Through the archaic radio transmission, a persistent interference noise perated the air.
— Curator One to Gravedigger. Enemy ambush detected on radar. Battalion of anti-tank artillery and a battalion of riflen nearby.
— Gravedigger here, understood. Enemies spotted on our end as well.
— Passing command to field commander. There is no greater way to repay our country than to give our lives for its defense. Enemies of the Republic must be destroyed at any cost.
— Understood.
— ...I'm sorry, guys. Truly sorry.
— End of transmission.
— Gravedigger to all squadron mbers. Curator One has relinquished command. I'm taking charge from now on.
— Alpha Leader here, acknowledged. All good as usual, huh, "god of death"? And what did our spineless owner without balls say in the end?
— He said "I'm sorry."
— Ha. Just as useless as ever. Happy to send us into battle, then shut himself in and cover his ears. "I'm sorry" — for what, as if it changes anything... All squad mbers heard it. Well, if we're destined to die, might as well do it under the command of the god of death. Not the worst scenario.
— 60 seconds to enemy engagent... Artillery barrage initiated. Proceeding to breakthrough through the barrage zone at maximum speed.
— Well, boys, here we go!
——…
— Delta Leader to Delta squad! Don't encircle, eliminate all from this position!
— Charlie Three! Enemy at 10 o'clock! Avoid... Damn!
— Echo One to all squad mbers. Echo Leader down. Assuming command.
— Bravo Two here. Things are looking grim, boys. I think this might be it.
— Alpha Leader to Alpha Three! Prepare to counter-attack in one minute! Heading for support! Alpha One, take command!
— Understood. Good luck, Alpha Leader.
— Please. Hear , Shin. Gravedigger.
— What?
— Don't forget the promise.
— Mm.
The voice of the senior officer, drowned out by interference, echoed from discarded earpieces, blending with the murmur of the twilight breeze.
— ...from... to all. Curator One to all unit mbers. Can you hear ? First squadron — respond...
Leaning against a fuselage elent resembling an insect doll, he reached for the open cockpit and pressed the radio button.
— Gravedigger to Curator One. Enemy ambush destroyed, remaining forces retreating. Operation complete. Returning to base.
— ...Gravedigger. How many survivors besides you…
— End of transmission.
Cutting off the communication before the unnecessary, optional, and foolish, yet still asked question was finished, the youth looked around again.
Not a soul was nearby. Bodies scattered everywhere to the horizon, and unaware ghosts wandered among them.
A terrifying silence prevailed. In the distance, beyond the field, the sun set behind the darkening mountain range, casting a crimson horizontal beam across the sky.
It seed as though in this extinct world, where everything glowed crimson or sank into black shadows, remnants of life persisted only in the youth and in the movent of the sun.
The long striding supports resembled arthropod limbs. The light-brown plating with countless damages, resembling scissors, high-frequency blades, and the main rear weapon. Overall, the silhouette of the machine evoked thoughts of a spider-hunter with four legs and a long gun barrel on its back, like a scorpion. However, considering human morphology, these machines rather resembled decomposed dead bodies, crawling across the battlefield in search of their lost heads.
The youth took a deep breath, straightened up against the fuselage, already cooling under the twilight wind, and looked into the blazing sky, shining so dazzlingly that his legs wobbled.
In a distant land to the east, the favorite concubine of the ruler had taken her own life, and flowers grew from drops of her blood.
Or perhaps they grew from rivers of blood of knights, slain back when barbaric technology of assault didn’t exist.
The crimson blanket of blooming poppies covering the field under the blazing sunset sky was insanely beautiful.
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