Spearhead

North American and Pacifica Federacy

Department of Army Intelligence, Official OCTO-Legion Classification Manual. Page 2. CLASSIFIED EYES ONLY.

Artillery Type: Broad Classification Name – Skorpion. Deployed in mass, the self-propelled artillery unit Skorpion, is a serious threat to our armoured forces. Weighing approximately 30 tonnes and equipped with a 155mm Howitzer and integrated target acquisition systems, they provide devastating long-range fire support. Not only that, but they are highly manoeuvrable (except when in firing mode) and employ smothering barrages. However, if our more heavily armoured units can break through Legion lines, the Skorpions are sitting ducks with their light armour. This is not the recommended engagement strategy, however, and the Federacy should prioritise counter-battery fire and precision strikes to minimise casualties.

29 – 5 – 2148

“Hey everyone,” Gwen says, happily. “You guys did great today, as usual.”

Half a month has passed since Gwen was appointed to command Spearhead Squadron. As their evening conversations had become the best part of her daily routine, Gwen activated the Para-RAID in a relaxed fashion, resonating with the Squadron.

“Evening to you too, Handler One,” Undertaker responds, the first to do so, as always. His voice is calm and collected and Gwen often wonders why he was given such an ominous nickname and call sign. He lays back on a faded, beige couch, reading a book whilst a tiny kitten sleeps peacefully on his chest, purring softly.

There are also several other presences on the other side of the Resonance, and gradually, a few more members greet her. The first to do so is Anarchist, Undertaker’s second in command, then Bellflower, Antaka, Shoka, Punisher, Highlander and finally, Trollface. There are a few squad members who don’t connect to the conversation, although Gwen is used to this by now. Suddenly, the kitten resting on Miles’ stomach meows loudly.

“Was that a cat?” Gwen blinks in surprise, hearing the shrill meow cut into her words.

“Oh, yeah,” Undertaker answers. “We keep it around the barracks. I rescued it, actually, after the house it was livin’ in got blown to hell by a Panthers HEAT round. Somehow it survived, totally fine.”

“And for some reason, far beyond our comprehension,” Ganke says, yawning loudly whilst scribbling in a sketchbook, “it loves Undertaker.”

“It ain’t fair,” Heavy cries, flopping to the floor and pathetically reaching out to the kitten perched on Miles’ chest with tears streaming down his face. “Undertaker won’t even give the poor kitty the time of day!”

“Aye,” Cameron says, snickering at Heavy. “Probably ‘cos Undertaker doesn’t move while reading. I’d bet it doesn’t even like the lad.”

“What’s its name?” Gwen asks fondly. Suddenly, everyone Resonating with her answers at the same time.

“Blackie.”

“Whitey.”

“Two-tone.”

“Calico.”

“Chibi.”

“Kitty.”

“Bingus.”

Gwen is confused. “Are there really that many cats there?” she asks, not quite understanding.

“Nah, just one,” Ganke says unhelpfully, failing to elaborate.

Danika, who sits next to him, watches him draw a mocking picture of a pig in a female Republic officer uniform, shakes her head in disbelief. The words: Sixth Handler are crudely drawn at the top of the page.

Hobie sighs. “It’s a black kitten, but its paws are white,” he explains concisely. “We don’t actually have a name for it, so we just call it whatever, whenever.”

“Why not decide on a name?” Gwen questions.

“Oh, that?” Hobie says, beginning to answer. “Well that’s because—" His resonance suddenly cuts off. The next moment, Phin briskly sits up, kicking a worn chair away and storms out of the room. As the chair falls with a clatter to the floor, Gayatri, who’d been sitting next to Phin, goes after her.

“What was that?” Gwen asks, her voice laced with concern. Could it have been artillery?

Gayatri had shut off her resonance and Phin hadn’t been connected to begin with, choosing to sit broodingly in the corner. Miles answers to keep up appearances.

“We’ve got a rat in the barracks,” he says, apathetically.

“So that’s what you’re going with?” Ganke mutters incredulously, looking up from his sketchbook to watch Phin leave.

