Fall of Freedom

The town of Belaire was nothing remarkable by any means. Buildings made of aging stone and wood lined the cobbled roadways, most boarded up and abandoned due to the mandatory evacuation that had taken place, litter covering the sidewalks and roads. The town was encircled within a circular wall of stone that rose twenty or so feet off the ground, age showing along the jagged material used in its construction. The town square, which was at the dead center of Belaire, was a bustle of activity as the Amarian Militia and Western Coalition forces milled about in preparation for the coming storm, smoke still seen coming from the north, the direction of what was once the farming town of Halforde. The two Coalition tanks, Saint's Fury and Proudclad sat near the squares north and south entrance respectfully, engines humming loudly as smoke bellowed forth from their exhaust.

Superior officers could be heard barking orders and soldiers ran to and fro, carrying munitions or running to assigned post, the men and women of the Coalition wearing a dark blue uniform as opposed to the black and gray of the Amarian Militia. The air felt tense and the entire area was fast paced, soldiers leaving and coming from the various parts of towns to make reports or take up defensive positions. At the north gate, standing atop the Saint's Fury was Commander Elena Sykes, commanding officer of the militia in the region. She was pointing out directions to soldiers gathered about the vehicle, keeping her glasses pushed up on her nose and her graying hair in check as she did so, her officers cap tucked under her left arm.

Vera slowly opened the door of the Gilded Raven, one of the many tavern's located throughout the town's center, the overcast sky leaving a gloom over everything within view. Slung over her right shoulder was her Amarian-31 rifle, covered in grime and all sorts of dust and dirt. She snorted and stepped out onto the cobbled path that wound about the square and looked around, taking note of the library across the road, the town's medicae facility and the haphazard 'command' tent set near the squares west entrance. With a sigh she started off towards the Proudclad at the south entrance, her movements slow and steady as her few plates of armor clanked together.

Gerald ambled casually into the square from a nondescript alleyway with a piece of paper in his hand and a duffle bag slung around his shoulder. He read the paper and looked around, walked some, looked at the paper, and looked around again. Militiamen carrying supplies hurried around him as ants hurry around debris in their path.

He looked increasingly frustrated with himself every time he had to stop and read the paper once more. However, one would not notice unless they saw his face, because he did not lose his composure otherwise.

"Are you sure you got the name right, Ted?" he spoke passively while he looked around once more. He looked at the paper once again. It read "Prudoclad" in messy, light pencil.

"What is a 'Prudoclad' anyway?"

After a few more minutes Gerald stopped a passing militiaman.

"Excuse me, could you tell me where the pru-do-clad is?"

The man looked smitten with confusion. "The what now?" He asked.

"Pru-do-clad" Gerald repeated, showing the man the slip of paper. The man read it, scratched his head, then laughed.

"No, no! You've got it wrong, sir!" he chortled, "It's the PROUDclad!" The man pointed over towards the south entrance.

Gerald scowled and headed towards the Proudclad after thanking the man, but forgetting to take the paper back.

Upon reaching the hulking vehicle, the small woman hauled herself up onto the left reads and leaned back against the hull of the tank, unslinging her rifle casually as she looked skyward. She snorted and brushed back a few errant strands of black hair out of her face with a grimy glove just as it began to rain.

Soldiers rushed about in a desperate attempt to hide away anything the rain would ruin, the tank commander of the Proudclad grumbling loudly as he shut the hatch, ducking within the tank. Vera simply sat there, armor and clothing glistening as they grew increasingly slick, hair matting down against her skull. She looked back down briefly, spotting a man approaching the tank and a few militia men taking cover in the sway of nearby buildings, her normally luminescent eyes dull and lifeless as a frown crawled over her face.

Up at the north end of the square, the Saint's Fury grunted as it started to rumble forward into the town, soldiers an militia men alike following along it's sides or riding atop it.

Gerald looked to the sky as he noticed the first drops of rain falling onto his hair. A grin crawls across his face.

