Spearhead

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

Bomber Type: Broad Classification Name – Spam/Self-propelled autonomous mines/mines. These autonomous offensive mines are equipped with a high-yield explosive core as their primary payload, designed for maximum destruction. Using advanced proximity and impact detonation mechanisms, they excel in infiltration and ambush tactics. Highly mobile, they adapt seamlessly to varied terrain and deploy in swarms to deny strategic areas to the enemy. While their threat level is varied depending on their numbers, they can be countered effectively with active point-defence systems, precision strikes targeting their mobility modules, or concentrated small arms fire.

27 – 7 - 2048

Undertaker tears through the dense undergrowth, weaving in and out of the shadows cast by the tree line, evading the relentless hail of machine gun fire. The OCTO-Legion has mobilised in force yet again, determined to suppress Spearhead with their Panthers punishing 120mm HEAT shells, blasting craters into the earth and providing cover for the advancing OCTO-Mines that scuttle forwards with mechanical precision. The other SP/DR’s follow close behind, trying to keep up with the Reaper as they intermittently return fire, bright flashes of light punctuating the gloom.

Perhaps growing frustrated with the lack of progress, the darkened sky ignites in a dazzling, yellow brilliance as a storm of beautiful, shining projectiles rain down, like shooting stars. Although a stunning, ethereal sight, nobody in Spearhead would want to be on the receiving end of the radiant downpour of Skorpion artillery rounds.

“Arty!” Miles’ voice rings out through the Resonance, sharp with urgency. “Spread out!”

The order comes just in time. With barely a second to react, Spearhead scatters deeper into the forest, moments before the relentless barrage of 155mm HEAT shells slam into the thick underbrush. The explosions erupt like thunderclaps, throwing up plumes of dirt, smoke and shattered trees in a chaotic maelstrom.

“Dang it!” Phin shouts, her voice tinged with panic as two shells land perilously close to her, detonating. “They’re pushing us all over the field!”

“Wait, what the fuck?” Ganke calls from behind the natural cover of a tree-line trench. “There wasn’t supposed to be this many! Did they link up with reinforcements?”

He risks a quick peek, his 57mm smoothbore gun poking over the edge, and fires blindly into the distance, hoping to get lucky. The round disappears into the fray with no apparent effect.

“They musta figured out we can predict their movements!” Hobie theorises.

“So, they’re pinning us down with artillery and flushing us out with Panthers?” Gayatri asks.

“THAT’S A LOTTA FUCKIN’ EFFORT TO TAKE OUT A COUPLE OF MADLADS,” Heavy roars, mowing down self-propelled OCTO-Mines with a deranged cackle. “GONNA TAKE A LOT MORE THAN THAT TO TAKE ME DOWN!”

Amidst the chaos, Undertaker maintains his relentless momentum, racing through the Legion’s lines, taking the fight to them, with silent, deadly precision.

“If only I could call in mortars or naval artillery for counter-battery fire!” Gwen laments, her frustration cutting through the shared consciousness.

*By naval artillery, Gwen doesn’t mean ships bombarding the shore, rather, the naval artillery guns that are in fixed emplacements near/on the Popularis Murus. See Chapter 1 for that small detail. --ED.

Moments later, a fresh barrage of screaming artillery shells can be heard over the Resonance and her command screen flashes a warning as a shell explodes dangerously close to the SP/DR ‘Vulture’, piloted by Liz Allan. An energetic, independent member of Spearhead, Liz only ever really interacted with her clique and had barely exchanged a word with Gwen. Despite her aloofness, Gwen feels a surge of panic when Liz’s agonised scream echoes through the network. Vulture’s cockpit is comedically flung ten metres into an open field, her SP/DR tumbling and landing hard with its canopy ripped clean off.

“Shit, Vulture!” Gwen cries, her voice tight with worry.

Gayatri, hearing the Major’s cry, looks to her unit’s screens with a soft gasp, her heart skipping a beat, watching the unfolding disaster. She’d been taking a moment to re-arm, snack and guard Spi-do while it worked on recovering Pav’s SP/DR. Now, she freezes for a brief second before springing into action.

