The silence after the rain

Episode 1: Iron Attrition

Two hundred and twenty meters to the intersection. Sand collects in the seams of the cracked asphalt, as four-story buildings cast dull shadows over the street. Beyond the corner, the heat signature of an enemy machine slowly crosses the path.

A tactical display flickers at the edge of his vision.

20mm Ammo: 180. HEAT: 6. Pile Bunker: 2. Disks: 18. Power: 93%. Sync Rate: 98%.

Inside the helmet, Volk’s own breathing sounds unnervingly close. His heart rate is within regulation limits. Still, a slight stiffness lingers in his fingertips. It isn't enough to call "nerves," but his body has already transitioned into a combat-ready state.

"Nina, lock the relay. Roche, Ani—I’m taking the corner. You two flush them out of their evasion routes."

"Copy that. Volk, your output is unstable. Keep the continuous disk usage under fifteen. Think about the maintenance costs once we’re back."

Nina’s dismissive tone actually helped steady Volk’s nerves.

Just before clearing the corner, he engaged the slide disks on his right sole.

The chassis leaned forward, thrusting against the road surface. The load shifted instantaneously. In 0.5 seconds, he hit 60 km/h; in 1.2 seconds, 120 km/h. While traversing roughly 40 meters in a single burst, he fired twice with the 20mm assault cannon on his right arm in burst mode.

Ammo: 178.

The first shot struck the right thigh armor of the enemy unit—a Schmidt "Iron Bug"—denting the outer plating. It didn't penetrate, but it forced a slight hiccup in the leg’s attitude control. The second shot missed, shattering the pavement and kicking up a cloud of dust.

Immediately, the Schmidt’s 20mm autocannon responded. Six rounds. The tracers traced a path exactly where he was predicted to move.

One round impacted the left side of his chest.

The impact buckled the armor, the shock traveling through the internal frame directly into the cockpit. The seat hardened instantly to disperse the force, but a dull pressure remained against Volk’s sternum. His breath hitched for a beat, and his vision shook briefly.

Damage Display: Yellow. No penetration.

The Schmidt ceased rapid fire, switching to single shots to read his path. The next round grazed his right lower leg. The casing was shaved off at an angle, sending a spray of metal powder trailing behind. Fine vibrations pulsed through the knee joint actuators, and the tactile sensation of the foot’s contact with the ground shifted slightly.

Temperature rising. The AI adjusted the torque distribution.

"I can still move."

The enemy opened its left shoulder launcher. HEAT rounds.

The warhead bore down on him in a straight line. No time to hesitate on evasion. Disk reactivated. Remaining: 16.

The machine slid laterally about 38 meters in 0.3 seconds. Behind him, the building’s outer wall was pierced, detonating inside. Fragments of the resulting metal jet grazed his right shoulder mount, tearing the armor.

As he raised his right arm, the response felt slightly sluggish. Sync Rate: 95%. The discomfort in the shoulder overlapped with Volk’s own joint pain.

Distance: 150 meters.

To reset the engagement range, he used disks in succession. Remaining: 14.

He retreated roughly 40 meters, then immediately cut diagonally forward for 35 meters.

The sensation of his internal organs floating from the continuous acceleration lingered. For the few moments it took for the inertia dampeners to catch up, the periphery of his vision darkened. Power dropped to 88%.

Slipping through that opening, a Schmidt bullet pierced his flank. The 20mm round punched through the casing and severed a secondary cooling pipe. A few seconds later, the temperature warning lit up, and an output limiter was engaged. The machine’s response lagged by half a beat.

Was his judgment slow, or was the machine sluggish? The inability to tell the difference grated on his nerves.

"Ani, how much longer?!"

"Wait, three more seconds! I’m frying the enemy's sensors!"

Distance: 60 meters.

The Schmidt used its disks again, charging in. The display showed 3 remaining for the enemy. It accelerated from 0 to 110 km/h, traveling roughly 37 meters in a straight line. Its posture wavered slightly over a crack in the road.

Volk retreated. Remaining: 13. Roughly 30 meters.

Despite this, the gap closed to 25 meters.

The Schmidt’s right arm armor deployed, exposing the close-quarters pile bunker. Fire.

The steel stake hurtled toward him at roughly 70 meters per second. Evasion was impossible.

It made contact with his left abdominal armor, penetrating shallowly. Cracks spider-webbed through the internal support members, the shock delivering a straight line of force to the cockpit. A crushing pressure filled his chest, as if his lungs were being flattened. He couldn't draw breath. His heart rate spiked, and the edges of his vision turned white.

No penetration warning.

Opening the distance by half a step, he switched his right-arm 20mm assault cannon to precision single-shot mode. He aimed for the knee joint.

Fire. Remaining Ammo: 164.

The round punched through the joint armor, reaching the internal actuators. The Iron Bug’s right knee failed to lock, and its posture collapsed.

He followed up with another shot to the shoulder mount. Remaining Ammo: 163.

The rotation axis shifted off-center, and the Schmidt’s right arm slumped. The pile bunker, unable to reload, pointed uselessly at the sky.

The enemy dropped to one knee.

Current Ammo: 163. Enemy Ammo: 41.

Time to finish it.

He opened the left shoulder launcher and selected a HEAT round. Remaining: 5. Distance: 50 meters.

Fire.

The warhead pierced the enemy’s side armor, reaching the internal power module. The outer casing bulged, and in the next instant, the internal circuits were severed.

The display showed a voltage drop. The enemy machine ceased all movement.

Silence fell over the intersection. Only the dust settled slowly.

Disks: 13. Power: 81%.

His breathing was ragged. A dull ache spread deep in his chest. The diagnostic display indicated a possible hairline fracture in his ribs.

As he began the phased disconnection of the neural link, the weight of the right shoulder returned distinctly to Volk’s own body.

The discomfort he had perceived as "machine damage" only moments ago now settled as pain in his own joints.