“A rat,” Gwen questions in surprise. “You guys have gotta deal with rats there?”

Ganke’s whisper hadn't reached the Handler's ears. Although, with the way her voice came across, disgusted and a tiny bit timid, she’s probably scared of them.

Miles lowers his gaze and sighs.

“Yeah,” he says, giving the silvery voice a half-hearted reply, gazing at the ajar door Phin had slammed on her way out.

Gayatri hurries down the hallway and catches up to Phin, who’s gasping for air like she’s trying to push down years of pent-up stress with each shaky breath.

Hearing that voice again makes Phin’s stomach churn.

It’s like a sickness crawling under her skin, and the more she thinks about it, the worse it gets. She can’t stand it anymore. That woman has ruined everything—those quiet, peaceful evenings they all used to share, the ones that felt so normal, so safe.

Those moments were everything to them—comforting, precious. And now...

“Phin...” Gayatri says, trying to catch her attention.

“Why do they keep talking to her?” Phin demands, her voice harsh and frustrated. “Why does Miles keep talking to her?!”

“It’s only temporary,” Gayatri shrugs, her gaze lacking its usual mischief and kindness, instead replaced with an uncharacteristic coldness. “You know as well as I do that she’ll stop connecting soon enough.”

It’s always the same. No Handler can handle Resonating with the Reaper for long. That girl doesn’t even know the story behind Miles’ other name. She’s just lucky that those particular enemies haven’t shown up yet.

The heretical Black Sheep, hiding among the Legion like wolves in a flock, are bad enough, but by now, they’ve grown to outnumber the regular Legion entirely. And worse, the Shepherds commanding those Black Sheep are far more dangerous than any normal Legion—are the ones that truly break Handlers. The strain of dealing with them, the fear, the vengeful screams of the dead, the weight of hearing those voices... it’s only a matter of time before her luck runs out.

Phin grinds her teeth hard enough to make her jaw ache. She knows all of this. She really does. But still...

“Miles should just break her already.” The words burst out before she can stop herself, sharp and venomous. Her anger and frustration bubble over, and the spite in her tone is impossible to miss. “What’s the point of worrying so much over one filthy white pig? The sync rate’s set low, anyway.”

“Of course it is,” Gayatri snaps back, her voice cutting through the tension. “Miles doesn’t break the Handlers because he wants to, you know?”

The Para-RAID’s sync rate is deliberately kept low—standard battlefield protocol—so that only the speakers’ voices can cut through the chaos of gunfire and explosions. It’s a precaution, but even that isn’t enough to ease the strain.

“Besides,” Gayatri continues, her tone softening now, almost hesitant. “Could you say that to Miles’ face? ‘I don’t like that woman, so just break her.’ Could you look him in the eye and tell him that?”

Phin bites her lip, the sharp sting grounding her. She knows Gayatri’s right. It’s a terrible thing to say. Miles and the others aren’t just her comrades—they’re her family. And you don’t say something that cruel to family.

For Miles, this is just another piece of the life he’s been forced to live. Breaking Handlers isn’t a choice; it’s something he endures because there’s no other way. Not to mention, if they were to turn the sync rate up, Spearhead might end up injuring themselves. They may be used to hearing what Miles does through the Resonance, having all fought with him at some point in the past, but they still aren’t entirely immune to being affected.

But even knowing all that...

“I couldn’t,” Phin mutters finally, her voice low and bitter. She turns away, glaring out the window at the mural of Saint Atlantica, her reflection twisted by anger. “But I still hate her. Those white pigs used my parents as target practice. Like empty cans. They’re all scum.”

She spits the last word like poison, her hands trembling at her sides, and then stalks away without another word.

Gayatri watches her go, a shallow sigh slipping from her lips.

For a moment, she stares at the mural herself, her expression unreadable. Then, solemnly, she reaches out and slides the window shut.