“Can anyone from the Sixth Platoon reach her?” Miles asks, his voice clipped.

“Not with all that arty!” Phin yells back.

“If we move now—” Gwen starts to say.

But Gayatri has already made her decision. She surges out of her defensive position, charging towards the downed Vulture without a moment’s hesitation, rejoining the battle.

“Gayatri?!” Pav shouts, reaching out uselessly with his hand. He’s on foot, rifle in hand, crouched behind cover, taking pot-shots at the advancing OCTO-Mines. “NO!”

“I’ll be fine!” Gayatri insists, her voice steady as two artillery shells explode dangerously close, the concussive force nearly knocking her off course.

The Skorpion artillery, however, seems to be adjusting its aim, zeroing in on Vulture to finish the job. Undeterred, Gayatri pushes Antaka forward, closing the gap, her focus razor-sharp.

Then it happens. A third shell lands point-blank. The explosion throws Antaka backwards, shrapnel ripping into its armour. Gayatri shouts in shock as the SP/DR savagely rolls like a tumbleweed, jolting her harshly against the cockpit.

“Antaka!” Gwen cries. “You’ve gotta get out of there!”

Gayatri tries to follow the Major’s orders, but her SP/DR’S legs are unresponsive, badly mangled and glitching out. Sensing the enemy’s predicament, self-propelled mines change course from Pav and charge towards the immobile Antaka, with cold, murderous intent. 

“HOLD ON!” Pav shouts, desperately, firing blindly at the mass of mines, ammo dumping, trying to draw their attention.

Fresh artillery lands, this time cluster munitions designed to rip apart any SP/DR pilot trying to bail out of their metallic vehicle.

*Just watch this video. --ED.

They land short, barely missing Antaka as she desperately fires her 12.7mm machine-guns to stop the horde of mines. But it’s pointless. Unable to move, she can only pick off the ones directly in-front of her. Seeing this, the mines flank to the sides and jump, springboarding onto every inch of Antaka with a thunk!

Gayatri gasps as she hears the ominous sound of the mines attaching themselves.

The arming mechanisms click.

“Pav—” she whispers, her voice soft and resigned.

And then they detonate.

The Resonance erupts into a chorus of shouts of agony as the shockwave ripples through the battlefield.

Taking advantage of the enemy’s lapse in cohesion, Panthers bare down on Liz to finish the job. She draws her handgun and attempts to fire. The bullets ricochet off their thick frontal armour uselessly. She grits her teeth, tears welling in her eyes.

“I’m on my way, Vulture!” Phin shouts, desperately.

“Don’t!” Miles commands, coldly.

“Trollface,” Gwen orders. “Can you double back?”

Their panic falls on Liz’s deaf ears. She ammo dumps the Panther until there’s only one bullet left. Gritting her teeth, she steels her nerves.

“I won’t become scrap metal,” she whispers defiantly, staring down the Panther.

“I CAN MAKE IT!” Phin argues.

As the Panther raises its leg to harvest another head, another brain, Liz raises her gun.

She presses it against her chin with a smirk.

“Make it count…” Liz whispers. “… Mr Reaper…”

And pulls the trigger.

“VULTURE!” Gwen cries.

Silence fills the Resonance as the Panther stares at the now mangled, bloody head. Silently, coldly, it turns away, deeming the brain to now be unusable. Seconds later, it explodes in a brilliant fireball as an APFSDS round slams into it from across the battlefield.

“DAMMIT!” shouts Phin, seconds too late.

“Tinkerer, fall back,” Miles orders, coldly. “Shoka, take over command from Antaka. Can you do that?” he adds harshly.

Pav, now back in his recovered SP/DR, leans back despondently against his seat, his voice dead and emotionless. “Yes. Understood,” he whispers, scrunching his face, fighting tears, trying to not look at the burning wreckage of Antaka through his gun sight.

