Overkill 1

Overkill 1

Blackshot approached the edge of the dropship to watch the skies below him. Bright explosions and dark grey smoke greeted his vision. His earpiece issued cries of death from Remnant Soldiers and the Demons that they were fighting against. He could also make out sounds of Human Insurgents screaming as the Priests and Deacons of the Remnant Order terminated them with horrible deaths.

"What's our ETA, brother?" Blackshot asked, glancing back at the Mark IV Protectorate.

"You're the only Mark I who called me that. Our ETA to Forward Base Foxtrot-Delta is 5 minutes, sire." The red-armored Protectorate replied. The details of his Battle Gear reminds Blackshot of the night: midnight.

"I'll give you a chance to drop with me," he stared back down below. His grip on the dropship's railings tightened as the aircraft shook violently when a nearby plane got hit and exploded.

"I'll pass, sire." He nods at Blackshot. Blackshot nodded back.

Pulling a fist before his face, his head was enveloped by his helmet module in an instant. He pressed a few icons on the screen of his left bracer and jumped.

His descent as swift; he landed perfectly in a genuflecting position. He drew his Blast Rifle from his back and raised his aim. The road ahead of him was clear, however, a battle has clearly taken place here. Dozens of LBV parts laid scattered throughout, along with corpses of the remaining Human Resistance of Ireland. He moved forward, eyes darted from left to right. Storefronts and apartment blocks were either abandoned or ruined by the battle. Blood and spent casings were a common sight. There was one thing that bothered him. The lack of Demon cadavers worried him.

"Watchtower, I need eyes over me." He spoke over the comms. "How many allies do we have here?"

"This is Watchtower. Be advised Commander, the Black Squadron SAS were being overrun at Sector-45. The Order of Saint Patrick was divided and scattered across the battle zone. Few of your surviving Mark II brothers were pinned down at these locations. Maybe assisting them would relieve the pressure we bear."

"Any Angels?" Blackshot asked.

"I'm afraid, there was none. All Angels were called upon to battle elsewhere."

"Understandable." Blackshot dashed across the street, his right shoulder touching the door of a flipped Subaru. "I'll be radio silent until I gathered all my brothers. Blackshot, out."

Behind the car, a squad of armored Humans in grey armors walked, looking at their surroundings. Each one was armed with automatic M5 Raptors, the newly manufactured weapons produced by Rockfall Armory. Blackshot took a peek and saw the insignia of the Black Poison Insurgents on their right shoulders.

"Dirty Commies," Blackshot whispered as he revealed himself from cover, firing his Blast Rifle at them.

Charged plasma was issued from the muzzle of his rifle. It sped towards their intended targets. One Insurgent got hit in squarely in the chest and was thrown to the ground, cracking the visor of his faceplate in the process. The other got hit in the face, melting the faceplate and his entire face, revealing bleached white skull beneath. The third got hit in the right shoulder, burning it and rendering it useless.

The last one rolled away, the plasma intended for him went wide.

"Engaging Protectorate, comrade!" One of them yelled, their voice was mechanical.

Bullets pinged against Blackshot's Battle Gear. It did little to harm the Hybrid inside. Horrified, the Insurgents broke formation while Blackshot rushed them with a toothed bayonet. Once the easiest target got close, he thrust his weapon; the chain bayonet ate through metal, flesh, and bone as Blackshot sawed the Insurgent's neck off.

"Jesus Christ, somebody help!" The last one yelled before tripping over. The bloodied Protectorate slowly approached him.

"You dare call my Master's name after committing crimes against His people? You are doomed, child." Blackshot said before repeatedly impaling the Insurgent in the abdomen, disemboweling his intestines.

He grabbed one of the M5's and gathered some magazines from the corpses he made. After arming himself, he advanced at the direction of one of the pinned down Protectorates.

Protectorate Ironblood ducked behind the sandbag, shielding a wounded PALADIN soldier from harm. When the combined forces of the Insurgents and Hell, the Divided States of America sent aid for their Irish allies. However, the detachment was obliterated in the following days of the battle and was immediately deemed lost by Heaven and the Remnant Order.

A few survived. Ironblood tried his best to keep the PALADIN alive.

"Tiberius, stay with me, brother!" The Mark II yelled over the noise around her. She raised her Ray Pistol, took aim, and fired at a skeletal faced Demon. Its forehead buckled under the impact of the weapon's solidified beam, breaking from the base and falling from the neck. It fell to its knees, dead before it hit the ground.

The display in her visor flashed more Enochian letters of warning and enemy detection, all of which Ironblood ignored as she fired at another Demon. His target's black body explodes in ashes. All that was left were its four muscular hands that gripped hell-forged blade tight. She looked for another target, a floating rotting foot, and squeezed the trigger. It exploded in a chunky soup of green gore and red viscera.

In total, there were two Demon Legions and a Hellspawn Swarm currently attacking the city. Ironblood spat a curse as the bulk of their attackers slowly closes in. Her Ray Pistol was getting lighter and lighter as the cell slowly runs dry in every shot.

Snatching the golden crucifix attached to her left shoulder, she decided to pray a death chant; an act of acceptance to his own death.

"Father, to you I commend my spirit."

The Void Slasher Legionnaires lumbered towards their preys, brandishing four swords forged in the anvils of Tartarus. A reactive camouflage cloak was draped over their black bodies, concealing every movement they made. However, the concealment was second to poor because of their awkward movement hindered by their strange physiology. The Psionic Titan Legionnaires had no problem with movements. The skeletal Demons were clad in grey and blue armor; the symbol of the reversed cross was etched on their foreheads with the blood of the Punished, the souls trapped in Hell. Just as their names suggest, they were capable of psychic might, manipulating objects around them with a thought or even causing an enemy's organ to burst with telepathy alone.

They were supported by the Swarm of the Fallen Adjutant, floating above them and providing cover in case an enemy might appear out of nowhere and starts shooting. The Hellspawns were various grey-skinned body parts, covered in pus-oozing wounds and green fluids. Although they could be easily killed, the Hellspawns were dangerous in numbers.

"Father, to you I commend my spirit."

Ironblood heard an explosion in the background; an LBV from the 56th Armored Resistance was claimed by death. She shut his eyes, hoping for the better. She held the PALADIN's hand to comfort him from the incoming death. The PALADIN, stoic even in death, clenched her hand tightly. Their fingers locked, the Reaper's scythe draws near.

As soon as a Void Slasher vaulted over the sandbags they take cover into, the indistinguishable whine of a Blast Rifle echoed. The Demon slumped to the ground with a vaporized ribcage.

"Brother, are you alright?" He asked Ironblood, but ignored the PALADIN.

"Yes, brother." She replied.

"Stand up and take arms. I would flagellate you for surrendering to death if we are not at war." Blackshot reprimanded as he walked past them. The teeth of his rifle's bayonet whirred in fury before he began his charge.