When the two return, the conversation has shifted from rats to a meteor shower Danika had once seen. Both Hobie and Pav shoot inquisitive glances at Gayatri as she trails behind Phin. She merely shrugs and returns to her previous spot on the couch with Phin, who watches Heavy softly pat the kitten with a hint of amusement. He sobs quietly to himself as Cameron intermittently warns him about patting too hard or being too rough.

“Were there really that many shooting stars, Bellflower?” Gwen asks, failing to hide her excitement.

“You bet,” Danika answers, laughing softly to herself. “It was a damn good sight. The whole sky was full of light.”

She stands and makes her way over to a cupboard in the corner of the rec room. Grabbing the top drawers silver handle, Danika slides it open and rummages for a couple seconds, before triumphantly pulling out an animal themed pack of cards.

“Shooting stars?” Hobie questions, smirking lightly. “I’ve seen ‘em, too.”

“Really?” Gwen asks.

“Yup,” Hobie says with pride. “Mind you, it was in the middle of a battlefield after everyone else had been eliminated. Well, everyone except for our mighty Reaper, hey Undertaker.”

Miles wordlessly nods in confirmation, continuing to read.

“Well, that makes it significantly less romantic,” Pav teases, taking a seat at a circular table where Danika is shuffling the game cards.

The Handler laughs sweetly and vibrantly, like her voice itself is made of sunshine. Miles can’t help but feel just a little infected by her happiness.

“Oh, and to top it all off,” Hobie says, sarcastically. “The fuckin’ SP/DR’s ran outta energy, so we were stuck in the middle of butt fuck nowhere waiting for Spi-do to rock up.”

“Who’s Spi-do?” Gwen asks.

“Our dog,” says Hobie.

“Weirdest dog I’ve ever seen, though.” Heavy laughs as the kitten purrs underneath his ministrations.

“He seems to beep more than woof,” Gayatri giggles.

“Huh? Whaddya mean, ‘beep’?” Gwen asks, confused.

The question goes unanswered as Hobie looks outside, taking in the countless, glowing stars in the sky. It’s an ethereal, almost otherworldly sight.

“Nights on the battlefield are bloody dark,” he says. “But then, all of a sudden, these bright lights streak across it, and I made the biggest mistake of my life. Said the fuckin’ cringiest shit ever.”

“What’d ya say, ye pommie bastard?” Cameron teases, with a smug smirk.

*Pom – Slang term referring to British people, especially from England. --ED.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, ya ginger jock!” Hobie cackles. “I’m takin’ that shit to my grave.”

*Jock – English insult for Scottish soldiers, although not very effective and seen as a point of pride for the Scots. --ED.

“’If this is the last thing I see, maybe that ain’t so bad’,” Miles recites.

The room erupts into laughter.

“Oh, come off it,” Hobie groans, annoyed. “It sounded bloody good at the time.”

“I doubt we’ll be able to see anything like that again,” Danika says sadly, dealing cards to Pav.

“Wish I could’ve seen it, too,” Gwen says wistfully.

“How come you didn’t see it down south?” Danika asks.

“New York’s lights are too bright,” Gwen replies, sadly. “Maybe one day I’ll get to see ‘em, though.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense now that I think about it,” Danika laughs to herself, playing her hand. “I suppose it’s one of the only good things about this life.”

“Bellflower…” Gwen starts sadly, suddenly feeling nervous. “Do you… hate us?”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“Tough question,” Danika replies after a moment. “It sucks being considered sub-human for literally no reason, the internment camps were fucking horrible and fighting the OCTO-Legion will never not be terrifying, so yeah, I guess I do.” Danika continues, preventing the Handler from offering words of remorse or self-condemnation. She won’t accept a canned apology. "But I do know that not all the Alba are bad people... Just like I know that not all the Eighty-Six are saints, either."

“Aye, just look at Heavy,” Cameron laughs, ruffling up Heavy’s hair, slightly easing the tense atmosphere that had descended over the rec room.

“Anyway, I’m sure there are good, true Alba out there. I haven’t met any personally, but a few comrades of mine say they have.”