*****

Having finally reached the retreat threshold, the sky begins to clear as Flies return to Legion held territory, coating the battlefield in a golden hue of waning sunlight.

“Major,” Miles says, softly. “If I told you to cut your Para-RAID, would you do it?”

The Reaper stands over the smouldering, twisted, blackened wreckage of Antaka. His handgun, his scythe, is cool against his hand.

“Are you…” Gwen starts.

“I don’t think you’ve ever seen a person get shot, right?” Miles says, his voice tinged with concern.

“What do you mean?” Gwen questions, shakily.

Miles grimaces. Through the hodgepodge of holes in Antaka’s cockpit, a burnt arm reaches out desperately for the Reaper, begging to be taken to their final destination. Somehow, Gayatri has managed to survive the initial explosion and the inferno.

“Gaya can’t become a part of the Legion,” Miles says, loading one bullet into the gun and pulling back the hammer with a click. “If you don’t think you can handle it, please cut the link.”

He raises the gun into the cockpit, pressing the cold steel against Gayatri’s forehead.

“No,” Gwen insists. “Being connected is the only thing I can do.”

To support you, to be there for you…

Miles closes his eyes in response. Fine…

“It’s my responsibility,” she continues.

He opens them again, taking one last look at Gayatri’s pleading face…

…and squeezes the trigger.

The empty casing pings into the air.

But Miles doesn’t hear the familiar crack of the gunshot.

Instead, as soon as the casing hits the ground, he turns, a mechanical voice pulsing through his head, triggering his SP/DR-Sense, drowning out the harsh crack! of the handgun.

He gasps, eyes crazed as stares into the distance. 

The voice… it was so brief…

But he could never mistake it.

As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, and the Reaper’s ears are filled with the soft whistle of a gentle breeze.

*****

“Thanks for the meal, Pav!” Spearhead Squadron say in unison.

They’re all gathered in the mess hall, shovelling khichdi into their mouths with fervour. After missions, everyone builds a large appetite and when it is his turn to handle the food, Pav is usually happy to prepare a large meal of traditional Indian khichdi for the group. Although, it did take longer than usual. Gritting his teeth as he picks up the now empty pot, Pav tries to ignore the burning anger and sadness wedged deep in his chest.

“I can carry that,” Ganke says, walking up to the serving area and gesturing to the pot, which Pav grips with white knuckles.

Pav forces a smile and a good-natured tone, saying: “Nah, I’m fine. Besides, it’s my duty as cook to clean up after myself.” He turns away, heading to the back door where the garbage bins are located outside.

“You sure?” Ganke asks.

Pav stops in his tracks, mind full of tumultuous thoughts. He stands silently for a long moment.

“Guys, seriously, I’m fine,” Pav insists, trying to sound like his usual happy self. “Right kitty?” he asks, turning to the black and white cat watching the pot hungrily.

Across the room, Phin watches the interaction with sadness, fidgeting with her cutlery.

“Anyone up for a game of darts?” she asks, feigning excitement.

There is a small, muted grumble of agreement from a few of the Squadron members who get up from their chairs to head to the rec room, making sure to quickly stack their bowls in the designated washing up area.

Outside, once he knows he is alone, Pav collapses to the ground, letting the pot clatter by his feet. He curls up in a ball against the door, raising his knees to his chin. Grief finally consumes him.

*****

“Finally lost Gaya and Liz, huh?” Hobie says, bitterly.

He and Miles are walking shoulder to shoulder past the empty basketball court. The moon illuminates the way as their boots pad softly against the concrete and a chilly night breeze rustles their clothes.

“Here it’s just a matter of when,” Miles says, apathetically. “Not if.”

“Yup,” Hobie breathes. “So, even if you’re the last one to kick the can, you’re never gonna stop fightin’, not until ya finally bury that uncle of yours, ay Reaper?”

“It’s the only thing I can do,” Miles responds. “He still hasn’t forgiven me. He still blames me. So…” Miles trails off, turning the corner, leaving Hobie behind.

