buying the Anthros precious time. Readied now at the gates, they all braced themselves for the attack, the roar of the engines struggling to push the mass of iron along. Once more, a salvo was unleashed upon them, tearing a rent in the opening of the barricade, setting off one of the HE poles. The two manning the pole to the right where showered in shrapnel, ripped open in a furry of sparks and fire.

Some Anthros broke cover and ran for the city, fleeing in the face of death, some being cut down by the co-axils and meeting it anyway. Those who lived hid in ruined buildings and piles of rubble, burying themselves in the dirt of the Earth. Now Vandal's company was not only out-gunned, but also broken and reduced to less then 30...

The heavy tank rolled through, the co-axial gun to the right ripped through 3 Anthros while the one to the left pinned Vandal and his few troops in their trenches. "Heave! Jam it in the tracks!" Vandal cried. Although, he noticed too late the tank had rocket guards, the grenade exploding and rammed chunks of metal through the two Anthros that pushed the tank stopper.

Vandal lamented their fruitless deaths, though there was no time to for grieving. "Fuck! Wait for the reload, then storm them!" he shouted. A few more seconds of thundering fire, the guns falling silent. Instantly, a dozen Anthros jumped out of there trenches and stormed the tank. The driver realizing what was about to happen, and jammed the throttle in reverse. Engines squealed and as the on-board assisted cogitator protested to put out more power.

The bulk of the tank worked against itself, struggling to move away from the ambush and back to its soon to be reinforcements. A Clunker jumped out the rear escape hatch and fired a few .50 calibre rounds into the Anthros trying to pry open the roof hatch. An Anthro that had not climbed up, rounded the right corner and rammed his bayonet through the Clunker's chest and pulled the trigger once, a blazing round ripping out his chest cavity and showering the Anthro in gore.

High-calibre rounds riddled the rear of the tank, opening rents in the Anthro. More bodies fell off the tank, the volume of rounds flying at them increased, the advancing Clunkers desperate to save the beleaguered tank.

"Shit! Everyone! Into the city!" Vandal yelled, losing 4 more troopers.

His and his 19 remaining troops manning the line sprinted for the ruined buildings, the tanks' co-axil guns powering up and cycling new rounds into their chambers. Once more, the guns chewed through the Antrhos, 5 or 6 more split in half and limbs blown off. No time to grab their tags, only time to run.

Vandal leaped over a demolished wall and breathed heavily, his chest tightening and the red haze creeping in from the edge of his vision. He slammed his paws to his eyes and growled, trying to remember his Canticle of Resolve.

A heavy tank round ripped open a ruined building, Anthros screaming as they where turned to dust, pulverised by the shock wave, or buried alive in rubble. But Vandal could not move. He wept at his ruination, his gross incompetence, his failure of resolve. His company broken and firing desperately at the advancing Clunkers, giving themselves away to the encroaching tank-men.

"Vandal!" a faint voice, warm and soft. "Vandal!" they cried again, shaking him now.

"VANDAL!" they cried into his ears. The Wolf snapped and growled, the mist slowly overtaking him. He saw though, a young child, barely fitting into her uniform, helmet crooked, and bag over-weighted. Fear filled her eyes even as she kneeled defiantly in the rubble and dirt. She looked to him for guidance, noticing now that what was left of his Company was gathered around him, firing sporadic shots, doing there best to hold back the advancing mechanized units.

"Your orders, sir!" The Wolf looked about, his heart-rate slowing as he regained his senses. He steadied his breathing and regained his posture. With a heavy sigh, he knelt and pointed farther into the city. "We're tactically retreating! Stay off the road and give coving fire! I'll meet you all at the round-about! You three-" Vandal pointed to the Cat that shook him out of his stupor, a Fox near by, and a rather rough looking Bison who was wielding a Plasmid light machine-gun, "with me! We're coving everyone! Stay about a block behind, try not to waste ammo! Now move! MOVE!"

The rumbling of the tank engine closed in, another salvo launched into the ruins. Rubble rained down on the Evolutionarys as they fell back father into Bastogne. The ruined buildings of modest homes and toppled housing towers provided ample cover, but the Clunker's are as a rushing tsunami, eager to flood the safe-havens with the blood of their so-called enemies. No where was safe; sniper rounds ripped through the air, heavy cannons of tanks cracking off elsewhere in the city outskirts, artillery thundered and rattled the Earth.

