Vincent didn't hear what his attacker had to say. In fact, he was barely aware that he'd just been attacked. He had been killed, in fact - although he hadn't quite realised it yet, as his brain sought to comprehend the sudden snapping of his neck, the lack of sensation in his body, the slow darkness that was creeping across his vision. Of course, it did click, what seemed like an eternity later. His neck had been snapped, and without blood, it would take a mere 21 seconds for the brain to die out. After about 11 seconds it would become incapable of cognitive thought, entering a comatose state. His time in this world was limited.

Of course, this entire eternity, in truth, compromised only 2 seconds. It is in our most desperate moments that our perception of time shifts so drastically. As if the entire life one could have lived was desperately attempting to realize itself in those frail few moments before the inevitable hand of death struck. However, what for most was an eternity of torment, a slow scroll through their life, to Vincent, was a chance. His last chance in fact. For his attacker had failed to realize something.

A mechanical suit such as that wielded by a Paladin - the title Vincent wielded - required a plug placed directly in the base of the spine. A mechanical translator, to bring the fury of the mind to the fist of iron. And even as his mind started to shut down, his sword dropped to the floor, servomotors spinning into action. Loudly, he crashed through the lines of Crusaders, as they desperately moved aside of the lumbering behemoth.

Beofre him, the great wolf ripped through the knights who desperately attempted to fend off her claws, blades flashing, only to be repelled by her thick hide. Great sweeps from her claws smashed into those who came too close, throwing even the metal-clad warriors through the air to crash into their comrades. In the darkness, they fought only by their infrared - usually used only to identify vampires from their lack of heat signature. And yet, the roaring of machinery tore through this desperate battlefield.

The mechanized suit smashed into Lady Mo, arms clamping around the beast's muscled neck as it was driven backwards. Even as claws rended at the thick armour, there were no shouts, not even whispers. As servomotors locked, mechanical arms unyielding, fingers interlocked with one another, Vincent had already died. And yet, even in death, he served.

Rumbling around the corner came the third tank, which had previously been stationed at a roadblock. The massive Inferno Canon swiveled around, and deep within the flames already billowed to a ready. A special composite of oxygenated magnesium and napalm, fired at high speeds, liquid blue flame. Lady Mo found herself staring at a rain of blue fire, held in place by a walking tank.