Ruby’s boots tapped the concrete floor as she snuck across the unlit corridors of the nuke silo. Of all the sense she was deprived of, sound was not one. She concentrated on the ground in front of her, barely lit by her night vision. A man spoke in an unknown language, his voice was deep, bearing an almost mechanical growl. Whatever was happening was clearly ritualistic, the man roared as he spoke, his voice came as a defiant croak through the decaying speakers that hung about the walls. A small filter device was strapped to the young girl's mouth.

  Keeping with her stealth mission, she wore a black cape, her only identifier was a red gun flap.

  Her weapon was a carbine length lever action rifle that boasted a sledgehammer of a shot. A messy and violent caliber lay within its magazine, taylor made to be suppressed. Such a shot carried a rebellious ballistic performance. It wouldn’t go through armor, but the projectile carried enough force to splinter the metal on the other side, killing the enemy with what was supposed to protect him.

  Finally she found something different. A hallway with screens of looping footage slowly pulled her in, one of them show a man dressed in a black cloth. The uniform covered the head with a tall can-like hat that bore an emblem of a shield, giving his appearance to look like a priest wearing a holy gasmask. The man was surrounded by white versions of the same uniform, and they held shields with severed hands pinned onto them.

  The hallways were a maze of snaking portals that made an excellent defense. These silos were purpose built to be confusing, which served to delay attackers.

  She kept moving, and only stopped when the walls around her lit up, she heard a click noise from behind her. She turned around to meet the man who got the drop on her, the Major.

  “Quite the defense we have here. Who sent you?” he said as he lowered the barrel of his revolver.

  “Sergeant Major did, guess I wasn’t the only one.” The dark was a strange ally to the both of them.

  “No idea what unit these guys are, saw one of them still shooting after stepping on a mine, he wasn’t bothered.”

  “What kind of drugs do these guys have?”

  “No idea, but I’m trying to leave. I haven't found what I was looking for. All these hallways, you’d think they’d have a map somewhere.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to think I’m lost too,” she strung her rifle on her shoulder. The two began looking for an exit.

  “This smell is gonna make me go insane.”

  Ruby tugged slightly on her filter, catching a whiff of a thousand rotting corpses, nearly throwing up in her mask.

  “Did you see the hand people?”

  “Yeah, no idea what that about, maybe a local belief?”

  The industrial piping would give them some idea of where to go, but on the way they came upon the odor’s origin.

  A room filled with the decapitated corpses, the hands removed, and the bodies placed in a prayer position. At the far end of the room, several of them were stitched together in an unholy matrimony, wires and circuits were jammed into the open wounds. Leftover organs lay about the ground, clearly left over from a previous operation.

  After a moment, Ruby spoke first.

  “Lets hope not.”

  They noticed something else, the man had stopped speaking. As they exited the room they came face to face with ranks of the enemy. Each one a towering force with uniform white armor that held glowing blue lights. She recognized the helmets too, it was the “free upgrade” that Charmaine pulled off the dead specialist, all of them had one. They were a wall of iron, and no part was left uncovered. They’re weapons were impressive, large blocky metal rifles with all manner of extra equipment fastened or otherwise strapped to them. You could not pick out an individual one out of the group as they chose their loadout with the goal of unity, and they were what remained of the leftovers in the other room. They came from every and all walks of life, and were made equal under a scalpel’s blade. The two looked at the area were modifications had to have occurred. They were all the same height, made so by a cut at the mid section. They had the same accent because their jaw was removed and replaced with a device that permitted their speech. They had the same skull structure because their helmet was permanently riveted into the bone. They had the same build because their chests were permanently fixed with armor plating. There was no culture and no difference, worst of all, their were more of them then Chasseurs or Rubys.

  The Girl’s head darted between the Major and the enemy. Finally she closed her eyes, and betrayed a long standing restriction in her vocabulary.

  “Phuck.”

  At a busy train station in the south of the continent, the Sergeant Major’s voice came over the speakers, “War… Is an ugly thing, but it is not yet the ugliest of things, the decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feelings that inspires men to believe nothing is worth war, that nothing is worth fighting and dying for… is far worse. A man who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing that he cares more about than his own personnel safety..is a miserable creature. This particular species has no chance of being free, or safe, unless made and kept so by the exertions–of men far better than himself.” He paused for a moment.