"I guess this is our lucky day, Ted." he muttered to himself as he whipped his hat and jacket off. He slung his jacket over the shoulder opposite of the duffle bag and held his hat in his hand. His recently-cleaned white button down shirt began to saturate quickly as Gerald strolled onwards towards his destination.

As he approached the large machine he saw a woman sitting on the hull. She didn't seem like the rain enjoying type, but wasn't making effort to shield herself, which intrigued Gerald.

When he arrived at the base of the machine he looked up and casually saluted.

"Doctor Gerald Kevorkian Stein reporting for ...uhh... duty, miss. Are you the commandin' officer here?"

Vera let her gaze fall back onto the fellow before and below her, eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced at the sergeant insignia on her sleeve. She gave a tentative glance back towards the departing Saint's Fury with the formal commander still riding atop it. With a sigh she looked back at Gerald and nodded slowly.

"Sergeant Vera Turner, I suppose I am the commanding officer as of now." she said in a voice that could only be described as cold and dead. She snorted to blow some rain water out of her nose and looked skyward again. "Don't see many doctors this far out." she muttered just loud enough to be heard, "I feel ya' gonna be real busy soon enough."

Nivit, taking a last inhale from his cigarette. Rubbing his temples as if he was waiting for something. Hopping off of the torn and ruined wall that once stood where he just was, as his feet took a firm stand on the road. Starring off into the empty sky, as blots of rain raced to the ground. Nivit flicks the lit cigarette to the already, littered floor and makes his way down the road.

Taking out a note from his fore-front pocket. Reading the words that danced across the paper, he read aloud, "Satan's Fury, huh?". His face turned back into its already impassive disposition. Crumpling the paper back into the fore-front pocket from which he retrieved. Taking the consideration to stamp the cigarette out, he stumbles towards it and begins to smother it under his boot.

The woman's voice rang at a dead, lifeless tone as if its speaker had been stripped their lust for life. Gerald found it a pleasant change from the over-saturation of morale in the militia.

"Oh right. I forgot that bit. I'm a sergeant too- but it's really just a flavor title." he corrected himself in response. He felt like a bumbling fool and decided there was no reason for him to be over-explaining himself. He reassumed a more neutral composure.

"I feel like war is the best time to be a doctor, to be honest. You always get the most interesting cases, and just too little time to be responsible for ultimately losing the patient." he mused. "Though I figure I'd like to do as much as possible for the war effort. I need some revenge."

He lifted himself up onto the vehicle and put his hat back on. A slight trickle of water drained from the cloth and spilled down his face, dripping off of his chin. He checked to make sure he didn't lose any belongings in his travel and contently found that nothing was missing.

Vera listened impassively as the man spoke. snorting once more as he clambered up onto the tank. The town square was slowly emptying out as soldiers made their way towards different post throughout the town. "Revenge, that's among the best reasons to join a war." Vera said softly, managing a dry, hoarse chuckle.

As if on queue there came a loud whistling sound, all soldiers in the vicinity stopping what they were doing and looking up, Vera included. A sharp cry pealed the air, "Artillery, move!" No sooner had the warning came did the shell strike the dead center of the town square, consuming the command tent and the unlucky few within a few meters of the impact zone in a blazing ball of fire. Screams of the wounded and dying heard over the patter of rain as another whistle was heard from above, the troopers still in the square scrambling for cover as this second shell slammed into the tavern Vera had just only left. The building exploded outwards, a few broken bodies tossed out among the debris.

Soon enough the alarm klaxons stared wailing and the sounds of gunshots could be heard off in the distance, the Proudclad chugging loudly as it jolted then stopped moving, hissing loudly in the rain.

Vera just frowned, a hard, dismal frown.

Gerald nodded slightly and asked "So do you have a cold or something?" just as a loud whistling noise filled the air. He looked up with a horrified face. He had heard such noises out east, you see.

Without thinking, he roared "Artillery! Move!" and looked to the sky in hopes to see the incoming shell. However as he looked up it struck the center of the plaza, with a few more shells following and destroying other buildings and lives as they fell. Fortunately the Proudclad was untouched by the barrage. Sirens fired up shortly afterward, and Gerald drew his handgun as the tank lurched forward briefly.

