05-05-2025, 12:36 AM
Legionaria, Kundrati
October 25, 5637
The city didn’t fall. It resisted.
Corporal Mason Kerr felt the vibration of distant artillery humming in the soles of his boots as he adjusted the thermal grip on his C8A4 battle rifle. The morning haze was a toxic cocktail of industrial smoke, powdered concrete, and the faint chemical residue of whatever the Legionary sappers had buried beneath their streets. It hung low across Legionaria, clinging to every trench and crater like it was trying to keep the city’s sins secret.
They’d been fighting street-to-street for seven days. Clearing buildings the old way. Grenades, breaching teams, suppressive fire, then the walk through rubble and blood to confirm the kill. By now, Kerr could tell the difference between a Legion sniper’s perch and a fake by the way the curtains were pulled.
And yet, the enemy didn’t break. They dug in. Overhead, twin HC-120C Cyclops gunships buzzed low, letting loose their 25mm cannons into an office block that had been firing mortars since 0400. Mason watched the impact through his optics—timed bursts of fire and masonry vomiting skyward in white-hot fury.
“Fire mission complete,” one of the pilots crackled over comms. “Target neutralized. You’re green to move, Longsword-Five.”
“Copy that, Vulture-One,” Lieutenant Bryce replied, voice clipped, professional. “Longsword Actual moving. Kerr—take point. Full sweep. We move fast. We move loud. Eyes on palace at all times.”
Kerr gave a tight nod, checked his sidearm, and moved up the shattered boulevard.
What used to be Legionaria’s Financial District was now a shattered corridor of collapsed towers and half-flooded subway shafts. The enemy had turned entire parking garages into concrete redoubts, with Legion shock troops firing down from every vertical plane. Etxean fireteams were hammering from the east, the Legionaries fighting the hardest against their hated fow. Kerr heard their low bursts of heavy-caliber rounds chewing through stonework. The Luthorians were punching from the south, slow methodical as ever, building-by-building in concentric kill zones. But the Hutorians? They were pushing straight through.
Kerr’s fireteam approached a former luxury condo tower, now hollowed and wired with booby traps. He stopped just short of the doorway.
“Thermal reads hot,” Sergeant Medina said, checking his scanner. “Stairwell’s rigged. Looks like multiple IR tripwires, plus—hold on—magnetic signatures, probably pressure plates. They’re layered.”
“Fucking meticulous,” Kerr muttered.
“Breach from above?”
Bryce shook his head. “Too slow. Go around. Kerr, Baker, flank east. Take the dry-cleaner’s front. Clear out resistance and push into the theater complex. That’ll give us a path into the plaza.”
Kerr nodded, checked his mag, and signaled Baker. They moved fast. Every corner was death, a combination of wires, shadows, the occasional human scream echoing from an alley that had been quiet seconds earlier. Legion militia still fought here, mostly People’s Guard and conscripts by now. They were outgunned and often suicidal.
In the theater, Kerr’s team came under fire. Legion troopers with old bolt rifles—museum pieces—firing from the upper balconies.
“They’re buying time,” Medina hissed. “Trying to delay us from reaching the palace.”
Kerr put a three-round burst through a velvet curtain. A scream followed. Another threw a bottle of gasoline, vodka and fire from the rafters. Kerr ducked, felt the heat lick his back as it splashed across an aisle seat.
“Move up! Secure the box rows!” Bryce ordered. “They’re feeding us into a fucking meat grinder.”
"We aren't buying anything cheap today." Kerr muttered, and kept pushing.
0717 Hours Zulu
Final Forward Line, 400 Meters from the Palace
The advance stalled for twelve minutes under machine gun and RPG fire from a collapsed Ministry of Agriculture building. The Etxeans had already pushed ahead on the eastern avenue, reaching the Presidential Palace, but were pinned hard.
Command chatter was lit up—everyone wanted the kill. Etxea’s 5th Assault Division had their elite stormtroopers racing for the compound from the gardens. Luthorian paratroopers were holding an elevated rail line to the southeast. The race to capture or eliminate Supreme Leader Lazar was on.
Mason Kerr didn’t care about the politics. He just wanted to get through the damn wall.
“Command says air’s offline for the next thirty minutes,” Bryce relayed. “Too many drones and AA nests. We’re on foot from here.”
The palace rose above the skyline—dark spires, scorched marble, and brass statues of Lazar defaced and burning. The outer gates were down, blown apart in the first wave. But the inner sanction was where it got ugly.
“Trenches between us and the main steps,” Medina said, scanning from behind a wrecked troop carrier. “They’ve got flame units. And tunnels—probably ratlines under the courtyard. That’s where they’ll hit us from.”
Bryce’s voice came low and clear over the platoon channel. “We push. No pause. No retreat. Breach the front, then we hit them hard and fast. Lazar’s either waiting inside or already running. Either way we’re not letting him slip.”
Kerr looked up. Smoke curled from every corner of the capital. Gunfire echoed like a heartbeat. The entire war, the seven months of grueling push from Keita to here, the lives bled for every crossroads and trench was about to end at this gate and they were going to kick it down.
“Stack up,” Bryce ordered. “Longsword Four, breach ready. Longsword Six, cover angles. Longsword Five you’re on point.”
Mason Kerr took a deep breath, exhaled through his teeth, and flicked his safety off. “This is it,” he whispered. “Let’s bring the bastard home.”