  “These words were uttered during the Great War, some 100 years ago, and yet these words still hold true. Man has a way of fighting since and perhaps even before the creation of the first wheel, the first flame, to protect what is his, and what is right. Some say that war does not determine who is right, only who is left, maybe. But I believe that man has yet some inherent good within his heart, and it is man– and only man– who can forge the new world for his children, his inheritance. Through all our troubles and illness, we have seemed to progress beyond one being right and one being wrong, and yet somehow, recent events have shown us that we are right! And they are wrong! I look now on a populus of adversaries to our current aggressors, and our policy is now, to wage war by land, air and sea. To give the enemy no chance of retreat, and no thought rhyme or reason.

  War must serve policy, our young boys are off to fight a war that has not been seen or even thought of in decades. A new war, and a new trauma, we can only hope that our lord may have mercy on man for his sins against his neighbor. When the final shot is fired, the final corpse turned over, and the final brother killed via his own kind, only then can the next stage of man's existence begin, a lifetime of pain and misery, to be yet lived, the fruits of his suffering being enjoyed by all others. To be a young man in such times is to be scorned by all manner of human and faunus life, and yet so many will jump at the first opportunity to insult and put down the very tool of their liberation. 100 years ago, there was a battle fought on different land but similar terms, and with similar reasoning. I say this for one reason, there was never a country for young men, rather the system depends on them, but our will is yet unbroken, and it will be young men who bring about the end of this conflict. It was true a century ago, as it is true now.” The train rocked slightly as it pierced the infernal blizzard.

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  Getting off the train, Jackboot and his gang had to push past a growing crowd, some were reporters, others, simple fans who wanted to catch a glimpse of their idol. “Mr. Jackboot, what do you think of the current state of the mercenary battalions,” said one, “Hey Jackboot, what do you think of the penal battalion? Are they really a reliable ally?” The Jackboot pushed passed, trying to ignore the masses. Another reporter, a woman, came forward, “Sir what do you think of Atlas deploying a chemical weapons division against Captain Rose’s fighters,” one of the boys from his unit stepped forward to answer for him, “It's a sign that Atlas is starting to shit their pants!”

  As the Jackboot walked through the station, he couldn’t help but notice a mass of older men standing just outside a recruitment office. They held signs above their heads, “Let us enlist,” said one, “Better me than my grandson,” said another, “I can still shoot,” yet another said.

  “What's going on over there?” said one of the Raders, “They were denied enlistment because of their age, they still want to fight, but the recruiters won’t accept them,” said the Jackboot. The men wore faces tired of many things, including charity, having most likely fought in the last faunus war, they were offended that the current administration would not make use of their skills and experience.

  They however, would need to focus elsewards, as they had another train to catch, and it was headed towards the front. As they boarded, the Jackboot lingered near the rear car, and watched the old men. The pounding blast of the engine started, and the train was off, one of the men's attention was turned, and he noticed him at the back, “We’ll be over shortly Jackboot, mark my words!” He saluted the man, more out of respect for his current objective than any fight, “Consider them marked Sir, I’ll catch one on your behalf!” He held back tears as he spoke.

  “Day three of the south spring assault is in full speed,” a radio voice filled the car. “Right now men from all walks of life are headed to the front, we can only hope that our lord be with them in their darkest hour.”

  The boy was alone in the medical truck on a stretcher, his face felt as though it would rip through the skin. One of the snow leopards came in, it was the one with the cauliflower ear she came in and sat next to him. “Renka sent me,” She said as closed, and locked the door behind her. She held one hand behind her back, “I brought you a gift,” she said as she brought her hand about her waist, stepping closer. His ears flipped backwards.

  Charmaine felt his entire body heat up, he jumped and squirmed, but the leopard held him down by his right shoulder. In her free hand was the fresh, still dripping severed head of one of the enemy, blood and strands of gore dribbling out of the cut and staining his uniform. The nose and lower jaw was missing, and its tongue hung out, “This was taken off that sniper that clipped you, the one in the tree.”

  “By the twin Gods! Get that away from me!” Charmaine howled, twisting and squirming harder yet, though still just as unfruitful. She taunted him, “You're giving me orders now?” she held it up for a few seconds, before her eyes acknowledged a better idea.