All he had left to say way "...Shit." He looked over to the woman for guidance.

Hearing the alarm klaxons explode with noise that could only mean artillery and gunfire. As Nivit thought this, gunfire began to be audible through the thin veil of buildings that lead down to Satan's Fury. Catching slight glimpses of fellow comrades fall into the cold, unforgiving stone that paved the way, he lashes his SVT onto his grasp and thrusts himself into view. Quickly making his way down into the Satan's Fury vicinity.

Nicholas walks around a small path. He decides to sit down and read his books.

During that time however, A patrol of gaurds walk by. they ask "Why are you reading that book?"
Nicholas replies, "Im... Bored."
The group laughs and continues on.

Vera sighed and tapped the turret of the tank hard, a gruff reply coming back in response. With that she gripped her rifle and jumped off, landing with a dull, wet thud on the cobbled road below. "We walk." being all she said as the few other militiamen about the tank started prepping for a trip on foot. The tanks commander opened the hatch and crawled out, looking his piece of machinery over. Artillery shells were still dropping and the sounds of gunfire grew closer and closer, bloodied soldiers from the Western Coalition and the Amarian Militia would run by every now and then, their destination unknown. Vera checked her rifle and wiped a layer of grime off the barrel, the rain now falling even heavier.

Up to the north, the Saint's Fury rocked to a stop as the turret turned to the right and fired, the report roiling down the street Nivit was making his way down. Commander Sykes, still atop the tank, began to bark out firing orders as the other militiamen and soldiers started to fire into the gloom caused by the torrential downpour, the large tank realigning its cannon before firing again. Soon enough bullets came flying back and one trooper was taken down immediately, a corner of his skull missing. The enemy soon melded into view, humans of course, wearing what looked like suits of armor, almost the entirety of the bodies covered in sheets of plate save the joints, all in all there appeared to be an entire squad coming out of the rain-haze, about twenty to twenty-five soldiers. "Shoot them anywhere, the armor is just for show!" Commander Sykes bellowed over the gunfire, taking one of the imperial soldiers in the face with a well aimed shot of her revolver.

The patrol of soldiers that had just passed Nicholas freeze and look about a moment before a hail of gunfire erupted from a nearby building, cutting them down and either killing or wounding most of them, screams of pain and anguish erupting from the fallen soldiers. The building housing the killer, in relation to Nicholas, was directly across the street. The hidden gunner already swiveling his aim to the fellow whom was apparently reading.

Gerald tested the sights of his handgun and looked over to Vera, who was now had hopped off of the tank. He slipped himself off of the hull and landed with a light click of his heels on the road.

"Walk where?" he asked, confused. "I hope you don't mean towards the battle! I'm definitely underarmed to be out in the open like that."

He thought to himself about his odds of survival if he lurked around the city and picked off straying soldiers one by one, but figured that it would be much more suitable if it was post-battle. He also considered heading off to help the wounded and just try his luck as a captured medical doctor, but also determined if anybody recognized him from the enemy army he'd likely be shot for deserting earlier that year and joining the enemy.

"We definitely need more firepower..." he muttered to himself, looking around for a rifle of some kind.

Running across the now disintegrated street, towards Satan's Fury - a proper name for something that could turn this street into pebbles. Pulling nothing short of adjacent to the seemingly monstrous tank, and whipping his SVT 40's minuscule standard sight into view, simultaneously hitting a armor-clad soldier's head. Quickly retracting himself from view, into what little safety he could find.

As if beckoned to reply, Nivit yells out, "Second Lieutenant Field Medic; Nivit Styvur. Reporting in!"