Vandal snapped off rounds into the vanguard mechanised infantry, The Bison setting up to unleash a few dozen rounds to keep the Clunkers suppressed, relocating every time to keep from being targeted and swarmed. The Fox kept to the shadows, using his natural stealth to flank and ambush Clunkers trying to break their retreat. The Cat ran between the three, her preternatural speed making it difficult even for the Augmented to track her, popping up where they would leas expect her, gunning and clawing all she caught in her cat-eyes.

******

That's when they heard the droning of the engines, the piercing cries of hundreds of hate-fuelled turbines churning in rage-filled lust to destroy. The greatest among them, the Continental Bombardier, a million reinforcements, of tanks, portable artillery, and men craving war, readied among their drop pods, eager for the din of battle. A thousand "Wheel of Fire" armed and prepared to incinerate any who stood it in its path.

But aboard the forward platform, as more fighter-bombers took flight, the wind streaked past mindless techno-slaves, intoning verses of Destruction, carrying a massive artillery round. Script adorned the brass brackets, etched in gold. Mathematical, bio-logic, and alchemical formula coursed through the casing of the round, the hated ammunition being primed by solar exposure. A techno-priest fine-tuned the guidance system, while his aspirants followed close behind, adjusting the vast mechanism that would launch the most destructive weapon the world has ever seen in this war.

******

Vandal and his trio dropped to the ground, covering their ears and screaming in pain. The etched fins of the fighter's intake and exhaust vents were purposely designed to create super-sonic whistles that damaged the earring of the Anthropomorphics'. Vandal was lucky his advanced genealogy allowed him to rapidly adapt to extreme hostile environments, but most of his compatriots were not as fortunate.

Quickly, he helped his allies up, pointing them to Bastogne and giving them a push as he fired at the advancing Clunkers. How they were as a horde, innumerable in bodies and unceasing as ravenous beasts! The Wolf struggled to hold back the crushing bodies, his reserve ammunition emptying quicker then he could drop bodies.

The rumbling of the heavy tank they had been trying to out run returned, black plums of hatred spewed from its exhaust. Eager was the cognatior and its crew to ground their hated prey beneath their treads. Salvoes upon salvoes rang out, the heavy tank firing over the heads of the Evolutionaries trying to fall back. Vandal hoped that his allies have set up enough traps to disable the tank, one less problem in a growing list.

The din and drone grew louder every second, their death inbound. The traffic circle was ahead, but his companions where already in a firefight, throwing back the ebb and flow of shock troops trying to overrun their make-shift defences, huddle in the mud and behind some monument the road ringed around.

"Take the left flank! Clear the road so they can fall back! Go now!" Vandal shouted. "Use that machine gun to give cover! Pin down those advancing Clunkers!" The Bison nodded and sprinted forward, firing bursts of plasma into the left most Clunkers who had not noticed their advance. Swiftly taken down, the small squad moved up, joining their comrades and lending their rifles to the fight.

"Is the trap set?! The tank is crawling up our ass here!" shouted Vandal to the near by Lieutenant Colonel. "Our Plasma-man was blown to shit when his charges where nailed by a sniper! Took three of our guys with him!" the Lieutenant shouted back, snapping off a few plasmid bursts from his modified Thompson sub-machine-gun, holing two Clunkers in the chest and a third in the head.

"Shit!" Vandal shouted absently. He looked about for any other options. They couldn't drop a building on it, as they had no charges. Same for mines, most where laid on the streets of E25 and N4, command expecting a flanking and encirclement manoeuvrer on the city if it came to that. They where running out of options, and with Clunker reinforcements arriving soon, they needed to consolidate their positions and hold out long enough to evacuate to Saint-Hubert.

"Ok! Anyone got grenades, toss them to me!" He received only 3 grenades, swearing inwardly. The only other option was to drop the monument on the tank. "That's not enough to hole a tank even if you strap them together!" the Lieutenant shouted, ducking suddenly as a barrage of rounds where flung in his direction. He replied in kind with a few bursts of Tommy rounds.

"I don't plan on it!" Vandal clamored onto the statue and started tying the grenades to the leg of the statue at the center of the monument. Rounds bounced and ricocheted off the stone monument, dust and concrete fragments flying about him as he worked. Finishing, the Wolf tapped the leg of the statue, whispering a soft Canticle of Aim, then slid back behind the monument.