Danika looks towards Ganke, who continues scribbling in his sketchbook. He blushes but doesn’t turn to meet her gaze, continuing to shade in a drawing of a shooting star, having finished the derogatory one of the Handler. Danika draws a new hand and slyly peaks at the cards: A jack and a Joker with ‘limited edition’ crow artwork.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” she says after a moment and placing her cards down, folding. “Is that I’m not gonna hate you for bein’ an Alba.”

“Thanks,” Gwen says, sighing in relief.

“I’ve gotta say, Handler One,” Danika says. “You’ve really caught my interest.”

“Really?” Gwen asks in a mixture of surprise and excitement.

“Can I ask you to do something?” Danika questions, standing up from the table and stretching with a yawn.

Gwen doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

*Before anyone comments ‘what about Heavy’, they don’t consider him an Alba, hence why Danika says she’s never seen one before. He’s an immigrant from Australia who happens to have blonde hair and blue eyes, meaning he isn’t a true biological Alba. Not only that, but he’s clinically insane and is probably more Eighty-Six than the others combined. --ED.

*****

“Remind me how you talked me into this?” Peter grumbles, his voice muffled by his mask as he shifts through a pile of dusty files.

He and Gwen are deep in the basement archives of the Palace Staten, a cavernous, dimly lit area that seems to have been forgotten by everyone except dust and time. They’re searching for something Bellflower had specifically requested.

“I bought you lunch, remember?” Gwen sighs through her flimsy face mask, her tone weary but determined. She waves a hand in front of her face, trying to ward off the oppressive layers of dust swirling in the stale air. Every surface is coated with a thick film of grime, and the air itself feels heavy and musty.

“For this,” Peter groans, shaking his head. “You better buy me dinner, too.”

The basement is a sprawling, multi-level complex lined with rows upon rows of large shelves, stacked high with sloppily labelled boxes. The labels, where they still exist, are barely legible, some reduced to faded ink or peeling stickers. A few boxes sit in obvious neglect, with mould creeping across their surfaces and strange, festering smells emanating from within. Sickly yellow lights spaced unevenly every ten metres cast a dim glow, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. Every now and then, a suspiciously sticky drop of water falls from the ceiling, landing with an unsettling plop in murky puddles scattered across the cracked concrete floor.

“Whaddya even need a topographic map for, anyway?” Peter asks, dutifully scanning the shelves.

Peter is wearing the whole shebang. A red tracksuit, brown gloves and a military grade gas mask. Compared to Gwen, he looks comically over-prepared, who’s only wearing her standard officer’s uniform and a simple face mask. For someone so adverse to this, he certainly went the extra mile to help her regardless.

“So, I can send it to them,” Gwen replies, grabbing a damp box from one of the shelves and pulling it down carefully. She rummages through its contents, her pale hands brushing past yellowed papers and old recruitment posters. “Somehow they’re fighting and winning without any good maps.”

“I get it, I get it,” Peter huffs, as he rifles through a plastic storage container. “They’re amazing.”

“Well, they are,” Gwen states matter-of-factly, pulling out a tattered, multi-coloured army recruitment poster and inspecting it briefly before setting it aside. “They haven’t taken a single casualty in over a month and their kill counts are only going up.”

“That probably has something to do with their new Handler, but if you wanna be humble, Stacy, go ahead, call ‘em amazing.” Peter smiles despite the fact he’s heard this a million times already.

“Oh, by the way,” Peter continues, changing the subject as he sits down on a rickety stepladder. “Aunt May reckons she’s found me another suitable marriage partner.” He sighs heavily, dropping his head into his hands.

“Another one?” Gwen asks, listening, but not quite, as she pulls out some yellowed reports. “What happened to, uh, what’s her name…?”

“Kitty, Carlie, Debra, take your pick,” Peter says in annoyance. “May reckons this is the one, although I’m not too sure.”

“Why not?” Gwen asks absentmindedly.

“Cause she’s a MILF, and I’m, y’know, still seventeen,” Peter says dryly. “We'd tie the knot late next year, obviously, but I think May’s grasping at straws.”