Through the canopy, he watched the downed enemy machine.

Victory and defeat were settled by the numbers. Yet, the lingering vibration deep in his chest signaled that, for him, the battle wasn't quite over yet.

"...Nina. It’s done. Vent the residual heat."

Episode 2: Portrait of the Vanquished

The exhaust fan of the silenced "Iron Bug" let out a series of intermittent, dry rattles before coming to a halt.

Volk lowered the chassis of his Ein-Hand slightly, keeping the right-arm 20mm assault cannon locked onto the torso of the enemy machine, which had already lost all motive power. Ammo: 163. Power had dipped below 80%, and the internal sensors were picking up the acrid scent of burnt coolant.

"Volk, don't move. The thermal signature over there is still unstable. There's a risk of a sympathetic explosion," Nina warned.

Ignoring her, Volk manually increased the zoom magnification.

As the dust began to settle, a shadow moved behind the cracked reinforced glass of the enemy cockpit.

"...Is he bailing out?"

Schmidt didn't blow the emergency rear hatch. Instead, he was laboriously cranking the manual release lever, as if the machine itself were a precious treasure he couldn't bear to damage. From the gap that finally pried open, a middle-aged man tumbled out—not in a military uniform, but in worn-out civilian clothes.

Prostrate on the ground, the man didn't first check his own safety. Instead, he reached out desperately to confirm "something" left inside the wreckage.

"Hey. Don't move."

The Ein-Hand’s external speakers amplified Volk’s raspy voice. Schmidt’s shoulders flinched, but when he raised his head, there was no fight left in his eyes. There was only deep despair and a clinging, prayer-like plea.

Volk popped the canopy and looked down at him with his own eyes.

In Schmidt’s hand was a small metal case. It was warped from the impact, but on its surface, a child’s handwriting had engraved the words: To Papa.

The contents of the case spilled onto the sand.

It wasn't a cutting-edge data chip or a military secret.

It was an old, cracked digital photo frame and a few doses of inhalant—bronchodilators.

"...You defied the Regular Army for that?"

Volk’s voice dropped low. Schmidt spat out blood-tinged saliva and frantically scrambled to gather the sand-covered medicine.

"If the logistics in this sector stop... those bastards will seize the medicine first. To the Regular Army... children with asthma and the elderly are nothing more than 'inefficient' trash."

A cold wave of revulsion ran down Volk’s spine at Schmidt’s words.

The "true nature" of the contract they had accepted sank heavily into the pit of his stomach.

Under the guise of "reclaiming a logistics hub," the Regular Army was moving to purge the "costly weak" from this city and bring it under total corporate management.

"Roche, do you copy? ...Any infantry signatures around the enemy unit?"

"...None. No, to be precise, they’re hiding. But they aren't carrying rifles. They're just... residents."

Roche’s voice was thick with the bitterness of a former Regular Army soldier.

Just then, an emergency transmission from Nina cut in. Her voice, intercepting the wide-area net, was sharper than he had ever heard it.

"Volk, get out of there! The Regular Army's second wave... the 'Cleanup Squad' is approaching! They’re thirty minutes ahead of schedule! They’re targeting every remaining heat source. Any unit without an IFF signal is considered Free Fire!"

From between the distant buildings, a series of heavy, low-frequency thuds began to echo.

It was the footfalls of the true "Iron Reapers"—those coming to eliminate "dwellers" like Schmidt and harvest only the combat results.

With a feeling like chewing on sand, Volk looked at the man standing beside the lifeless Iron Bug. He was a mercenary. He had taken the job for the pay. But—

"...Nina, bring the carrier around. Roche, Ani, secure the firing lines. We’re recovering this 'scrap metal' too."

"...Are you serious? You'll be making an enemy of the Regular Army!"

"We’re just as disposable to them anyway. If we're going to be treated like trash, we might as well be the kind that's expensive to throw away."

Volk turned his right-arm 20mm assault cannon toward the direction of his "employers."

Ammo: 163.

Against a national army, it was a pathetically small number.

Episode 3: Three Hundred Seconds of Cooperation

"You’ve lost your mind, Volk! You’re up against a Regular Army 'Cleanup' squad—those people literally exist to turn everything into a wasteland!"

Nina’s screaming voice rattled the comms, but Volk had already sealed the Ein-Hand’s canopy. Jack-in. A sharp pain lanced through his nerves once again. Sync Rate: 92%. Due to the damage, the feedback from his right shoulder had turned into a searing, throbbing ache.

"Complaints later, Nina. Get the carrier here at full throttle. ...Schmidt, can you stand?"

Schmidt looked up at Volk with a dazed expression. Then, stuffing the sand-caked medicine case into his tunic, he scrambled unsteadily back into the Iron Bug’s hatch.

"...I can’t even get twenty percent output. The sub-OS is dead."

"As long as the right arm moves, it’s enough. Position yourself at my ten o'clock. ...Here they come."

A low-frequency rumble filled the horizon. Emerging from the gaps between buildings were three "Grey Hounds"—the Regular Army’s C-rank mass-production units—with a single B-rank heavy-armored unit trailing behind.

Situation Report:

• Volk (A-Rank: Ein-Hand): 20mm Ammo: 161. HEAT: 5. Disks: 13. Power: 81%.

• Schmidt (B-Rank: Iron Bug): 20mm Ammo: 41. No HEAT. Disks: 1. Power: 15% (Critical voltage drop).

"Three hundred seconds. Don’t waste a single shot."

Volk gave the disk on his right foot a short burst. Remaining: 12.

Forcing the rattling machine under control, he glided over the ridges in the road, aiming his 20mm at the sensors of the lead Grey Hound. Fire. Remaining: 161.

The round blew the enemy’s head unit clean off, but the machine didn't flinch, spraying 12.7mm rounds in response. A storm of lead hammered the pavement, kicking up nasty sparks against the Ein-Hand’s armor.

