Nyxella
TokyoPewPew
Tlaloc
The battle was doing a fine job highlighting why recruitment across the remaining Sol colonies was at an all-time low, why joining the military seemed like a guaranteed suicide mission. Taran’s first battle with the 588th was looking more and more like it could be his last, and for many of the soldiers, it was. The firing line had wrecked hell upon the Grik, their foul visages only improved by the numerous entry and exit wounds that whittled down their number. Taran himself wasn’t exactly counting his kills, but he was counting his shots. He had 4 shots left in his second magazine, and while the ferocious woman who he had partnered up with on the field of battle was taking on the fight with enthusiasm, both shared a look of apprehension when the ground began to shake and a deep seated fear took hold of every man and woman on the line. There was no way in hell any of them were going to be able to withstand the Brumak, not with the kit they’d been issued. And so, the hopes of rallying and driving back the much easier to kill Grik were washed away as the sight of the giant rock-like monster came into view, the distraction enough that the Grik were starting to crash into the line.
Close-quarters. Exactly where you didn’t want the Grik. Taran’s scowl tightened; if he survived this, he’d not be able to go into a bakery for years without being reminded of the damned things. He fired off the last few shots in quick succession, not bothering with aimed accuracy, just to buy a few extra seconds of time to swap a fresh magazine in anticipation of close-quarters combat. The first of the Grik arrived, mere meters away from Taran before he could charge the newly slotted magazine. His bayonet had been affixed before first contact was established, and he was glad for it; the beast fell upon him with the intent to kill. With a defiant roar, Taran charged into the pale-skinned monster and plunged the blade into its chest where its heart would be – if it even had one. The momentum and the weight of his frame and armour pushed the creature down to the ground. He stomped the Grik in the chest, reaching forward to pull the charging handle of the rifle and pulled the trigger. The recoil and impact of the round not only made the Grik stop moving, but loosened the bayonet from its new home, allowing him to pull it free easily.
“Give me your grenades!” his partner, the one with the bionic arm, shouted. He freed a couple from their pouches and tossed them to her as he took aim at the approaching Grik, keeping the weapon in semi-automatic; the heavy recoil of the 7.62mm rifle was substantial, and he didn’t want to miss a shot. Him and his comrades couldn’t afford it.
His partner’s grenades popped off one after another as the Brumak closed in on their section of the trench, its heavy shipping chains wreaking havoc on the flanks as they tore through soldiers like a scythe through wheat. The one of the grenades managed to get caught up by the chain dragging back for another swing and the detonation managed to weaken the integrity of the metal, the weight of the chain’s momentum ripping apart at one of the links as it flew back towards the Grik ranks, smashing into bodies.
“Excellent work!” Taran called to her, skimming the head of a Grik with one round before the next found its mark and made the skull burst like he was shooting at an overripe melon. Still, the tide was closing in, and they had a window to fall back… to where was the real question. Taran and his partner picked themselves up and moved back, Taran turning to open fire as Grik filled in the trench where they had been moments prior and the Brumak caught his eye; it still had a long enough length of chain to be devastating. “DOWN!” he called, tackling the woman moments before the heavy chain skimmed overhead, bouncing off the ground less than a meter from where his arm was. Turning on his back to face the monsters, Taran fired four shots before getting to his knee and killing off what was left of his magazine.
The last round was a failure to extract, the casing bent half way out of the ejection port while the neck was still lodged into the breech. Cursing at his shit luck and ammunition that was hastily manufactured by the millions of rounds with minimal quality control, Taran spotted a downed NCO with sergeant chevrons a shot distance away. Dropping his rifle so it hung from its sling, the Martian sprinted to the body, taking a knee to pick the pouches and pulled free the sidearm from the sergeant's holster, flicking the safety off with a thumb and lining up the fiber optic sights with the charging monsters. Another soldier had taken a severe laceration to his chest from one of the Grik’s cleavers but had managed to turn his pain into rage and he gave the Grik back as good as he got, driving his own bayonet into the monster. There weren’t a lot of troopers left, and this was very much so a last stand. Taran’s hatred for the Bulwark filled him as he stood his ground, taking quick aim at each advancing target with his sidearm. He’d die here, he was sure of it. But they sure as hell were going to pay for every inch.