“Even now…” Hobie calls after him. “You’re still obsessed with finding that lost head.”

Hobie says something else, but Miles ignores him and continues walking, ascending a rugged, old stairwell, heading towards his room. He opens the battered door silently and steps into the dark room. On his desk sit two new pieces of scrap metal, already engraved with the names: Gayatri and Liz.

He sits on his bed, staring at them. Hobie’s parting words, the ones he tried to ignore play on repeat in his head:

“And on ya go, a headless Reaper, searching for what ya lost.”

Miles unbuttons his shirt pocket, pulling out a thin piece of scrap metal. Unlike the other two sitting on his desk, this one isn’t engraved, but the insignia is all too familiar to Miles. Afterall, it’s his own: a headless knight.

The image triggers his SP/DR-Sense, and suddenly, he’s no longer in his room, but an icy battlefield from long ago.

“Miles…” A familiar voice whispers, just like it did after he put Gayatri out of her misery.

Miles turns, snowy wind whipping against him, as his uncle’s SP/DR shakily stands.

“This is all your fault…” it hisses, trying to right itself, fighting against the wind and the slippery concrete of the church steps.

Miles’ eyes widen in horror.

“All of this…” the voice says. “This hell we’re in… IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!”

The Prowler charges forwards, knocking Miles out of the icy battlefield and onto the internment camp floor. It leers above him, hands around his neck.

“RIO’S DEATH, JEFF’S DEATH,” it screams, as Miles frantically struggles against its metallic grip. But it’s pointless. He’s no longer the Reaper of the Spearhead Squadron, but a stupid, naïve, weak child. “THE FACT THAT I’M ABOUT TO JOIN THEM!”

Vision going red, Miles’ struggle starts to wane as his small arms grapple against Aaron’s stone-like grasp. His mouth begins frothing as short gargles spill from his lips.

“OUR BLOOD IS ON YOUR HANDS!”

Suddenly, he is no longer on the floor, but back in the icy battlefield. He raises his handgun, desperate to send Aaron to his final destination, but his hands quiver and the gun refuses to fire with hollow, empty clicks.

“IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF YOUR SIN!” Aaron’s voice yells. “MILESSSSSSS!”

He’s back on the internment camp floor, writhing, lungs burning, mouth frothing. HECANTFUCKINGBREATHE.

Aaron looms above him, face manic with rage, grief and insanity, crushing Miles’ throat, choking him out, screaming his name.

The world starts to fade away, Aaron’s face becoming increasingly darker, and darker. BLACK FACE. CENSOR FACE. The last thing he’d ever see.

And that was the point, Miles is pretty sure, he died.

*****

28 – 7 - 2048

“In their last battle, my squadron lost two of their Processors,” Gwen says, professionally. “One was mortally wounded, but the Legion failed to get her, thanks to their combat commander finishing her off.”

She faces off with Lieutenant General Arthur Stacy, who sits behind his desk with a neutral expression. Under her arm, Gwen clutches a grey folder, filled to the brim with something important she’s been working on. Hopefully she can persuade her uncle.

“How many machines remain?” he asks.

“Eleven more people,” Gwen says, boldly.

Arthur grunts in annoyance. Gwen, undeterred, walks forwards and slaps the folder onto his desk.

“Our mortars and naval artillery have range comparable to Skorpion types. This is how we even the odds.” She opens the folder and taps her finger on her proposal. “It can even save the lives of the Eighty—”

The general gives another groan of exasperation. Not even looking at the folder, he locks eyes with Gwen. She instantly backtracks. Now’s not the time to argue about this.

“Rather,” she clarifies, matching Arthur’s gaze. “It will lower attrition on the front lines, save taxpayer dollars on SP/DR’s, boost morale and allows us to defend the Republic more efficiently.”

“You do realise that these artillery units require entire teams of people to man them?” Arthur says. “Not to mention, they have to be relatively close to the frontlines, which is riddled with mines and unexploded ordnance.”