"Alright! The trap is set! Give covering fire and fall back!" Vandal shouted, letting lose bursts of shots into the growing mass of Clunkers. The Buffalo with the Machine Gun was reduced to burst shots, his ammunition problem mirroring everyone else. Slowly, a retreat was formed, many too stubborn to leave, others leaving quickly as their spirit broke before the coming metal storm.

Vandal was the last to leave, the Buffalo at the center with him, the Cat putting shot after shot into Clunker's domes with a pistol she acquired. The Fox now with dual machine pistols, guarding their flanks. Finally they broke cover once the heavy tank thundered into the circle. Twin guns fired a salvo that landed behind them, throwing the four around as dolls.

The Buffalo was the first up, though in sluggish movements. He switched back to full auto and tore through two dozen more Clunkers, searing flesh and tearing limbs. In kind, he was riddled with bullets, his body twitching and wrenched in different directions as high caliber rounds ripped his flesh from bone. With great pain and equally great rage, he charged forth, screaming a guttural, blood-clogged war-cry, smashing skulls open with the barrel of his machine gun as if it where a bat, dropping the butt of the machine gun down like a hammer of the old war gods.

His efforts where meet with blades and bayonets, as bullets seemed to not stop the wild beast. They carved him as wild carrion would a carcass; blood, sinew and organs flew as he batted and flayed in his last seconds, chain-bayonets revving and cutting his engineered body. Finally, one Clunker stood above the rest, his bayonet slicked and clogged with gore as he held the severed head up as trophy, laughing and taunting the

Evolutionaries in his language.

The Cat and Fox had fared no better, though the Cat took the path of least resistance, knowing full well what happens to the females of the Evolutionaries. She scrambled for her fallen pistol, swiftly picking it up and held the barrel to her head. With no regret, she starred at the oncoming Clunkers, and vaporized her brain. Bone, blood and flesh flew as her headless body fell back onto the lifeless concrete.

The Fox too had recovered, although fared no better. He fought back, the daze of the concussion blurring his vision though, many of his shots firing wide. Rather passively, a Clunker unload half a clip into him in passing, barely changing course of his charge to fire, leaving the Fox to bleed out into the pool of blood already awash upon the streets.

Vandal simply ate the granite and stone of the statue.

His vision blurred as he crawled and clambered his way from the monument, watching the myriad ways his fellow comrades where being cut down before him. He weep for them, as if a new dagger had been ran through his heart at each of their deaths.

He clung to his meager life, rolling over a mound of rubble, and landed with a thud onto his back. He dragged his dazed form upright and took aim with his revolver, his mark a multi-apparition. Though, it was the heavy tank that rolled into the circle that aligned his vision. Hard was his breath, and steadying it took seconds he could not waste. His arm was cut and bruised, his muscles aching, as if sensing Death was near. His vision narrowed, but blinded him to his target. No time left, he simply uttered a single phrase.

"Her will Be Done..."

A beautiful plume of light enveloped his sight, the very air dispersed in milliseconds, the heaven's opened up for a moment and flame leap for its boundless embrace. The cracking of the Earth rung and a war-god of old came with fire and flame down upon those who's vision of conquest he had slain near a century ago. The saber he bore as a symbol of his god-hood cleaved the tank in two, the Clunker's within eviscerated, the cognatior belching static and squalls before the sparks of granite and metal ignite ruptured lines and rattled shells.

A thunder of a death-cry rose with a blinding fireball as the explosives within shredded surrounding Clunker's in a hail of metal shards and burning sludge, rending some of limbs and others of whole torsos. A great rent in the Earth was torn through; the opposite end of the monument was scorched in heat, and completely ripped from it's base next to the tank.

Vandal fell back behind the rubble, limping farther along the road into Bastogne. The foliage of the trees threw shadows along opposing houses, noon light poking through the blanket of smoke steadily encroaching from the east. Fighters continued to streak through the sky, their jets curling the smoke in their wake. Fireballs rose in great plums as the jets bombed the Evolutionary's hastily consolidated positions.

A park was littered with burned and torn tents; hasty medicaid stations built when the army first trudged through, into Bastogne, then converted into make-shift field tents. Already, the war cries of the Clunkers followed behind Vandal. Quickly he crossed the field, the cloth of the tents reaching out and whipping back in a frightened retreat, voices of men and women regrouping and recouping as the cold of the late year began to settle in.