Vera clacked the slide of her rifle and smacked the side of the grimy thing roughly. "Of course we're going towards the battle." she stated bluntly in her dull, lifeless tone, the group of soldiers about the pair groaning as if in dismay. Despite having rank, she didn't order anyone to follow her, she ground in her heels and broke off into a sprint down the street where a group of militiamen, bloodied and panicked, were retreating. The first line of their pursers, more imperial infantry, coming into view through the rain-caused haze. Though the Proudclad couldn't move, it sure in the hell could fire, and it did. The main cannon boomed loudly, the shell smacking into the aforementioned line of enemy soldiers, a fine red mist dispersing into the air.

Commander Sykes looked about briefly before growling and whipping about, taking another chunk out of a imperials skull with her revolver, her hat long discarded as she stood atop the tank, rain drenched. "Formalities later, for now just kill these heathens!" she barked in response to Nivit, the Saint's Fury whipping it's turret about as the main cannon barked once more, demolishing a building across the road from itself, burying two imperial's in the rubble. All about the vehicle was the staccato of gunfire as soldiers fired upon the enemy, one of the forward most Amarian militiamen taking a round to the chest before crumbling to the ground. Alive, he made to drag himself back to the safety of the tank.

Nicholas stands up and walks around a bit. While walking, he checks his pistol, and soon reloads it.
He makes it back to the city, and sits down.

The group of men were sitting next to him and they looked at him and laughed.
Nicholas whipped out the pistol, and acted like he was shooting the guys. They were scared out of their minds.
"Whos the weak one now?" Nicholas says.
"W-W-We are...." they said, trembling.
"Good." Nicholas said and slowly walked away.
"Wow. Who knew a 'MIGDET' could be so fierce." a Man from the group blurted out.
Nicholas ran up, almost instantly, and gave a round-house kick to the face of that man.
The man fell down, and was in tears.
Nicholas nodded, and walked away.

He watched as his commanding officer darted into combat and shuddered.

"No way in HELL we're going in like that." he muttered to himself. He bolted off towards the alley from which he initially entered in hopes that he could find light packs of enemy soldiers cleaning out the area and pick them off before they knew he was there. He watched as soldiers eagerly cut one another down with bullet after bullet and wondered to himself why there weren't soldiers as smart as him left around to fight the war. "Maybe they were smart enough to get off this damned continent" he mused to himself.

Taking note of the wounded man, Nivit blind-fires at the lumbering armor clad Imperials, or what was left of them. Hitting one in the arm, not seemingly to slow him down in his attack. Quickly moving over to the wounded soldier who's still grasping onto his life, Nivit lets out, "Field Medic Nivit Styvur," looking over his wounds, "I'm here to help." Scuffling around to find a comfortable spot with a better vantage point on the wound itself. Pulling out a handy-dandy medic kit, checking over his supplies as fast as possible.

As Nivit scavenges a make-shift tweezer, whilst keeping pressure on the wound. Trying to pinpoint the bullet, to get rid of it first - Nivit yells in the most demanding voice he could have, and boomed at the closest Militia, seeing as how he was close to some water, for the water. Seeing the bullet, or what little bullet there was to take out, Nivit rips it out with grace and finesse, as if he were made for this sort of thing. Taking the water - water-falling some to make sure it was lukewarm, Nivit drops about 3 ounces onto the wound to clear out some of the miniature shrapnel.

Tearing out some bandages from his medic-kit, Nivit lifts his fingers off the wound for the soldier to groan from the intense pain that insures. Slapping it on him and reporting, "You'll be fine, soldier. Keep pressure on that." Running towards his original spot, perhaps 9 feet away.

The imperial watching Nicholas blinked a moment and snorted as her aimed down the barrel again and fired the machine gun at the short man, the bullets pocking along the ground towards the 'dwarf' with wet puffs of stone and dirt.

Vera grinned like a woman with a death wish about to be fulfilled as she skidded to a stop just short of the retreating soldiers, the group rushing past her as she leveled her monstrous weapon and depressed the trigger twice, her aim far from perfect as the first round struck an injured imperial soldier, the second whistling past the now dead foe. Three more militiamen joined the apparently crazy woman and started firing into the dazed throng of imperials as the Proudclad fired once more, the shell striking the ground just short of the enemy. Vera chuckled sadistically as her horrid marksmanship ended the life of a fleeing enemy trooper, a round to the curled up mans back, but as if karma was rewarding her, a round whistled out of the gloom and pinged off her right shoulder guard painfully, burying itself in the neck of the trooper to her left, the young fellow falling to the ground clutching his throat.

