Outskirts of Poltaur Destruction Zone
Here was death.
Where once gleaming hope had ached upwards to the stars there was now only slag, the residue of atomized millions dusted over skeletal corpses of towers that used to be vibrant places of life. As though a vast eraser had erupted from the sky to rub out this corner of existence there was a gaping hole in the surface of Poltaur. A perfectly smooth half-sphere that had replaced the metropolis which had once occupied this place, the suburbs of that vanished city still clinging and crumbling away into the vitrified maw of the crater. It was clear upon examination that the agent of this annihilation was no conventional explosive, the smooth edges of the wound testified to the Phase Drive that had been de-coupled and activated. In an instant the battle-ravaged city had been lost in an indescribable expression of energy, millions of civilians and soldiers reduced to the most base components of matter in an instant.
Though the Corporate forces that had initially landed in the city were consumed with it, the fighting had not yet ceased. Exhausted Federal soldiers now dug in again, their backs to the immense crater and their weapons pointed outward. Within hours of the cataclysm the conflict had fractured even deeper into a quagmire, the distant light of peace now barely even a thought in the minds of the Union. As victory over the Corporate Alliance seemed to materialize as a real possibility it was just as quickly dashed with a fracturing in the Federal Administration. When Poltaur had been erased an agency that had never before had a name emerged from the shadows to seize the reigns of power, calling themselves OMNI this shadow government was headed by high ranking members of the Military Intelligence community. In response the tattered remnants of the Civilian government had decried the action as illegal and a coup.
Now a few hardcore loyalists clung on to hope of a return to proper governance by announcing their unyielding support of the Civilian Government. Thus the conflict had entered a new stage, a three way brawl between entities all vying for the future of the Union. Largely, that future would be decided here in the hellish ruins of Poltaur, a conflagration that would commit the lives of billions to their fates. Here there would be a sea of dust, a forest of tombstones. A Tempest of Ash.
Erik Jehner, that was the mans name. Perhaps he had forgotten it, perhaps he had shed it in favor of the solace that namelessness provided to a man who knew he was going to die. Ultimately his name in life was gone now, replaced by "B-3" stenciled in thin white font on the back of his helmet. His home had been replaced as well, that small apartment over Ember Street in Salaku. Had he the will he could have remembered the wisps of steam and vapor that wafted up from the claustrophobic street, the sickly sweet odor of sizzling pig fat and noodles finding its way to him from the small restaurant below. His moms desk and work station faced the hexagonal window, amber light filtering onto the carpet. Now his home was here, a roughly circular gouge in the earth with spent shells and emptied ammo crates embedded to create walls, a concrete slab laid over top to keep out the endless rain of shrapnel. On the bare earth a few thin pads were stretched out, electing a meager sliver of comfort from the cold ground.
B-3 in this moment sat hunched in a niche, resting for a brief moment for the first time in 22 hours. A battered rifle was cradled over his knees, his orange faceplate swung loose and a cheap cigarette was pinched in his lips. B-3 used to be an attractive man, a strong chin with green eyes had been replaced by a half kept beard and dull, tired eyes. Around him his peers carried on in similar fashion, regulations abandoned in favor of small comforts. The ground rumbled and small bits of concrete showered down into the shelter, a ragged voice came on over the radio and B-3 pulled himself to his feet. Checking his rifle once he slotted his faceplate onto his helmet and emerged from the shelter.
If the dwelling had been scarce in terms of hope, the surface above was magnitudes worse. The tight streets of Poltaurs suburbs had been pulverized into an unrecognizable hellscape. Few buildings, if any, remained standing, and those that were had been stripped to concrete skeletons. In the two month long siege so much residue and dust had been thrown into the air that a permanent gloom hung over the landscape, a dense toxic fog clung to the ground and limited sight to a handful of yards. Thermal imaging was lost in the endless blizzard of soot and drifting embers and aircraft engines were shredded by the abrasive atmosphere. In front of the clustered shelters there was a rambling trench and beyond that was a no mans land of broken cityscape. B-3 and his unit slipped quickly into the trench, joining hundreds of other similar figures in the defensive position. They were all bent-backed and ragged, eyes heavy with immense fatigue. So when the whistle of shells plummeting through the blanket of dust echoed out across the haunted place, they went through the reflex of cowering as low in the trench as possible.
Airburst ball-bearings sliced through the air in an umbrella of carnage. B-3 closed his eyes tight and shrunk into himself as that ungodly noise came again.
VVVVVVVVVVVVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
CRACK
Then came the shrieks of soldiers being perforated and torn apart by hyper-sonic shrapnel, some were drawn out laments, others short yelps. Many made no noise as spines and skulls were shattered, the bodies were slumped along the rear wall of the trench, no time to move them before more attacks. B-3 raised his rifle over the edge of the trench and looked down the sight, in the bleakness that stretched before him broken bodies rested where they fell. There were no scavengers here to remove the dead, even the microbes and spores had since been sterilized in this lifeless place. Then the curtains of dust parted to reveal an advancing line of APC's and Tanks, treads sifting through the loose earth as weapons swiveled. Weapons had to be aimed manually in this environment.
FWOOM
One of the APC's hopped and shuddered into the air, carried by a fireball. The open space between the two forces erupted in an exchange of death as tracers and shells screamed across. B-3 knew it was over soon, only a miracle would save this forlorn garrison.