"Roche! Support!"

"...Copy that. Silencing one."

From the shadow of a distant building, Roche’s precision shot tore through the air. A 20mm round pierced the knee joint of the second Grey Hound. The enemy unit buckled forward, its chassis grinding against the asphalt.

But the B-rank unit in the rear showed no mercy, firing its 105mm low-recoil cannon.

"Scatter!"

Volk activated his disks in rapid succession. Remaining: 10.

Enduring G-forces that felt like they were crushing his internal organs, he slid in a near-roll. The shockwave of the impact rocked the Ein-Hand, and his left optical sensor washed out with static.

"Volk, on your right!"

It was Schmidt’s voice.

The right arm of the silent Iron Bug roared to life, trembling as it spat fire. Ammo: 35.

The 20mm rounds were sucked into the flank of the third Grey Hound as it tried to flank them. Schmidt’s aim was true. The thin armor of the exhaust duct shattered, and black smoke erupted from the enemy machine.

"I owe you one."

"Put it on my tab, mercenary...!"

Warning sirens bled through the comms from Schmidt’s unit. The reckless firing was on the verge of frying his circuits.

"Nina, how much longer?!"

"One hundred and twenty seconds! I’m slamming the carrier into the street right in front of you! Volk, use the HEAT on your left shoulder! If you don’t stop that heavy unit, the carrier is a sitting duck!"

Volk armed the launcher on his left shoulder. Remaining: 5.

The enemy B-rank heavy unit was attempting to lock its 105mm sights again. Its barrel shifted minutely.

He had one window.

Volk burned three disks at once. Remaining: 7.

The machine shrieked, and a synchronization error sent a flash of agonizing pain through his right shoulder joint. His vision stained red. Still, he held his breath, waiting to squeeze the trigger until the reticle overlapped with the base of the enemy’s gun barrel.

"Take this...!"

HEAT round, away. Remaining: 4.

The straight trajectory struck the heavy unit’s turret ring dead center. The internal metal jet burned through the armor and reached the ammunition stores. A violent flash followed. The heavy unit’s turret lifted several meters into the air from the pressure of the internal explosion.

"Now! Get in!"

The Sherpa Carrier slid around the corner of a building at high speed. The eight-wheeled monster piloted by Nina threw its hatch wide open, reeking of scorched rubber.

"Ani, Roche, get inside! Volk, hook Schmidt’s unit to the crane!"

Volk extended the Ein-Hand’s left arm, grabbing the shoulder of Schmidt’s dead machine. Slamming down all his remaining disks, he dragged the combined eight tons of mass into the dark interior of the carrier's container.

The hatch slammed shut.

The sound of Regular Army pursuit rounds drumming violently against the container walls echoed through the hold.

Inside the dark cabin, Volk disconnected his neural link. A cold sweat erupted across his body, and his lungs burned with every breath. Next to him, he could see Schmidt opening his hatch with trembling hands, gasping for air.

"...Did we make it?"

To Schmidt’s question, Nina shouted back from the pilot’s seat.

"No! We just got kicked out! Right now, we’re officially 'just trash'—wanted by both the Regular Army and the insurgents!"

Episode 4: Abandoned Ruts

Just before the heavy hatch of the Sherpa Carrier slammed shut, Volk caught a lingering afterimage of the intersection through the Ein-Hand’s optical sensors.

From the shadows of the rubble, mud-caked residents were crawling out. They were the "families" Schmidt had tried to protect—the survivors of this city. But in their eyes, there was no expectation of rescue.

There was only pure "terror," directed at the cold, mechanical drone of the Regular Army’s Cleanup Squad engines approaching from the rear.

"...Nina, don’t close the hatch! There are still people out there!"

"I can't, Volk! We're over capacity! If we get any heavier, this trailer won't be able to accelerate! We’ll be sitting ducks for their 105mm cannons!"

Nina’s voice was a frantic scream. Behind her, Roche cut in, his voice thick with bitter resignation.

"...It’s too late, Volk. Look."

The footage captured by the carrier’s external cameras flickered onto the monitors inside the container.

The sensors of the Grey Hounds were locking onto the "heat signatures" behind the debris. To the Regular Army, any moving object without an IFF signal was nothing more than an "obstacle" to be eliminated.

"Stop it...!"

Volk’s cry was hollow. The Regular Army’s 12.7mm heavy machine guns spat fire.

It wasn't a battle; it was a "cleaning." The asphalt erupted, and the residents vanished into the dust before they could even attempt to flee.

"Papa! PAPA!!"

From the Iron Bug secured in the adjacent container, Schmidt’s raw, unamplified scream echoed. He thrashed, trying to pry the hatch open, but the restraints of the fixed crane wouldn't budge.

"Let me go! My wife—my daughter is still out there...!"

Schmidt leaned halfway out of his cockpit, clawing at the crane's restraints. Volk leaped down from his own machine, rushed to Schmidt, and forcibly shoved him back inside as he gripped the edge of the hatch.

"Schmidt, stop! If you go out there now, you're dead!"

At that moment, a massive impact rocked the carrier. A pursuit round from the Regular Army had slammed into the rear armor.

"Both of you, sit down! Do you want to die?!"

Nina executed a violent, high-speed turn. The centrifugal force threw Volk and Schmidt against the wall.

Nina gritted her teeth, flooring the accelerator. Behind them, the "lives" they had been protecting only moments ago were being literally erased from the map by the Regular Army’s explosive fire.

"...They planned this from the very beginning."

Ani huddled with her knees to her chest, whispering in a trembling voice.

The Regular Army hadn't wanted to reclaim a logistics hub. They intended to wipe out the "redundant residents" who didn't fit their interests, along with the "mercenaries" who knew too much, leaving them with a pristine, blank slate of land.

Inside the carrier, there was only the unpleasant sound of metal cooling and Schmidt’s stifled sobbing. Volk leaned his back against the wall, staring at his trembling hands.