*Yeah… I'm not explaining this one lol. --ED.

“Geez,” Gwen mutters, still only half paying attention. She squints at the contents of another box, muttering to herself. “How is that they always know when the Legion are about to attack…?”

“Annnddd she’s not listening.” Peter rolls his eyes dramatically, leaning back against a stack of old containers. As he shifts, something catches his eye—a faint glint from a rolled-up plastic bundle on a nearby shelf.

“I’ve got absolutely no idea how they manage it,” Gwen mumbles to herself, pulling down a new box to continue her search.

Peter stands, deftly dodging a puddle of suspicious water as he reaches for the roll. “You really shouldn’t be getting involved,” he says between grunts as he tugs at the tightly wedged plastic.

“Don’t worry,” Gwen replies, brushing off his concern. “You’re such a worry wart, Pete--”

With a final, forceful heave, Peter dislodges the roll. Unfortunately, the motion dislodges a large box and it teeters off the shelf. It crashes to the floor with a deafening crash, spilling random papers and documents in every direction as a cloud of dust erupts around them.

“Gah!” Gwen shouts, jumping up in surprise, startled. “Are you ok, Pete?”

Peter sheepishly stands amidst the mess, clutching the plastic roll awkwardly, hair covered in a small pile of dust, as a cloud of it is kicked up around him, like he threw a smoke grenade.

“Whoops.exe,” he mumbles to himself under his breath.

Gwen’s eyes immediately lock onto the roll, lighting up with excitement. “You found one!” she exclaims, rushing over and grabbing it from his hands.

“Careful,” he grumbles, sarcastically. “I’m pretty sure that thing requires a human sacrifice.”

Ignoring him, Gwen quickly removes the plastic wrapping. The map inside is pristine, smelling faintly of fresh ink, with vibrant colours and no noticeable signs of wear, damage or miscolouring.

“You definitely owe me dinner,” Peter remarks, nodding in approval at the map’s unexpectedly good condition.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gwen says dismissively, running her eyes over its contents. “I’ll be able to help ‘em even more now.”

“Aaannnddd it’s like I’m not even here,” Peter laughs lightly, shaking his head.

*****

“Para-RAID, activate,” Gwen says, opening a leatherbound notebook. “Synchronisation: Spearhead Processor... Hi everyone. I’ve got an important update on a couple things.”

“Hey there Handler One,” Undertaker says, responding almost immediately. “What’s up?”

“That resupply you requested the other day? You’re gonna have to hold out a bit longer,” Gwen says, apologetically.

“That’s fine,” Undertaker says, stoically. “I’m sure you tried your best.”

Gwen nods, grimacing, but clenches the pen in her hand tightly. “Also, is Bellflower there?” she inquires. “I’ve got an update on the map she requested.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Bellflower says through the resonance. “Most of us are, actually.”

A chorus of hello’s flow through the resonance, too many to count, although Gwen does recognise the voices of Anarchist, Trollface, Shoka and Antaka.

“Cool,” she says, smiling. “I got the map, Bellflower.”

There’s a brief pause in the Resonance as something akin to surprise flashes across it.

“Really?” Bellflower asks. “I didn’t think you’d actually get it.”

“Why not?”

Instead of responding, Bellflower answers with a question of her own. "Tell me something, Handler One. Why are you so interested in us?"

Out of nowhere, a vivid image of roaring flames surges through Miles’ mind. He pauses, his gaze lifting from the book in his hands. The sensation is foreign. He’s never experienced a large inferno like this. It’s got to be one of the Handler’s memories slipping through the Resonance.

"A Processor saved me once, ages ago..." Gwen’s voice softens as her eyes glaze over, caught in an old memory. She pauses, her words hanging heavy in the air, the weight of her conviction clear. "He said we’re all citizens of the Republic and it’s our duty and pride to defend it. And I’ve always felt like... like we owe it to him to answer those words. To show that they mattered."

