Sunflowers Blooming Across the Battlefield
The M1A4 SP/DR is a triumph of the Republic of Novus Atlantica’s military engineering! Produced by Republic Military Industries (RMI), the M1A4 SP/DR stands as the backbone of the Republic's armoured forces, embodying the pinnacle of cutting-edge technology. This autonomous, unmanned, poly-pedal armoured weapon boasts a striking design: four jointed legs, a chrysalis-like torso with whitish-brown armour and an arsenal that includes a grappling sub-arm, a heavy machine gun, a wire-and-anchor system, and an arm-mounted 57mm smoothbore gun. Minimally armoured, disposable, fast and heavily armed, this autonomous drone protects the good citizens of the Republic from the devilish former Anglo Empire’s autonomous drone units, the OCTO-Legion, with unquestioning loyalty and bravery! These remarkable machines represent the Republic's unwavering commitment to innovation and defence. Glory to Novus Atlantica and the Five-Coloured Flag!
—Transcript from Republic Broadcasting Network 13/5/2184—
A harsh, brazen voice shatters the eerie silence like a jagged blade slicing through still air. Or perhaps it’s more of a guttural oink—grating and unwelcome.
“Handler One to Undertaker,” the voice sneers, dripping with contempt. “Multiple enemy interceptor groups detected at points 30 and 50.”
<System Initiation Sequence Commencing>
<RMI M1A4 SP/DR OS Version 8.15>
<Power pack: Activated. Actuator: Engaged. Join-lock mechanism: Released.>
<Stabilizer: Operational. FCS: Compatible. Vetronics: Offline. Enemy scouting mode: Passive.>
The idle SP/DR stirs to life with a low, mechanical rumble that grows into a roar. Its six metallic limbs creak momentarily, then strike the soft ground with rhythmic force. Each step builds speed and momentum as it races towards its assigned target coordinates, mixing with the coarse voice still echoing in its comms.
“Battalion-sized units of OCTO-Panthers and Wolves,” the handler continues, his tone abrasive and mocking. “All units advance immediately. Wipe out Octavius’ demons.”
Ahead, the SP/DR’s targeting systems confirm the presence of the enemy. Not that the cold, calculating processor needed the visual validation—it could already hear them long ago. The OCTO-Legion’s metallic shrieks pierce the air, discordant cries echoing over the rolling hills. Glinting in the golden morning sunlight, the enemy swarms descend towards the SP/DR’s 12 o’clock position like a steel tide of death.
The mission is clear. The directive hard-coded. But the voice in the comms won’t stop.
“With that many OCTO-Legion,” the Handler laughs, cruel and theatrical, “you’re all as good as dead. So go on! Fight until you break, my little piggies!”
The SP/DR surges forwards, leading the charge as its comrades follow in a synchronised, orderly wave. 57mm slide guns erupt in deafening unison, spitting APFSDS rounds that tear through the Legion ranks, followed in near tandem with the crackle of 12.7mm machine gun fire.
*APFSDS – Armour-piercing fin-stabilised discarding sabot is a dart ammunition used to penetrate modern vehicle armour. --ED.
The battlefield becomes a storm of chaos—explosions, ricocheting shells and the blood-curdling screeches of dying machines.
But none move with the precision and ferocity of the Undertaker. Its high-frequency blades hum with lethal intent, slicing through enemy units with the elegance of a dancer and the ferocity of a berserk warmonger. It carves a path through the Legion like a scythe through wheat, leaving piles of metallic corpses in its wake.
The cacophony of war and the screams of the Legion grow louder in Undertaker’s ears. Among them is the Handler’s voice, no longer smug but shrill with terror.
“WHAT IS THIS?!” he howls, panic overtaking his arrogance. “STOP IT! STOP IT, I SAID! MAKE IT STOP!”
Undertaker ignores him, its cold, unfeeling processor focused entirely on the task. But the Handler’s screams escalate, reaching a fever pitch as he seems to unravel over the comms.
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
A final, blood-curdling shriek reverberates through the comms before cutting off abruptly. Silence falls, save for the relentless sounds of battle. Undertaker imagines the man collapsing in his control room, clawing at his own face, tearing out his blonde hair and sanity teetering on the abyss of madness.
The quiet doesn’t last long. Undertaker’s voice cuts through the residual noise, cold and devoid of emotion.
“Undertaker to all units. Handler One has relinquished command. I will now assume operational authority.”
A new voice, bearing the call sign ‘Anarchist’, breaks in, holding back a barely suppressed laugh. “Acknowledged, Mr Alpha Leader. Same bloody drill as always, ay, Reaper?”
There’s no response from Undertaker, but the comms fill with chatter. Another voice bursts into laughter, ironically bearing the call sign ‘Trollface’. “Damn, dude, how many Handlers is that now? Those white pigs never change.”
More processors join in, their voices buzzing with humour. The tide of battle shifts as the mechanical cries of the Legion begin to wane and they turn tail and run, having taken the number of losses required to activate their retreat protocol, unable to bear the ferocity of the squadron’s fierce counterattack.
“Undertaker to Spearhead Squadron,” the Reaper announces. “Enemy interception force exterminated. They’re retreating. Operation complete. Return to base.”
<End Transmission>