He came out onto a shelled ridge that looked to have once been a dinning patio for the near by cafe. A scarred and pitted walk-way lead him back to street level, burned out houses and rubble collapsed into the street back to the main road. The Wolf limped on, his vision dim and narrow, the light of the Sun having fled before such defeat. Stead fast, tears rolling down his face at such wanton murder.

A small white cat, glowing as a lone flame, in a darkness darker then evil itself, circled in the spot, before jumping up onto the roofs, the dim glow of the Moon illuminating the choked sky. She licked her paw but smiled softly as she did.

She had known the lessons that she would learn from them.

Forward she began, a feather drifting through the Autumn breeze, grace and glide, soft and immaculate, Learned and Divine, greater then any Sculpted Plate or Genetic Strands. Onward to the Morning Light, her Light of Lights busted into a great beacon, before continuing onto the Red Rise.

And he found his way back, stumbling onto all fours like the beast he had been sculpted into.

The 3rdbattalion was scrambling to and fro, before stopping at the sight of there idealized warrior, materialized in sweat of that newly born. The din of battle dangerously close, before Claudmer rushed forwards, yelling orders of return to work, the bustle beginning again as busying bees.

"What in Hell happened to you?! We had thought you where dead when the the drive-bombers had come!" She helped Vandal onto his feet, his reinforced biology already clotting his wounds, grunting in pain at his muscles strained to the point of breaking.

They rushed to the nearest tent, the Medic-aids giving him a quick shot of protean and electrolytes each as he quickly inform Claudmer. She sighed softly. "At least we don't have to worry about the heavy tank anymore..."

"Making our escape easier. We must leave now instead of holding onto this hollow victory that will crumble to dust if we grip any longer!"

"And flank us from the south by the Luxemburge Garrison? No, a million and more men and women will die if we don't form a defense here and hold back the tide! These are the only major crossroads that link to the intercontinental roads big enough to ferry an army north! Bottle neck them and use Defense in Depth to drain them slowly and delay their advance until we are reinforced!"

"The forsaking airship known as_Ultima Poenitenta_is bearing down on us!"

Claudmer was taken aback, the stories of the iron air-dread recalled as it was first released across the Eastern Front. "How... how do you know?..."

"The Grand Walker was suppose to be reinforced until saboteurs had plagued the ship every stop it made. Arc-Angle was raided to stop the flow of high-speed rail delivery of fuel and parts need to keep it afloat. It was staled for months as the Engin-seers had to be called back from war and factories to speed the rebuild!" The Wolf paused for breath, his body slogging forward back into recovery as he rested his weary bones for a moment.

"On the Grand Walker, I was given as disc, and it contained files on the location of secret weapons and their production location... The Air-dread is loaded with the drive-bombers as primary escort. The next nearest airbase to house them is north in Denmark, and West at Caen. It has to be the airship."

"How long do you think we have?"

"45 minutes at least? An hour if we're lucky..."

Claudmer went wide-eyed and huffed viciously. She yelled for a near by Private to relay a message back to the front-lines. "Alright, let's organize this and head back south to France."

"There's no bridges left, remember? We detonated them as we pushed in... The road back is closed..."

Claudmer, struck by her neglect, and unfounded zeal, had sealed their own fate with the fire of her vengeance. She staggered for a moment, her own ignorance matched only by that of the ClunkerNaughts. She lowered herself over some boxes, her legs ready to give out any moment. Her heart raced and she began to tremble, the struggles of the past few months flooding back to her, the jangling of dog-tags around her neck, her breastplate, and a few certain ones adorning her rifle, reminded her of the those who already gave her life so she could lead these 10,000 troopers to victory.

"No... No! Command would have built the bridges back! We sent the vox-squakers! They would have..."

"We suffered winter without word or aid. No Eagles or Hawks. The resupplies never made it either. We are alone here, surrounded by a foe that had melted to shadows and concealed weapons from our view. We are alone..."

"Then... then where would we go? But to die so ignobly here..."

"There is no shame in retreat."

"Then where would we go?!..."

"North."

"To... to Brussles?"

"No, the river would be inaccessible as well, the bridges destroyed too, to stall the Clunker's advance. We will head to Liège or Maastricht, flank the Clunkers there. If not, we can make an assault on Aachen. Whatever it is we do, we can at the very least force the Clunkers to waste men and material on trying to stop us. Break the Brigade into seven small, light infantry Battalions, and make a break north up the E25. It's roughly a day trek to the Belgian border, and in smaller unites, it'll be harder to pin us down, easier to evade patrols, or being bogged down in a firefight."