The injured soldier whom was just tended to did as he was told and leaned against the Saint's Fury, hands pressing down on the now cleaned wound. The tank rocked off another shell and, even though it missed badly, it sent the advancing force into a retreat, the soldiers tripping over one another in their haste to escape. "Do not pursue them!" Commander Sykes bellowed over the staccato of gunfire, watching the foe run and be cut down in flight. It soon became clear to her though that it wasn't a retreat, the rumble of something heavy grinding along the cobbled stones reaching her ears.

With the exception of light splashes after every step, Gerald didn't make a sound. To his fortune he found an Imperial soldier that seems to have gotten himself lost in the buildings. The soldier walked baffled into an empty two story building, and Gerald quietly shadowed him.

The soldier walked up the flight of stairs and was apparently hoping to find somebody to unload on down on the streets using the view from the second story. However just as he approached the window Gerald grabbed the soldier, covered his mouth, and drove a sharp instrument into his back.

Gerald had to thrust the object multiple times into the struggling soldier before any significant damage was done. He could feel the muffled cries as the soldier lurched, trying to escape from his assailant as desperation and tears poured out from his face. After the soldier was severely weakened, Gerald drove the scalpel into the soldier's throat and cut across, spilling blood all over the floor and himself.

Gerald then took the soldier's gun and stacked up next to the window and lightly peered out, looking for imperials on the thoroughfare to pick off without revealing himself too openly.

He heard a rumbling in the distance and assumed it was the Saint's Fury.

Gerald, from his vantage point, could see a multitude of things, chief among those being small pockets of combat here and there between the armies. In the distance the source of the rumbling could be seen, a mammoth of a tank was rolling through the town, crashing through buildings and walls alike, the imperial flag raised high. With a sursprsing amount of speed it made it's way towards the Saint's Fury. The crew and soldiers near the vehicle apparently already on the move as they moved injured soldiers up onto their vehicle as they made ready to flee, Elena had retrieved her cap and was barking out orders to withdraw. The Saint's Fury hummed eagerly as the tank crew warmed the engines to move.

On the opposite spectrum, another soldier next to Vera fell as a round took him in the chest, the poor man screaming for a medic as he weakly dragged himself back a few feet before dying on the rain slicked street. Vera frown and looked down the road to see that, despite the Proudclad's potshots, they were soon to be overrun, for every one that seemed to fall, ten more would replace him. She emptied her clip into the advancing enemy, winging one soldier and killing another, before turning about and ordering the nearby soldiers, all seven of them who weren't dead, into the nearby buildings. "We know our own town better than they do." she finished up as a bullet sliced neatly across her left side, a small fountain of blood following. With gritted teeth she pressed a hand to the wound and started off to the side of the road, away from Gerald's position, those few remaining soldiers following.

Without infantry support, the tank crew of the Proudclad hastily made to leave the tank, but where not fast enough. Three rockets whistled into view from down the thoroughfare and slammed into the light tank, piercing the armor before detonating a moment later within the vehicle, leaving only a smoking, blazing husk crew included. With the tank dispatched the imperials rolled up the road and into view. There was quite literally hundreds of the armor clad soldiers, all looking rather the same, as if they were clones.

It would be apparent this was a losing battle.

"OH SHIT!!" Nicholas screamed and ran away like a little girl, while shooting back.

(I dun like to do big responses.)

"...Fuck" was the only word that could be heard dripping from Gerald's voice as he observed the scene below him. He shook his head to snap himself out of the horror, and aimed his rifle sights at the swarm of approaching enemies. He figured that he'd at least hit -something-. He braced himself and prepared to unload as something hard hit him in the side of the head. He fell to the ground to find that apparently the imperial soldier he had slain had a friend that had just swung his rifle at him.