Hobie narrows his eyes, his expression unreadable, the bittersweet idealism of her words hitting harder than he’d like to admit. Across the room, Danika leans back with her arms folded, her brows furrowed in thought. But then she blurts out, without so much as a second thought: "Handler One... You’re a virgin, aren’t you?"

“Pfft—?!”

They can hear the Handler sputter and choke, tea—or maybe coffee—spraying from her lips in shock.

Everyone connected to the Resonance loses it immediately, laughter erupting through the link like wildfire. Phin and Heavy, disconnected from the network, exchange confused glances. It’s not long, though, before Pav quietly explains, and they’re both doubling over with laughter, too. The Handler is coughing uncontrollably, her face presumably burning red, while Danika’s pale expression shifts from confusion to outright panic as realisation dawns on her.

"Oh fuck, I’m sorry! I got my words mixed up! I meant maiden! Like, a pure maiden!"

The clarification isn’t much better—maiden and virgin are hardly worlds apart—and Gayatri and Heavy are practically wheezing at this point, bashing their fists on the walls and tables in hysterics. Even Miles, usually so stoic, is hunched over, his shoulders shaking with rare, unrestrained laughter. Danika, however, grows more frantic with each second, her words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to fix her blunder.

"I meant, like, you know, the type of girl who thinks the world’s all sunshine and rainbows! Someone who’s clinging to this perfect, innocent dream or, or... What I’m trying to say is—!"

The Handler is obviously blushing furiously through the Resonance and frozen in place, her mortification complete. She’s probably wishing the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

"What I guess I’m trying to say is… you’re not a bad person, okay?" Danika says after finally managing to calm down, though her voice still trembles with residual laughter. "So, I’m gonna warn you now: You’re not cut out for this job, and I think you shouldn’t get involved with us. We’re not fighting for some noble reason like you. So, you should get someone else to take your place before you come to regret it."

Gwen sighs to herself. Why does everyone think she isn’t cut out for this?

Bellflower reckons Gwen isn’t a bad person.

But she never claims to be a good one, either.

And at the time, Gwen has no idea what Bellflower really means.

*****

15 – 6 – 2148

"Handler One to all units, radars picked up the enemy," Gwen announces, her voice calm and focused as her sharp eyes stay locked on the main command control monitors. The screen flickers with shifting blips of red, each representing an advancing threat. "They’ve got a mix of Wolves, Sparrows, Panthers—"

"We’re already on it, Handler One," Undertaker interjects, his tone brisk and authoritative as he cuts her off. "Intercepting at point 478."

Gwen blinks at the interruption, muttering a subdued confirmation before leaning back in her chair.

Lately, Spearhead hasn’t needed her much. Their proficiency on the battlefield means she’s relegated to other roles, like tracking enemy movements, coordinating supplies, and pouring over old, dusty field reports.

"Undertaker, Tinkerer ready in position."

"Trollface to Undertaker, Third Platoon’s in position too," Ganke chimes in swiftly.

Gwen watches as the team falls into formation like clockwork, their coordination almost eerie. It’s as though they’ve already deciphered the Legion’s strategy, anticipating their every move. Their precision makes her wonder whether they know something she doesn’t. If so, she’s got to pry the information out of them as it could mean the difference between life and death for countless other squads.

She turns her attention to the map she dug up yesterday, that is now sprawled across her desk. It’s painstakingly detailed but has been woefully underutilised until now.

"Undertaker, shift Tinkerer to three o’clock, three hundred meters out," she advises. "There’s high ground for sniping—better visibility and cover."

There’s a pregnant pause as Undertaker mulls it over. Then, a second later, "Got it. Tinkerer, you see it?"

"Hang on," Tinkerer responds, her tone focused and deliberate. A beat later: "I’ve got eyes on it. Movin’ there now."

"That spot’s away from the vanguard," Gwen adds. "It’ll mess with the enemy early on."

"So, Tinkerer’s bait, huh? Bold move for someone with such a sweet voice," Anarchist chuckles.