  “Come on,” she taunted further, “Make up you two,” she brought the trophy closer to his face, making kissing noises all the while.

  The back of Charmaine's head and upper back were welded to the wall behind him, his legs kicked out, and he looked every which way to avoid the bloody mass.

  Clearly this would not satisfy and the boy felt her hand be taken from his shoulder. She climbed onto the stretcher to pin him by the abdomen under the weight of her knee. She grabbed him by the jaw and forced open his mouth, pressing the trophy in, hard.

  Charmaine closed his eyes, the only sense he could feel was the taste of an iron liquid around a limp fleshy strip of meat penetrated his mouth. The boy fought with all his might to avoid swallowing.

  Finally believing she had done enough, she pulled back the head to take in the sight of the terrified and confused subordonate. He turned on his stomach to spit and gag. She savored the look in his eyes for a while before dropping the head and opening the door. “Renka wants you at the intel truck, something about a message. Her casual tone betrayed the situation, and the boy took a moment to get himself together after hearing the door shut.

  A stinging sensation came about from his nostrils, and his eyes watered. “Not dead yet boy” he thought to himself.

  The two finally ran out of the silo, the light bringing about their billets. They dove into a snow tree shadow, and as they calmed down they finally laid eyes on eachothers uniforms, both saw the enemy uniform, but neither knew the personnel identity of the other. They drew their weapons on the other, before remembering what they had just been through.

  “Wait, those weren’t your guys?” Ruby asked,

  “I thought they were yours,” replied the Major.

  “What did you say you were looking for?”

  “Honestly I’m not really sure anymore.”

  “Ok,” Ruby said, “I’d like to propose a temporary alliance, you, me, a couple girls from my camp, whattaya say?”

  “Maybe,” he replied, “I need to uh… get my Corporal,”

  “Shit I should probably also get mine,” said the girl.

  The Major leaned back in his seat, the truck rocked lightly, and was reminded of when he was a child, feeling the truck's movements to know where they were on their journey back to standing Iron.

  He awakened as the truck came to a stop, being greeted by a warrant officer as he exited. He pointed to a service truck as he spoke. “Goodmorning Sir, command has had a change of leadership, you’ve been requested to Col. Bleechire at the central office in the Great Iron. ”

  “Bleechire?”

  “Yes Sir, said he had some personal business to address with you.”

  The two climbed into the truck, and they set off. The Major lay his head on the window, bearing witness to lines of injured mercs, who shook each other awake and pointed to him as a source of some inspiration. After catching enough glimpses, the Major sighed, and drew the blinds on the window.

  Walking into the central office, he met the Colonel, and was met inturn with the same PPE clad figure that he’d known since his time in the academy, he saluted him. The Colonel stood and walked up to the Major, his Major, and returned his salute. After dropping his hand, he unbuttoned his glove, offering his naked and chemically scarred hand. “It never felt right what they did to you back in the brig, I tried to protest after the fact, but the committee had already made their choice.” The Major broke attention, and looked at the Colonel through the smoked lenses of his gas mask. “Thank you,” he replied as the two hands met. “I heard you were to track down that huntress.” “Yes, the Major General sent me, but I guess he changed his mind,”

  “Of course he did, the bastard forced the Commandant to stick me in a Mopp company, after I questioned his daughter's place within the company. I had to clean up the chemicals around Atlas during the collapse.”

  “Guess I wasn’t his only victim,” said the Major, of all the disagreements he had in the academy, few held as much water as the popular kids.

  “The worst of it was the sewers, I had to get rid of all the…grimmlets. One of the smaller ones punched a hole in my suit. My pack failed 6 stories deep, no light, no oxygen, barely able to breath, unable to die.”

  “How’d you get out?”

  “A patrol found me a couple days later, gave me a chem shower. Since then breathing unfiltered air, it makes me cough out my guts. I heard about Williams, was it really a sniper?”

  “No,” replied the Major, “He turned his shotgun on himself, the Captain handed me his billet.”

  “Huh,” the Colonel looked at his desk, “Ain't that war?” He said, “It ain’t all waiting on you… or me. That there’s just-” he thought for a moment about the correct word, “vain,” he settled.