Gwen clenches her fists, opening her mouth to argue, but Arthur continues, his voice hard and authoritative.

“We’d be putting Republic personnel in danger for the Eighty-Six. They can be replaced, but Republic soldiers can’t. Giving you permission to use these units would go against the will of the people and the government.”

“But—” Gwen begins passionately, trying to interject.

“That’s enough!” Arthur snaps, his patience growing thin. “How many times do I have to tell you this, Gwen? The sooner you stop siding with them, the better.”

“Why do you say it like they aren’t people?!” Gwen cries, her voice rising in anger.

Arthur merely shrugs. “I actually have a mission for Spearhead,” he says, dismissively, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a blood-red file. “There’s a new OCTO base under construction in their combat-zone. I want them to destroy it immediately.”

“Are you serious?” Gwen asks, outraged. “They haven’t even replaced their losses yet! Why are they the only ones who don’t get replacements?”

Arthur ignores her, continuing with his mission briefing. “This base will significantly bolster Legion combat capabilities and, should it be completed, Spearhead will suffer.” His voice is cold and manipulative. What’s it gonna be, Gwen? “You do want to save them, right?”

This last sentence is like a knife to the heart. Gwen deflates and looks down at the floor. No matter which option she chooses, Spearhead will continue to suffer casualties. It’s like she’s fighting against the tide with mere sand and plastic tools. The mission file stares at her tauntingly. How on earth is she going to explain this to Miles…?

“Understood, sir,” Gwen whispers in defeat.

*****

The dreaded mission briefing comes later that day. In her opulent bedroom, adorned with intricate wall details and bathed in the warm glow of an expensive heat lamp, Gwen quickly and concisely explains the mission to Miles and Spearhead with her usual composure. No-one says anything during the briefing, her voice clear and direct, cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade. When she finally finishes, her tone is tinged with disgust and sympathy for the mission and the souls who must carry it out without question. For a moment, the room remains silent, tension crackling like static electricity.

Of course, it’s Miles who speaks first, breaking the oppressive quiet. “Understood,” he says, neutrally, casually, like this is a regular occurrence for him.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen whispers, her tone defeated.

“It’s aight. This is the norm for us.” Miles waves her off. “We’ve also been aware of that base for a little while. Slim chance it isn’t a trap.”

“But you’re still gonna attack anyway?” Gwen asks in disbelief.

“Probably gonna be more dangerous to leave it alone,” Miles replies, casually.

“I wish I could’ve at least gotten approval to use the artillery.” Her anger is palpable through the Resonance.

“Oh, those old things?” Ganke scoffs, joining in on the conversation. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone use ‘em against the enemy.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Gwen groans, face-palming.

If they had never been used, then that meant they’d never had soldiers train on them, which meant they’d never been maintained. This, naturally, leads to the only logical conclusion: That they don’t even bloody work! Wait, she thinks to herself. She’s been hanging out with Spearhead so much that she’s picking up their speech patterns and vocabulary…

“Eh, don’t be a worry wart,” Hobie says, casually.

“Not like we were counting on ‘em to begin with,” Ganke adds.

“Damn right!” Heavy roars. “UP THE FUCKIN’ SPEARHEAD SQUADRON!”

Gwen smiles. Even in such a dire position, they still manage to find time to joke around and keep morale up.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Up the Spearhead Squadron.”

Heavy cackles. “That’s the fucking spirit! We’ll make a top Header outta you yet!”

From the other side of the Resonance, she can hear something loud and metallic slam into the back of his head. It clatters to the floor, sounding much like a frying pan. It probably was, honestly.

“Ye daft prick!” Cameron shouts. “Do you even know what that means?!”

The room devolves into chaos as the two start arguing and brawling. She can hear people taking bets and chanting ‘fight, fight, fight!’ as they all quickly start to disconnect. As Gwen goes to disconnect herself, her Para-RAID flickers back to life. It’s Miles.

“Captain?”

“You alright?” Miles asks, tentatively, abruptly.

“What do you mean?”