The neuralgia in his right shoulder stabbed more sharply than ever before.

All they had left were empty medicine bottles and a cracked photo frame. And a dark, visceral murderous intent toward their former employers.

"...Nina. Don’t head for the next resupply point," Volk said in a low, gutteral voice.

"We’re hitting the Regular Army’s supply base. We’ll take their ammo, their fuel... and we’ll turn this city into their graveyard."

Episode 5: Horizon of Attrition

The word "revenge" is a luxury reserved for those with an abundance of resources.

As the carrier hunkered down beneath the piers of an abandoned highway, the interior was dominated by the smell of blood and a beast-like moaning leaking from the back of Schmidt’s throat.

"…It’s impossible. Hitting a Regular Army supply base with our current strength is a suicide mission."

Nina turned her terminal screen toward Volk. Her voice was trembling.

The Ein-Hand’s right shoulder joint was seized from the heat, its output dropped by 30%. Roche’s Iron Bug had fewer than twenty rounds remaining. And in the corner of the container, Ani huddled in the shadow of her damaged "Husky Runner."

"Nina, the slide disk on the left leg is locked… Hey, I still can’t get the screams of those people out of my head…"

Ani’s voice was thin; her face, visible behind her raised visor, was a mess of dust and tear streaks. Her light-weight machine, stripped of its armor, had pushed its disks too hard during the escape; the bearings were beginning to melt from the heat.

"It’s not revenge, Nina. It’s a procurement for survival. …And a settling of accounts."

Volk said quietly, rubbing his throbbing right shoulder.

To cover up the "massacre" that occurred in Sector 4, the Regular Army would undoubtedly pursue them relentlessly. Even if they continued their flight, they would be nothing more than target practice once their ammunition ran out.

"…The Regular Army doesn't expect their base to be hit."

Roche climbed down from his machine’s hatch, his footsteps heavy.

"Their logistics are concentrated in the old city stadium. Since they’re prioritizing resupplying the Cleanup Squad, the rear defense consists only of second-rate security guards and remote-controlled drones."

Ammo and fuel were there. And so was the stockpile of inhalants—the medicine Schmidt would never be able to deliver to his family again.

"Volk…"

Schmidt crawled out of the Iron Bug’s cockpit. In his hand, he clutched the photo frame, stained with mud and blood. He shoved it violently into his chest pocket.

"The pile bunker on my unit… strip the limiters. I don't care if the frame shatters from the recoil. …There is something I must return personally to the man who commanded that 'cleaning'."

Everything he had wanted to protect had turned to ash in the explosions minutes ago. What drove him now was no longer even the instinct for survival. It was a pure obsession—the need to put a single stake through the enemy’s heart, even at the cost of his own machine.

"…We have no choice. Ani, can you stand?"

At Volk’s question, Ani gripped her machine’s hatch with trembling hands.

"…I’ll do it. I just need to draw the drones' attention, right? I’ll run until my disks shatter."

Nina started the grinder, sparks flying as she began shaving Roche’s spare disks to fit the specifications of Ani’s unit. This wasn't "repair" in any gentle sense; it was the desperate act of forcibly tethering a heart to a dying hunk of iron.

The mission window: approximately eight hundred seconds before the Cleanup Squad returned to the stadium.

There would be no heroic victory, no redemptive revenge.

There was only the ammunition needed to survive until tomorrow, and a battlefield upon which to unleash an unquenchable rage.

Episode 6: Deadline at the Stadium

The Old City Stadium. A place that once echoed with the cheers of tens of thousands had been transformed into a concrete headstone. Supply containers belonging to the Regular Army were lined up in neat rows across the parking lot, while the cold glare of floodlights illuminated the inescapable asphalt in a pale blue hue.

"…All units, minimize thermal output. Narrow your sensor scan ranges."

The team responded to Volk’s voice with silence.

Five hundred meters remained to the stadium’s outer perimeter gate. The spoofing signal Nina had falsified wouldn't hold for more than a few hundred seconds. The Regular Army’s data link was constantly updating; any external intruder would trigger an automatic alarm.

"Ani, move ahead. Neutralize the drone control antennas. If you fail, we’ll be turned into a beehive from the sky," Nina barked her sharp instructions.

Ani’s "Husky Runner" slid out from the shadow of the carrier.

The uneven, freshly ground disks shrieked against the asphalt. Remaining: 18.

She kept her machine crouched as low as possible, weaving through the buildings' blind spots. Three Regular Army surveillance drones circled the airspace above the stadium.

"…I can do this."

Ani pulled the trigger of her 12.7mm heavy machine gun. Remaining: 450.

Short bursts. Three bullets accurately pierced the integrated sensor eye. The first drone lost control, crashing into a concrete wall and shattering.

The moment the second drone began its turn, Ani accelerated to full disk power. Remaining: 15.

Her right leg drifted slightly outward. As her balance wavered, she crushed the instability by forcibly overriding the posture control AI.

"Volk, now! The drones' attention is on me!"

The moment Ani shouted, Volk and Roche moved.

The Ein-Hand pulverized the gate's security fence with its 20mm assault cannon. Remaining: 161.

Sparks flew, and alarms blared throughout the stadium’s interior.

"Enemy units sighted! Two second-rate C-rank security units!"

As Roche reported, the long barrel of his Iron Bug spat fire. Remaining: 18.

A precision shot. The ammunition belt of the first enemy unit was severed, scattering bullets across the ground.

Volk surged forward, aiming for the supply containers stationed in the center of the stadium’s turf area.

Stacked there were 20mm ammunition crates and high-pressure cooling gas cylinders intended for the Cleanup Squad.

"…Schmidt, hold the entrance to the depot! We’re taking everything we can carry!"

Schmidt’s Iron Bug followed behind, its battered frame rattling.

He didn't say a word. Only the heavy metallic sound of him disengaging the lock on his unit’s internal pile bunker echoed across the comms.