October 25, 5637
The city didn’t fall. It resisted.
Corporal Mason Kerr felt the vibration of distant artillery humming in the soles of his boots as he adjusted the thermal grip on his C8A4 battle rifle. The morning haze was a toxic cocktail of industrial smoke, powdered concrete, and the faint chemical residue of whatever the Legionary sappers had buried beneath their streets. It hung low across Legionaria, clinging to every trench and crater like it was trying to keep the city’s sins secret.
They’d been fighting street-to-street for seven days. Clearing buildings the old way. Grenades, breaching teams, suppressive fire, then the walk through rubble and blood to confirm the kill. By now, Kerr could tell the difference between a Legion sniper’s perch and a fake by the way the curtains were pulled.
And yet, the enemy didn’t break. They dug in. Overhead, twin HC-120C Cyclops gunships buzzed low, letting loose their 25mm cannons into an office block that had been firing mortars since 0400. Mason watched the impact through his optics—timed bursts of fire and masonry vomiting skyward in white-hot fury.
“Fire mission complete,” one of the pilots crackled over comms. “Target neutralized. You’re green to move, Longsword-Five.”
“Copy that, Vulture-One,” Lieutenant Bryce replied, voice clipped, professional. “Longsword Actual moving. Kerr—take point. Full sweep. We move fast. We move loud. Eyes on palace at all times.”
Kerr gave a tight nod, checked his sidearm, and moved up the shattered boulevard.
What used to be Legionaria’s Financial District was now a shattered corridor of collapsed towers and half-flooded subway shafts. The enemy had turned entire parking garages into concrete redoubts, with Legion shock troops firing down from every vertical plane. Etxean fireteams were hammering from the east, the Legionaries fighting the hardest against their hated fow. Kerr heard their low bursts of heavy-caliber rounds chewing through stonework. The Luthorians were punching from the south, slow methodical as ever, building-by-building in concentric kill zones. But the Hutorians? They were pushing straight through.
Kerr’s fireteam approached a former luxury condo tower, now hollowed and wired with booby traps. He stopped just short of the doorway.
“Thermal reads hot,” Sergeant Medina said, checking his scanner. “Stairwell’s rigged. Looks like multiple IR tripwires, plus—hold on—magnetic signatures, probably pressure plates. They’re layered.”
“Fucking meticulous,” Kerr muttered.
“Breach from above?”
Bryce shook his head. “Too slow. Go around. Kerr, Baker, flank east. Take the dry-cleaner’s front. Clear out resistance and push into the theater complex. That’ll give us a path into the plaza.”
Kerr nodded, checked his mag, and signaled Baker. They moved fast. Every corner was death, a combination of wires, shadows, the occasional human scream echoing from an alley that had been quiet seconds earlier. Legion militia still fought here, mostly People’s Guard and conscripts by now. They were outgunned and often suicidal.
In the theater, Kerr’s team came under fire. Legion troopers with old bolt rifles—museum pieces—firing from the upper balconies.
“They’re buying time,” Medina hissed. “Trying to delay us from reaching the palace.”
Kerr put a three-round burst through a velvet curtain. A scream followed. Another threw a bottle of gasoline, vodka and fire from the rafters. Kerr ducked, felt the heat lick his back as it splashed across an aisle seat.
“Move up! Secure the box rows!” Bryce ordered. “They’re feeding us into a fucking meat grinder.”
"We aren't buying anything cheap today." Kerr muttered, and kept pushing.
0717 Hours Zulu
Final Forward Line, 400 Meters from the Palace
The advance stalled for twelve minutes under machine gun and RPG fire from a collapsed Ministry of Agriculture building. The Etxeans had already pushed ahead on the eastern avenue, reaching the Presidential Palace, but were pinned hard.
Command chatter was lit up—everyone wanted the kill. Etxea’s 5th Assault Division had their elite stormtroopers racing for the compound from the gardens. Luthorian paratroopers were holding an elevated rail line to the southeast. The race to capture or eliminate Supreme Leader Lazar was on.
Mason Kerr didn’t care about the politics. He just wanted to get through the damn wall.
“Command says air’s offline for the next thirty minutes,” Bryce relayed. “Too many drones and AA nests. We’re on foot from here.”
The palace rose above the skyline—dark spires, scorched marble, and brass statues of Lazar defaced and burning. The outer gates were down, blown apart in the first wave. But the inner sanction was where it got ugly.
“Trenches between us and the main steps,” Medina said, scanning from behind a wrecked troop carrier. “They’ve got flame units. And tunnels—probably ratlines under the courtyard. That’s where they’ll hit us from.”
Bryce’s voice came low and clear over the platoon channel. “We push. No pause. No retreat. Breach the front, then we hit them hard and fast. Lazar’s either waiting inside or already running. Either way we’re not letting him slip.”
Kerr looked up. Smoke curled from every corner of the capital. Gunfire echoed like a heartbeat. The entire war, the seven months of grueling push from Keita to here, the lives bled for every crossroads and trench was about to end at this gate and they were going to kick it down.
“Stack up,” Bryce ordered. “Longsword Four, breach ready. Longsword Six, cover angles. Longsword Five you’re on point.”
Mason Kerr took a deep breath, exhaled through his teeth, and flicked his safety off. “This is it,” he whispered. “Let’s bring the bastard home.”