"Their guns have terrible elevation," Gwen counters, matter-of-factly. "She’ll be fine. The terrain’s also pretty decent cover if they decide to move position."

"Sounds good," Anarchist agrees. "Whaddya reckon, Tinkerer?"

"I’ll do whatever helps," Tinkerer replies, her tone clipped. Then, with a touch of bitterness, she adds, "Must be nice havin’ that new map."

Gwen just smiles good-naturedly, not letting the implicit jab get to her. It is painfully obvious Tinkerer doesn’t like her. She would always disconnect during their daily briefings, and whenever they did talk, she always had a blatantly cold, blunt attitude.

Gwen sighs and refocuses herself, peering at the map again. Crafted by the Republic's ground forces after months of combat and reconnaissance, it has, for some strange reason, been withheld from the frontline bases that desperately need it the most. As such, the already struggling Processors rely on scavenged maps from nearby ruins, supplemented with their own notes, more often than not, learnt via blood. While these help with interception points and attack routes, their knowledge of the terrain remains limited. It’s probably one of the reasons Tinkerer holds so much resentment, Gwen assumes.

"Want me to send the map through later?" Gwen offers. There’s no time to transfer the map now—bandwidth is limited during combat—but she’s willing to share it once the fight is over.

"Sure you wanna do that?" Anarchist asks, his tone sceptical. "You’ll be sendin’ military secrets to us."

"I don’t care," Gwen replies, her voice firm. "What’s the point of having info if it’s not being used?"

Anarchist falls silent, momentarily stunned by her bluntness, seemingly catching him off guard. He gives a surprised “Huh” and shuts up. Gwen briefly wonders how secret it could really be if Peter had found it untouched and unused in the archives, anyway?

The thunderous roar of a cannon shatters the quiet, reverberating through Gwen’s core. Suddenly, tension hits the Resonance like a wave. Some Processors buzz with adrenaline, eager for action (especially Punisher and Highlander, who both cackle in excitement), while others are filled with icy nerves.

The battle unfolds in bursts of chaos and deadly precision. Spearhead lures Legion units into dense forests, where the towering trees and uneven terrain work to their advantage. Wolves and Sparrows scatter, easy prey for Spearhead's coordinated strikes. The Panthers fare no better, their mobility hindered by the claustrophobic environment.

Gwen, however, watches Undertaker’s movements, entranced, as he dashes through the trees, once again pushing his unit to the limit, as he hacks, slashes and blasts Panthers in what can only be described as ‘shock and awe’ tactics.

The Legion, unable to use their numbers in this terrain, are forced to split into smaller groups, again working to the squadron’s advantage. From the outside, it looks as though Spearhead’s done this a hundred times, in reality, it’s sheer, maddening chaos.

Gwen feels a flash of optimism streak through her. The Legion are being violently pushed back. However, just as it feels as though they’re on the cusp of victory, Bellflower’s SP/DR dodges a shell and dashes at a Panther’s left flank.

Looking at her map in confusion, Gwen feels her stomach drop—the Panther’s in a weird spot. It shouldn’t even be there. Her eyes frantically dart over the geography, searching for an explanation. Seconds later, she finds it. Gwen gasps in shock and panic.

"WAIT!” Gwen shouts, her panicked voice cutting through the comms. “Bellflower, pull back!"

“Huh?”

But her shrill warning is too late. Bellflower’s blip vanishes. The next moments are a blur of horror.

“What the fuck? A marsh?” Danika curses.

Her SP/DR’s front legs sink into soft ground that looked solid at first glance. Of all the things, it’s a fucking marsh—exactly the kind of terrain SP/DR’s can’t handle. She tries to back out, gripping the controls—

“Bellflower, move! Now!” Miles’ voice cuts in, uncharacteristically urgent. Danika looks up, her SP/DR’s optics catching a Panther ominously standing right there, watching the stranded enemy combatant writhe in the mud like terrified prey.

“Oh, fuck,” Danika says.