"Volk, hurry! The Cleanup Squad’s vanguard has turned back! They’ll be here in four hundred seconds!" Nina’s scream echoed from the carrier’s speakers.

Volk hooked the Ein-Hand’s arm into a container handle and tore it open by force.

Inside were rows of ammunition cases. And there, in a medical box in the corner, he saw the inhaler packages—the same logo Schmidt had been seeking for his family.

But the person those medicines were meant for was no longer anywhere in this world.

"…Roche, load the ammo. Ani, don’t let those drones get any closer."

Volk was acutely aware that their hands were already stained with blood and oil.

Pillage. It wasn't a noble "right to survival."

It was a hideous struggle for existence—seizing the resources of others to sustain one's own life.

The Ein-Hand’s power dipped below 80%.

From the other side of the stadium, the distant rumble of the Regular Army main force’s 105mm cannons approached like a localized earthquake.

"…Nina, bring the carrier in. Prepare for extraction."

Volk hoisted an ammunition crate from the container.

The searing pain in his right shoulder was now perfectly synchronized with his machine’s damage.

This was "reality."

There was no justice, no salvation. There was only the acquisition of iron to survive the next battle—time bought merely to momentarily delay the Reaper’s scythe.

Episode 7: Friction and Sparks

A vortex of exhaust heat, seemingly intent on scorching the stadium turf, churned the heavy night air.

On Volk’s HUD, a crimson warning light flickered—a load stress alert for the Ein-Hand’s left arm, which was straining under the weight of the plundered ammunition container.

"Nina, open the carrier hatch! We’re loading in thirty seconds!"

The carrier’s tires shrieked as it slid into a reverse, grinding the parking lot asphalt. From the stadium’s eastern gate, the main body of the "Cleanup" force finally emerged.

Two vanguard Grey Hounds. And behind them, a B-rank commander unit clad in jet-black plating.

"Volk, run! Their fire-control radar just locked onto you!"

As Ani screamed, a streak of tracer fire tore through the night sky.

A volley from a 12.7mm heavy machine gun. Bullets hammered the pavement, sending jagged shards of concrete flying against the Ein-Hand’s leg armor.

Situation: Withdrawal Commenced

• Volk: 20mm Ammo: 161 (Pre-resupply) / Disks: 7 / Power: 78% / Damage: Right shoulder joint (Severe).

• Roche: 20mm Ammo: 18 / Disks: 12 / Power: 85%.

• Ani: 12.7mm Ammo: 447 / Disks: 15 (Unstable) / Power: 70%.

"Roche, Schmidt—fall back! I’ll take the rear!"

Volk kicked his right-foot disk, the count dropping to 6.

The machine accelerated violently, the G-force pinning his internal organs against his spine. Under the weight of the stolen ammo crate, the Ein-Hand’s left shoulder frame groaned with an ominous metallic creak.

The enemy commander unit moved.

While gliding, the machine deployed its rear missile launchers. These weren't precision-guided munitions; they were incendiaries meant to sanitize the entire area.

"…You’re going to burn it all again, aren't you?"

Schmidt’s Iron Bug surged forward, its exhaust roaring like a wounded beast.

"Volk, go. …The 'cleaning' of this city ends today!"

Schmidt pushed his final remaining disk to its absolute limit. Remaining: 0.

The bearings spat sparks, the disk glowing cherry-red under the overload. A desperate acceleration from zero to 120 km/h. The Iron Bug’s right arm deployed, exposing the pile bunker.

"Schmidt, get back! You’ll kill yourself!"

Volk’s warning fell on deaf ears.

Taking 12.7mm rounds directly onto its frontal armor, the Iron Bug charged in a straight line toward the jet-black commander unit. Bullets shattered its shoulder, its torso, its camera eye. Oil sprayed and caught fire, yet the hunk of iron refused to stop.

Distance: Ten meters.

Schmidt routed the machine’s entire electrical output into the right-arm firing mechanism.

"…Go apologize to my family."

Pile bunker, fire.

The steel stake, launched at seventy meters per second, punched clean through the commander unit’s cockpit hatch. The shockwave echoed across the stadium as the stake tore through the enemy’s engine module and exited the rear.

An instant later, the enemy machine detonated from within, erupting into a pillar of fire that swallowed Schmidt’s Iron Bug whole.

"Schmidt!!"

Ani’s scream tore through the radio.

But Volk wasn't given a second to pause. In the midst of the explosion, he saw "something" separate from Schmidt's unit, dancing in the dust. It was that cracked photo frame he had clutched until the very end.

"Volk, hurry! The next squad is coming!"

Shaking off Nina’s desperate plea for him to wait, Volk slid the Ein-Hand into the carrier’s container.

The hatch slammed shut.

Through the metal walls, the final explosion of the burning Iron Bug echoed from the outside. The carrier began its full-throttle escape into the nocturnal cityscape.

Inside the container, there was only the stolen ammunition crates and a cold silence.

With trembling hands, Volk yanked out his neural connection plugs. The moment the physical link was severed, the residual machine data backflowed into his brain, bringing a wave of intense nausea. He collapsed into the narrow cockpit seat.

Etched into his right shoulder was a "phantom" sensation that wouldn't fade—the searing heat Schmidt must have felt in his final moments, and the staggering impact of the stake being driven home.

"…I wonder if he was smiling," Ani whispered softly. No one could answer her.

Outside, it had begun to rain. It was a weak, unreliable rain—hardly enough to wash away the mud of a war zone.

Episode 8: Mud and Silence

The rain quickly turned into a cold slurry of mud pouring from the ashen sky.

The heavy tires of the Sherpa Carrier hammered the backstreets of the old city where the pavement had been stripped away. Inside the container, the air was stagnant, heavy with the mingling scents of gunpowder leaking from the stolen ammo crates and scorched oil drifting from overheated machines.