“Sorry, it’s just that your voice…” Miles starts. “It seems a little on edge to me. Wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh, um…” Gwen says awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say. This was strange for Miles and slightly out-of-character.

Regardless, Miles continues, in too deep. “Do me a favour, yeah? Get some proper rest tonight.”

Gwen tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear subconsciously, a bit too stunned and flustered to say anything.

“Y’know, my uncle always used to say that something as simple as chocolate and tea can help someone relax,” Miles says. “You do still have those in the first district, right? Maybe give that a try?”

Gwen laughs in spite of herself.

“What?” Miles grumbles.

“You sound just like him, second guessing yourself like that.” She stands up from her desk and reaches over to a bowl of chocolates that she’d received from potential suitors when they asked her to the revolution festival party. Obviously, she’d declined but graciously took the free chocolate. Who could say no to that?

Miles chuckles as she grabs a shiny, beige wrapper from the rainbow assortment on offer.

“Believe it or not, he actually gave me chocolate when he saved me,” Gwen says.

“Oh really?” Miles says, trying not to sound too affected by this. “Hopefully it wasn’t the combat ration stuff we occasionally get. I’m 90% sure they lace it with rat poison, the stuff’s so foul.”

Gwen frowns slightly as she begins unwrapping the chocolate. “Is that just a round-about way of saying you don’t like sweet stuff?”

Miles laughs, again. “Nah, I do,” he says somewhat cautiously, then, “When you met him… did he say anything else about me?”

“Yeah,” Gwen smiles. “He said you were a really talented artist. I’d love to see some of your art one day,” she adds wistfully, pausing her unwrapping.

“When he said that… what was his expression?” Miles sounds almost timid. “Was he smiling?”

“Yeah, he was,” Gwen says, gently. “I also remember that he had really kind eyes. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

“I’m surprised you remember at all,” Miles mutters.

“Uh, duh,” Gwen giggles. “I think I’d remember the dude who saved my butt.”

“So, what are they, like precious memories?” Miles teases, to cover his embarrassment at asking so many questions. “You seem awfully wistful about it all.”

“Of course they’re precious,” Gwen replies, seriously. “Just like all the times we talk.”

She pauses, enjoying the simple moment as she smiles. Then, quickly, her face shifts to one of surprise as her brain finally catches up with her emotions. She suddenly freezes, realising she’s grinning like a doofus as a light blush creeps onto her cheeks. She did not mean to vocalise that out-loud.

“Uh, Major…?” Miles questions, confused.

“Gah-hah-hah,” Gwen laughs, awkwardly, flustered beyond belief. “Anyways, I think we should probably call it a night!”

“Aight, sounds good,” Miles says, still slightly confused. “G’night.”

With that, the Para-RAID connection shuts off, leaving Gwen’s thoughts cluttered and frantic. She makes herself busy opening the wrapper the rest of the way. Needless to say, it doesn’t help.

She had failed to realise these chocolates are themed, and printed upon it is a very simple symbol.

“Mother fucker!” Gwen admonishes, blushing like mad. She paces around her room frantically. This is weird, this is strange this is very, very--

She takes a deep breath and slaps herself. JUST BE NORMAL GWENDOLYN!!

Practicing the breathing exercise her ballet teacher once taught her, Gwen inhales deeply, holding the breath for a moment before exhaling slowly. The familiar rhythm steadies her trembling hands and soothes the storm in her mind.

As the tension begins to ease, her gaze drifts to the windowsill, where a padded glass box catches the pale light filtering through the curtains. Inside the box rests a small collection of sticky notes, each bearing a hand-drawn face. Each one represents a Processor she lost whilst commanding Spearhead. Her eyes shift to a wooden board mounted on the wall nearby, where more sticky notes are pinned all over the place. These bear the faces of the Processors still alive. Ignoring the one front and centre, her focus returns to the memorial on the windowsill. She steps closer, her fingers brushing the cool glass as she takes another deep breath. Voice steady and solemn, she whispers:

“I won’t forget.”