“Come on, kill me if you can!” He yelled defiantly, dropping a mag freely as he slapped another magazine into the receiver and pulling back the side, the barrel nearly pressing against the head of another Grik as he pulled the trigger, ending its advance. “I will not let you reach my family!”
Close-quarters. Exactly where you didn’t want the Grik. Taran’s scowl tightened; if he survived this, he’d not be able to go into a bakery for years without being reminded of the damned things. He fired off the last few shots in quick succession, not bothering with aimed accuracy, just to buy a few extra seconds of time to swap a fresh magazine in anticipation of close-quarters combat. The first of the Grik arrived, mere meters away from Taran before he could charge the newly slotted magazine. His bayonet had been affixed before first contact was established, and he was glad for it; the beast fell upon him with the intent to kill. With a defiant roar, Taran charged into the pale-skinned monster and plunged the blade into its chest where its heart would be – if it even had one. The momentum and the weight of his frame and armour pushed the creature down to the ground. He stomped the Grik in the chest, reaching forward to pull the charging handle of the rifle and pulled the trigger. The recoil and impact of the round not only made the Grik stop moving, but loosened the bayonet from its new home, allowing him to pull it free easily.
“Give me your grenades!” his partner, the one with the bionic arm, shouted. He freed a couple from their pouches and tossed them to her as he took aim at the approaching Grik, keeping the weapon in semi-automatic; the heavy recoil of the 7.62mm rifle was substantial, and he didn’t want to miss a shot. Him and his comrades couldn’t afford it.
His partner’s grenades popped off one after another as the Brumak closed in on their section of the trench, its heavy shipping chains wreaking havoc on the flanks as they tore through soldiers like a scythe through wheat. The one of the grenades managed to get caught up by the chain dragging back for another swing and the detonation managed to weaken the integrity of the metal, the weight of the chain’s momentum ripping apart at one of the links as it flew back towards the Grik ranks, smashing into bodies.
“Excellent work!” Taran called to her, skimming the head of a Grik with one round before the next found its mark and made the skull burst like he was shooting at an overripe melon. Still, the tide was closing in, and they had a window to fall back… to where was the real question. Taran and his partner picked themselves up and moved back, Taran turning to open fire as Grik filled in the trench where they had been moments prior and the Brumak caught his eye; it still had a long enough length of chain to be devastating. “DOWN!” he called, tackling the woman moments before the heavy chain skimmed overhead, bouncing off the ground less than a meter from where his arm was. Turning on his back to face the monsters, Taran fired four shots before getting to his knee and killing off what was left of his magazine.
The last round was a failure to extract, the casing bent half way out of the ejection port while the neck was still lodged into the breech. Cursing at his shit luck and ammunition that was hastily manufactured by the millions of rounds with minimal quality control, Taran spotted a downed NCO with sergeant chevrons a shot distance away. Dropping his rifle so it hung from its sling, the Martian sprinted to the body, taking a knee to pick the pouches and pulled free the sidearm from the sergeant's holster, flicking the safety off with a thumb and lining up the fiber optic sights with the charging monsters. Another soldier had taken a severe laceration to his chest from one of the Grik’s cleavers but had managed to turn his pain into rage and he gave the Grik back as good as he got, driving his own bayonet into the monster. There weren’t a lot of troopers left, and this was very much so a last stand. Taran’s hatred for the Bulwark filled him as he stood his ground, taking quick aim at each advancing target with his sidearm. He’d die here, he was sure of it. But they sure as hell were going to pay for every inch.
“Come on, kill me if you can!” He yelled defiantly, dropping a mag freely as he slapped another magazine into the receiver and pulling back the side, the barrel nearly pressing against the head of another Grik as he pulled the trigger, ending its advance. “I will not let you reach my family!”