Volk breathed in ragged gasps, trying to reclaim the sensations of his physical body. When he cast aside his helmet, the sweat dripping onto the floor felt unnervingly cold.

"…Roche, you alive?"

Ani whispered, leaning her back against her unit's hatch and staring into the void. Her voice was so thin it was nearly swallowed by the sound of the rain.

"…Yeah. More or less," Roche responded in a heavy tone. He took a spare rag and began silently wiping away fragments of enemy armor lodged in his machine's leg assembly.

In this theater of war, there were no dramatic deaths. There was only the disappearance of a man's signal—a man you were shouting at over the radio moments ago—leaving behind nothing but cold scrap metal. That was the reality of the conflict zone.

"No time for sentimentality. The Regular Army has shifted into full 'pest control' mode."

Nina displayed the intercepted communication logs on the container’s monitor. The Regular Army had completely blockaded Sector 4. They were laying anti-tank mines at the perimeter and keeping Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicles (UCAVs) stationed in the airspace above.

"…Nina, confirm the seized ammunition."

Volk crawled out of his seat and pried open a container on the floor.

"Three thousand rounds of 20mm armor-piercing shells. And… look at this."

Nina pointed toward a heavily sealed cold-storage case. Inside, alongside the inhalers Schmidt had sought for his family, were unlabeled vials.

"These aren't just medicines. …They're high-concentration nerve stabilizers. Specifically, inhumane 'sensory enhancers' tuned for military pilots."

Volk stared at the cold vials.

The true reason the Regular Army was burning this city and seizing the logistics hub wasn't just for commercial interests. It was to erase the evidence of the "research" hidden here, along with all its data.

"…Looks like we stepped on a tail we weren't supposed to," Roche said, pulling the bolt of his 20mm autocannon with a dry, metallic clack.

They had secured the ammunition. But the opponent they would use it against was the massive machinery of state violence itself.

"Volk, checkpoint three kilometers ahead. A grid of minefields and infrared sensors. We have no choice but to force our way through."

At Nina's words, Volk reached for the Ein-Hand’s hatch once more.

The phantom pain in his right shoulder wouldn't subside. But to escape this mire, he had to keep this four-meter iron giant moving—even if it meant sucking up oil mixed with blood.

"…Ani, I’m routing the spare disks to you. Roche, you take all the HEAT rounds. …We’re punching through that minefield by brute force."

Outside, the rain intensified, painting the ruined city in shades of black.

Episode 9: Rejection of the Border

The sound of eight wheels tearing through the mire echoed across the ruins, which had fallen into an unnervingly deep silence.

Three kilometers ahead. The checkpoint appeared as a massive wall of light floating in the pitch-black darkness. Several searchlights pierced the curtain of rain, coldly scanning the "Dead Zone" where the minefield lay.

"Volk, I’m sending the thermal feed. Look, the places where the ground temperature is unnaturally high... those are the burial points for the M5 directional anti-tank mines. If you step on one, your unit’s legs will be vaporized in an instant."

Even the irritation had vanished from Nina’s voice. The extreme tension had transformed her into a cold, clinical part of the machinery.

"…Ani, rev your disks. Kick up the mud and scramble their thermal signatures."

Following Volk’s lead, Ani’s Husky Runner leaped out from behind the carrier. The poorly adjusted disks spat sparks, whipping the muddy water into a fine mist. It was a sprint less like a "decoy" and more like that of a small, trembling beast.

"I know... I’ll do it! I’m throwing away this piece-of-shit city before it can throw me away!"

The moment Ani screamed, a searchlight caught her. Immediately, the auto-swivel heavy machine guns mounted at the checkpoint spat fire. The tracers of 12.7mm rounds sliced diagonally through the rainy night, hammering the ground around Ani.

"Roche, now! Hit the base of the sensors!"

"Copy that...!"

Roche’s Iron Bug vaulted off the roof of the carrier. HEAT round, away. Remaining: 0.

The warhead struck the leg of the checkpoint’s watchtower, unleashing a blinding flash and a roar that devoured their vision. Instantly, one of the searchlight beams fell silent.

"Let’s go!"

Volk cranked the Ein-Hand’s neural link to maximum output.

The phantom pain in his right shoulder shifted into an agonizing sensation, as if molten lead were being poured into his joints. As his vision stained crimson, he burned his disks to weave through the "gaps" in the minefield. Remaining: 5.

The chassis swung violently from side to side. A sensor hidden in the mud tripped. The moment a high-frequency beeprang in the back of his ears, Volk slammed the Ein-Hand’s 20mm assault cannon into the ground beneath his own feet.

"Get out of the way...! Don't you dare block our path!"

A point-blank impact. The blast detonated the mines, violently rocking the Ein-Hand’s heavy armor. The smell of oil backflowed into the cockpit from the shock, and Volk tasted blood in his mouth.

But on the other side of the minefield—there was no "freedom" waiting for them.

Beyond the checkpoint gate, at the end of the single road shrouded in rain, a deeper despair lay in wait.

Looming in the silhouette of the searchlights’ backlight were more than ten Regular Army units standing in perfect formation. And what they were guarding was the silhouette of the neighboring city—already "suppressed," billowing the same black smoke as Sector 4.

"…You’ve got to be kidding. That place is burning, too…" Ani’s hopeless whisper leaked through the comms.

What the Regular Army was trying to conceal wasn't just the "research" in this city. It was a chain of large-scale "cleanings" beginning across the entire nation. Volk thought of the cold vials inside the stolen storage case.

The chemicals the state used to restructure its citizens into nothing more than "efficient parts." The cities that refused them were being turned to ash, one by one.

"…Volk. Don't stop. If you stop, you die here."

Roche’s voice was heavy, forcing him back to reality. There was no going back. There was an army in front.

The iron giants, caked in mud, had no choice but to ready their weapons once more within a battlefield that had no exit.

Episode 10: The Gray Chain

The checkpoint gate receded into the distance, twisted and buckled by the blast pressure and physical impacts.