Caludmer, silent and contemplative, took a few deep breaths. Given their current situation, it was all that was left that could still aid the outcome of the war effort, for what little it seemed to her. She stood, breathed deep, and signed softly. "Let's go..." She summoned the only vox-man left, who disseminated the plan.

Quickly, those who need resupply where given what bit of rations and ammunition that could be sparred, some of the smaller caliber firearms of the Clunkernaughts were scavenged on as each Battalions made their way out of Bastogn. Each where told of their purpose now as a diminished army, and with a few words of encouragement, went on their way, each choosing their own paths to salvation or ruination.

Finally, the last Battalion left, headed by Vandal and Claudmer. As a final gesture of reluctant acceptance, she set fire to the last of what they could not carry, denying what little resources where left to the enemy. Quickly, the fires leaping to cloth and boards and shingles, the camp ignited.

As the last few hundred set north to the dense forests, the block behind them billowed with smoke, an inferno now raging unchecked through cobblestone houses of yore, and housing towers raised to a failed promise to an enlightened future...

Had they taken but a moment to listen to the Flames! There was no Clunkernaught left to capture said supplies, for they had left to watch the spectacle of unveiling of a new weapon to wage war with!

It was about fifteen minutes out of the city that they heard the screaming turbines of the Sky Dread, the iron carrier on the winds, the infernal Continental Bombardier. Aboard the sky-walk, a hundred servants and adepts of technology, far in advance of contemplation by more simply minded folk, intoned binaric chants and mathematically perfected melodies. They praised the God of All Machines' for giving them the ability to wage war in a method only imaged by the horrific engineers of weaponry only a century ago.

It came time, they sang, to scour the re-pungent flesh that was called forth from a darkness beyond the light of reason. How could anyone, they begged, dare to tamper with the perfected code within each and every cell? It was one method to perfect a flawed body, for all are flawed in each way, they posture, by way of steel and steam, modification and addition and subtraction, so long as the base form is intact; but utterly unholy to tamper with the very building blocks of life itself!

It's up to them to shoulder the burden none wished to carry.

In a great rumble and shock-wave, the gilded cannon, forged in the holy reliquary of Archangel's Forge; every rivet machined to perfection within million's of an inch, every nut etched with holy symbolism and words of power, every plate and panel welded together under incenses and bathed in holy unguent. It was a weapon forged only with pure hatred, every molecule, every bolt, and ever plate infused with only undiluted rage and single-minded, systematic devastation and destruction of their so-called enemy.

When the brass shell, as large as a tanker, slammed into the Earth, it was still for a moment, the internal cognitior told to set it's chrono-peice to a delay slightly longer then what was needed. It was an eternity to a spirit that wished to be released from the torment of waking death.

A second, or an eternity, for time is fickle to each and everyone, and the shell ignited, a viscous plume of bile-green liquid thrown into the air. The rapid heat and change of atmosphere reacted with the fluid, rapidly converting to aerosol and quickly dispersing across the city.

Within seconds of touching wood and grass and anywhere life stood strong before the encroaching tide of metal and hatred, it withered to blacken rot, and finally to the ashes of the Earth. Stone cracked and shattered, never before had any other broke the will of the silent observers so easily. The flesh of the newly dead rotted to sludge and viscous fluid, and even before those liquid compounds could seep back into the wounds of the

Earth, dried and turned to nothing more then inorganic material. Only the components of the Clunkernaughts augments remained as a trace of life having once tread the dirt.

It takes but a spark to ignite a forest, and when a few droplets came into contact with the flames that already engulfed the city, lit by the retreating Evolutionaries, the aerosol instantaneously igniting. A great wrath of ire and brimstone engulfed the city within the blink of an eye, the heat so intense that the remains of the Clunkernaughts turned to slag, sand into glass, and glass panes into liquid. Nothing was spared before the coming storm of pure energy.

A great fireball parted the clouds of smoke and air above, a second sun to rival Sol, if but only for a few moments. For a few miles it was seen, those who fled only less then an hour ago stopped in both awe and fear. Never had destruction been so easily tamed and directed.

What horrors awaited them now?

How could they fight back, in the face of such intense firepower?

Who would save them from the coming Apocalypse?