The Panther raises its legs in the air, like an executioner about to strike, casting an eerie shadow over the increasingly desperate Bellflower. Its bright blue ‘eye’ stares at her, cold and unfeeling, with the ruthlessness of clockwork that never stops revolving, no matter how much the person trapped between its gears screams or begs.

"No..." Danika cries, a weak, faint plea, like a child on the verge of tears. "I don't want to die..."

The Panther’s leg crashes into Bellflower, decapitating it with a single blow. The clamshell canopy goes flying, along with Danika. Her head rolls to the ground with a bloody splatter. The sound reverberates through the Resonance.

“BELLFLOWER!” Gwen yells.

Her screen lights up, blood red.

DESTROYED.

After a moment of horrified silence, bellows, shouts, curses and cries explode over the Resonance.

“Bellflower…?! Bloody hell!”

“Undertaker, I’m going to get her. Cover me!” Ganke yells desperately, his voice panicked.

Miles doesn’t answer immediately. His silence feels like ice. “Don’t you fucking dare, Trollface. They’re using her body as bait!”

True to Miles’ warning, the Panther stands as still as a statue, like an angel of death, its single ‘eye’ scanning the surroundings, waiting for any enemies to burst out of the foliage, determined or desperate to rescue their comrade’s corpse.

“FUCKING DAMMIT!” Ganke screams, slamming his fists into his console in a blind rage until they begin to bleed, breathing hard.

“Put a HEAT round in her unit and get it together,” Miles icily orders.

Ganke takes a deep, rageful breath and swivels his turret, firing the high explosive shell from the safety of the dark undergrowth of the forest. The shell whizzes across the battlefield with a shrill whistle and slams into Bellflower’s unit, turning it into flaming wreckage.

“Bellflower’s gone,” Miles says, continuing to bring order back to his squadron. “Highlander, back up squad four. Let’s mop ‘em up.”

“Aye, roger that, Undertaker,” Cameron replies, coolly.

They sound calm, voices steady like the seasoned veterans they are. But it’s not bravery—it’s resignation. They’ve been through this too many times. Watching a comrade’s blip vanish from the map is horrifyingly routine. Grieving now is a luxury they can’t afford. In battle, emotions are a weakness, a crack that can be exploited. So, they bury it all—anger, sorrow, fear—beneath cold calculation, becoming machines of survival once again.

The surviving SP/DR’s press on, their mechanical legs clicking against the uneven forest floor as they scuttle through the trees like skeletal predators seeking their next target. The air is heavy with the scent of scorched metal and smoke. The Legion doesn’t retreat—it’s simply obliterated, its forces reduced to smouldering wreckage with brutal, violent efficiency.

Gwen stares at the map in front of her, the once-vivid colours blurring under the weight of regret. The Processors’ ruthless efficiency is unmistakable, but all she can think about is Bellflower.

If only I’d found the marsh sooner. If only I’d warned her in time…

She swallows hard, forcing her voice to steady as she addresses the team. “Good work, everyone.”

Uncomfortable silence follows as the words hang in the air, unanswered.

“About Bellflower… I’m so sorry. If only I’d been—”

“Sorry?” Trollface’s voice slashes through her apology, sharp and bitter. “You? Sorry? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SORRY FOR? We’re the ones dying out here, forced to fight your war, while you’re safe and sound back home. Stop with the fake fucking sympathy.”

Gwen freezes, his words hitting like a gut punch. But Trollface isn’t done.

“Look, we play along with your little game sometimes, sure. You get to feel like a saint, like you’re different, better than the rest. But now? When one of us just died? Piss off with that absolute bullshit, you fucking hypocrite!”

His words burn, each one landing with brutal precision. She tries to speak, to defend herself, but the venom in his tone keeps her silent.

“You never even asked us for our motherfucking names.” he spits, his voice cold and cutting.

Her breath catches, his accusation a dagger to the heart. The truth of it stings more than she wants to admit.

“I’m so sorry…” she whispers one last time, tears welling in her eyes, before she shuts off the Para-RAID, silence filling the command-and-control room.