Several tires of the Sherpa Carrier had already shredded during the minefield breach, leaving the exposed wheels to grind against the asphalt, throwing up showers of sparks.

But the "Outside" they had finally reached was not the sanctuary they had dreamed of.

"…Look. The sky is the same color over there, too," Ani whispered. Volk turned the Ein-Hand’s external camera toward the horizon.

Beyond the rain clouds, the skyline of the neighboring Sector 5 was stained a bruised, visceral red. Illumination flares rose at regular intervals, followed by the flashes of heavy artillery disemboweling the heart of the city. It was a "rerun" of the hell they had just escaped.

"…It’s a synchronized, systemic purge," Roche muttered, his voice hollow.

"It's not just about erasing research data. The entire nation is peeling off its old skin, burning away the 'redundant layers.' The things we tried to protect… they were never there to begin with."

A heavy, suffocating despair filled the carrier. The ammunition they had stolen, the medicine they had protected at the cost of lives—all of it felt like futile grains of sand before this massive system of "cleaning."

Suddenly, the carrier’s radar let out an ominous warning chime.

"Volk, rear! Not the survivors of the Cleanup Squad… it’s from above!"

At Nina’s scream, three Unmanned Combat Aerial Vehicles (UCAVs) dove through the thick rain clouds. These were sleek, terrifying shadows, far removed from the second-rate equipment they had faced so far—emotionless assassins dispatched by the State to complete the "concealment."

"…Nina, don’t stop the carrier. Ani, Roche, scatter! Divide their targeting!"

Volk dived back into the "depths" of the neural link. He could no longer tell if the pain in his right shoulder was his own or the machine's. Guide lines from the UCAVs' laser designators crisscrossed his vision like death warrants.

Situation: Final Flight

• Volk: 20mm Ammo: 124 / Disks: 5 / Power: 62% / Sync Rate: 94% (Danger Zone).

• Roche: 20mm Ammo: 132 / Disks: 8 / Power: 75%.

• Ani: 12.7mm Ammo: 1200 / Disks: 4 / Power: 55%.

"They’re going to crush us along with the vials…! They want the evidence and us gone together!"

Volk slid his machine laterally, narrowly dodging a small missile launched from a UCAV. The blast rocked the carrier, and the ammunition crates inside the container collapsed with a thunderous crash.

"…Hey, Volk. Where are we supposed to go?"

The will to fight was finally draining from Ani’s voice.

"If there’s nothing at the end of this… why did we leave Schmidt behind?"

Volk had no answer. The reality of a conflict zone is always tethered to this "void." You lose your reason to fight, you lose the place you were meant to protect, and you pull the trigger simply to prolong the time until you die.

"…To live, Ani. There is no other reason."

Volk stared into the darkness ahead. Before them lay a vast expanse of "wetlands and salt-damaged barrens" that had once been the artery of logistics. Civilian vehicles that had run out of gas or been shelled lay scattered like black carcasses, blocking their path.

"Volk, one kilometer ahead… Regular Army armored units are deploying. It’s a total encirclement. Forward, backward… there’s no way out!"

Nina’s report was one of pure hopelessness. The carrier’s wheels ruthlessly crushed through the thick mud and the abandoned household goods of those who had fled before them.

The UCAVs overhead lowered their altitude like hyenas cornering prey, their cold infrared lasers tracing the carrier’s roof.

"…Don’t give up. We still have one round left," Roche said, seemingly to convince himself. He stared at his ammo counter. They had bullets, but an HM (Humanoid Mobile Exoskeleton) that had lost its mobility on an open plain was nothing but a "moving target."

"Hey, Volk…" Ani called out again, her voice raspy.

"That family, and Schmidt… they all believed there was something waiting for them if they just got past this point. But the truth is, none of us could go anywhere from the start. This whole country… it was just one big cage."

Ani’s Husky Runner shuddered violently under the overload, and finally, one of its slide disks shattered and flew off. The machine tilted sharply into the mud, sending a tall spray of dirty water into the air.

"Ani!"

"…It won’t move. …The disk, it’s just…"

The carrier screeched to a halt as Nina slammed on the brakes, screaming. From the front, Regular Army Grey Hounds approached—slowly, surely—painting the darkness of the night white with their searchlights.

An emotionless demand for surrender broadcasted through loudspeakers, mingling with the sound of the rain.

“—Notice to all unassigned IFF units. Cease movement immediately and submit to biometric authentication. Resistance is futile. Repeat, resistance is—”

Inside the cockpit of the Ein-Hand, Volk stared at the case containing the stolen vials.

If he handed them over, they might spare their lives. But it would mean voluntarily integrating themselves as parts into the very system of "cleaning" they had witnessed today.

"…Nina. Roche."

Volk quietly adjusted his grip on the neural connection plugs. The pain in his right shoulder had gone cold and white, the sensation finally lost.

"We aren't heroes, and we don't know anything special. We’re just discarded mercenaries."

He made the Ein-Hand take a single step forward into the mire. If there was no path to escape, they could at least choose the place where they would "stop" by their own will.

"…We’re going to fight to the end, even if we have to swallow mud. We’re never giving them the 'clean ending' they want."

The searchlights from the front illuminated the scarred chest armor of the Ein-Hand. The Regular Army’s muzzles spat fire all at once, and the nocturnal wasteland was once again swallowed by a hellish flash of light.

Episode 11: The Final Minute

A heavy, metallic resonance echoed across the muddy wasteland.

The three HMs pressed their feet firmly into the mire, surrounding the battered Sherpa Carrier like a makeshift barricade. The white glare of the searchlights caught the falling rain, turning droplets into silver arrows and mercilessly exposing the scarred machines.

"Nina, close the hatch. …Stay low on the floor."