Disoriented, the good doctor swept his legs in a frenzied motion and tripped the soldier who was preparing to fire his weapon. The soldier fell to the ground as Gerald began to push himself up. The soldier managed to gain his bearings just as Gerald regained his footing. The soldier had landed on his gun and was lifting himself up enough to pick it up and swing it around from under him while Gerald drew his pistol. Gerald managed to ready his weapon first and
*click*
...
The handgun misfired. Gerald's face turned to horror as the horrified soldier's face turned to a smirk. Gerald made to dive out of the way of the soldier but
*click*
...
The soldier's gun was jammed! Before either truly realized what had just happened, Gerald had leapt on top of the soldier and began beating the soldier's head again and again and again. Blood was pouring from an open wound but in a final push of adrenaline the soldier managed to throw Gerald off and drew out his combat knife. Gerald tried firing his pistol again but it clicked uselessly, so he pulled out his scalpel from his sleeve. The two circled one another for a moment until the soldier dove in to stab Gerald. He sidestepped and drove the medical instrument right into the man's head wound. As Gerald pulled the scalpel out a stream of blood spouted from the wound like a grotesque fountain, and the soldier fell to the ground with a -thump-.

The floor of the room was now covered in blood from the two soldiers, as some of it was even dripping down the stairs. Gerald's army jacket had changed colors, and Gerald's face would need rigorous scrubbing to get the stains out. Gerald determined that he definitely couldn't use his scalpel for medical use unless he washed it as well, then he looked as his bloodied handgun.
"Fucking thing is useless" he muttered as he aimed his gun at the newly killed and still spouting body...
BANG!!!
"...Shit!"

The report of the gun going off at such a proximity garnered the attention of the passing group of imperials on the street below. The trio halted and blinked behind their visored helms. One of the soldiers, carrying a rather heavy looking shotgun, pointed at the other two soldiers at his sides, both of which carried simple rifles. The two men started towards the building housing the good medic and his slain 'buddies', their metal covered feet clanking off the wet cobbled road as they approached, the apparent CO not moving an inch from the streets center. He checked his weapon over and snorted as rain sleeted off his armor.

From the shadows of a nearby bakery crouched a woman in the garb of the Amarian Militia. Unlike the shocktroopers of the organization, she had none of the metal plates as part of her garb, her red hair was wound up tightly in a bun and her skin was a very light brown in tone. She gripped her weapon, a rather large handgun, tightly in both hands, gloves stretched tightly from the tension as she watched the trio of imperials descend on the house. She frowned and checked her weapon, muscles tensing up slightly.

On the opposite side of the town, Vera and her small group of followers rounded a corner going at a full run, the pale woman keeping a firm hand over her wound as she glanced back. A larger group of about fifteen imperial soldiers surged into view giving chase. A few of the Amarians turned about and backpedaled, firing into the advancing horde, four of the pursers fell to a hail of bullets as the remainder started to return fire. Vera felt a round ping off the back of her torso armor, her spine vibrating painfully as she growled and tossed her rifle aside mid-stride, grabbing a stick grenade looped about her waist and pulling the string pin before hurling it back at the enemy soldiers. There was a wet crump of an explosion as the explosive went off, the hail of bullets stopping for the moment.

While running, he imagines him with a big gun.
Nicholas jumps behind a pile of dirt.
Pit
Pat
Pet
Pot
Put.
The sounds of bullets slamming into the dirt.
Pfwwwiiiing!
The sound of bullets bouncing off the enemys encampment.
No one was winning.
Pffffffwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaanng! a bullet bounced off a can.
Everything was slow-mo for Nicholas.
Pfffwwwwoooooooong! a bullet hit a peice of metal.
Suddenly,
Vrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-Aerrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm-Ka-errrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
A friendly- Or what seemed to be friendly vehicle raced past Nicholas.
A friendlies gun flew out of the vehicle.
It was a Springfield.