Volk’s voice was unnervingly calm. The Ein-Hand’s right shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, useless. Through the forced neural synchronization, Volk’s vision was riddled with static; the heat signatures of the surrounding enemy units appeared as festering red sores, bleeding into the darkness.

"They’re coming…! Distance: three hundred, two-fifty...!"

Ani’s "Husky Runner" had already lost its slide disks. Kneeling in the mud, she kept the muzzle of her 12.7mm machine gun fixed forward, the barrel trembling.

Approaching from the front were six Regular Army "Grey Hounds." Behind them, a force several times larger formed a wall of darkness, tightening the encirclement.

Situation: Final Engagement

• Volk: 20mm Ammo: 42 / Disks: 0 / Right shoulder uncontrollable.

• Roche: 20mm Ammo: 18 / Left leg hydraulic leak.

• Ani: 12.7mm Ammo: 120 / Immobilized.

"…Roche, make every shot count. If we fall, the carrier is gone."

"You don't have to tell me twice… Volk, I’ll pick our companions for hell, starting with the highest-ranking bastards first."

Roche fed one of his remaining rounds into the camera eye of the lead enemy unit.

A flash. The shriek of colliding iron.

One of the Regular Army units, its head unit shattered, slumped into the mud, driven by its own inertia.

Immediately after, a simultaneous volley erupted, blanketing the wasteland. 12.7mm and 20mm rounds hammered relentlessly against the carrier’s armor and the HM frames.

Every time a dull thud-thud-thud rocked the Ein-Hand, a searing pain lanced through Volk’s brain, as if his own skin were being gouged away.

"Ani, fire…! Don't stop!"

"A—AAAAHHHHH!!"

Screaming, Ani unleashed every remaining round in her belt. The gun barrel glowed cherry-red, and the rising heat backflowed into the cockpit. Her bullets caught the leg of one enemy unit, but an instant later, an enemy 20mm armor-piercing round tore through the Husky Runner’s left shoulder like it was made of paper.

"Ani...!"

Volk forcibly dragged his dead right shoulder, re-leveling the assault cannon with only the Ein-Hand’s left arm. Remaining: 32.

In place of the disks, he completely burned out the machine’s "overload limiters." The circuitry flashed with white light, and black smoke billowed from every joint of the Ein-Hand.

"…This is the end."

Volk pulled the trigger.

One shot. Two shots.

In a sensation where his fingertips and the machine’s trigger felt perfectly fused, he began to sink the encroaching slabs of iron into the mud, one by one.

Yet, those few seconds of resistance were no more than a single drop of rain falling into a vast ocean of war.

An enemy anti-tank missile struck the Ein-Hand’s left leg.

His sense of balance vanished, and Volk’s world pitched into the mud. Through the slit of his overturned machine, he saw Roche’s unit surrounded by several Grey Hounds, being riddled with holes.

Roche’s gunfire stopped.

Ani’s machine gun also fell silent, its spent ammo belt dangling uselessly.

The sound of the rain began to grow unnervingly clear.

A massive shadow of a Regular Army machine loomed over the motionless Ein-Hand. Through his visor inside the cockpit, Volk stared at the case of vials in his mud-stained right hand.

The cursed evidence that Schmidt had died to protect, and that they had carried this far.

"…Nina, you alive?"

The comms returned nothing but the hiss of static, like a desert sandstorm.

Volk tried to slowly pull out the neural connection plugs. But he no longer had even the strength for that.

The light from a searchlight bled through the gaps in the cockpit, staining his eyes white.

This was the end of the "Final Minute."

There was no hero’s return, no beautiful sacrifice.

There was only a cold rain falling on the mire, three silenced hunks of iron, and a single life that had nowhere left to go.

Final Episode: Weathering Ruts

The seasons of upheaval passed, and it did not take long for the rain falling upon the wasteland to turn from a murky black to a clear, transparent veil.

The place where the Regular Army’s encirclement once stood now bears no markings or signs. Instead, hardy, nameless wildflowers have begun to crawl over the rusted iron giants, blanketing the sodden earth.

At the center lies the wreckage of the Sherpa Carrier, its roof buckled and crushed, resting like the bleached skeleton of a great whale. Surrounding it, three HMs remain in a state of eternal silence, each frozen in their final posture.

One is the Ein-Hand, slumped forward, still clutching its assault cannon with its solitary left arm.

Another is the Iron Bug, riddled with holes, yet standing tall in its final moments as if to shield the carrier to the very end.

And the last is the Husky Runner, its leg disks long gone, kneeling in the mud with its head bowed in quiet repose.

No paint patterns indicating affiliation nor personal nicknames remain on their surfaces. The rain, the wind, and the merciless sun have ground them down equally into nothing more than inorganic iron oxide.

Occasionally, the sound of trucks traveling on a distant highway carries over on the breeze.

No one remains here who remembers what was done in this sector that day—what was protected, or what was erased. After the Regular Army completed its "cleaning," this land had its name struck from the maps as a mere "redevelopment reserve," buried in the shadows of a new urban plan.

Through a gap in the Ein-Hand’s open canopy, birds can be seen building a nest. Near the edge of the seat where neural plugs were once inserted, a small fragment of plastic lies buried in the dirt. It might be a remnant of the photo frame that a man named Schmidt once gripped so tightly, or perhaps a shard from the vial that Nina held until the end.

There are no records to tell whether the last sight they beheld was one of despair or a flickering spark of pride.

The reality of a conflict zone is that it weathers away in exactly this manner.

Without being passed down as a heroic epic, and without being carved into history as a tragedy, the discarded scrap metal simply returns to the earth, slowly, through the turning of the seasons.

A wind blows across the wasteland.

The flowers swayed, gently brushing against the rusted fingertips of the Ein-Hand.

There is no longer the scent of gunpowder, nor the smell of burning oil, nor the sound of someone’s stifled sobbing.

There is only the fact that "those who lived" were once here—a truth that continues to weather away in silence, unnoticed by anyone.

【FIN】