France had fallen under Russian control just a month earlier. Rebellion in Germany and the rest of occupied Europe had been quelled, and France was looking to end up the same way. Britain put up a fierce fight in both the sea and sky, its seperation from the rest of Europe certainly an advantage. But without resources and support from other nations, the people and the soldiers were starving.
Resources were running low- as was manpower. More were lost every day. Ships and aircraft that were destroyed couldn't be replaced fast enough, if at all. Bombs fell on the capital. Nearing the end of August, the Russian forces broke through the naval blockade. The Battle of London had begun.
During the war, Arthur had stayed closely involved with the war effort. His nearly two thousand years of experience was invaluable- and he wasn't just going to hand his fate over to some human.
Day and night, he and his brothers worked with tacticians, generals and the like.
When the Russian forces broke through and began up the Thames, things changed. Evacuation of the city began immediately, but with so many citizens, it was a near impossible task. They were instructed to remain indoors.
Any able-bodied adult, man or woman (so long as there were no children to care for in the household) was immediately conscripted and armed with what little there was to spare. Soldiers from elsewhere were brought it. And Arthur joined on the front lines, his brothers returning to their homelands to fortify themselves.
Enemy troops had docked back downstream, intending to attack the city on all sides to prevent escape. As Russian ships docked, enemy soldiers flooded onto the walkways, heavily armed and well-taken care of. England and his men had no chance, but they fought.
Arthur shot at the Russians as they flooded from their ships, ducking into an alley as they shot back. He could feel every one of his men that died, but he focused and continued to fire. He and the rest of the front line were pushed back.
They tried to dig in and stand their ground, but the enemy was overwhelming. More and more they were pushed back. From behind the enemy lines, screaming and crying could be heard as houses were broken into.
Somewhere nearby there was an explosion. Debris flew, clattering onto the cement. Blood splattered. The sound of gunfire left ringing in his ears. Through the noise, he could hear shouting.
With a glance over his shoulder, he saw an intersection, scores of battling soldiers down every street. "Oh God..." He whispered, ducking into an alley for cover as a shot barely knicked his shoulder.
He panted, blood splattered across his clothes. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself back out into the street to duck behind a cement barrier. He pulled the pin out of a grenade and aimed before tossing it. When it exploded, it took a care with it, erupting into a ball of flame.
Even with that, the enemy got closer, until the only choice was to move into the intersection. With their backs to ally and enemy, the makeshift army attempted to hold its ground. The airforce was caught in a battle overhead, and any backup that may have been provided by navy troops had either been killed or held up in their own battles.
One by one, the British forces were dwindled, with only abandoned vehicles to take cover behind and still being exposed on one side. Arthur had ducked behind a cab, the windows already broken. Every enemy he took down was a short relief.
Suddenly, there was a piercing pain in his leg and it collapsed under him. He cried out, pressing on a bullet wound. His hand was quickly covered in blood. Unable to get back up, he sat with his back to the cab, preparing to fire at the enemy coming in from other roads. But when he pulled the trigger, his gun only clicked at him in response.
It was then that he noticed his numbers. 16 that very quickly became 12, and then 7. A vehicle exploded in a ball of flame, and he heard earsplitting screams. 5. 3. 1.
Him.
It was just him.
The enemy stopped firing.
He heard the whistle and crash of an aircraft going down. The sound of debris falling back to Earth. The crackling of flames. His own shaking breaths. The front line of the enemy had encircled him, standing in uniform position, guns at their sides, the red ensignia on their chests.
They stared at him. They were waiting. He had no extra ammo. No weaponry. Nowhere to run.
Then they parted as a man stepped through their ranks. Tall and stocky, thickly dressed despite the warm weather. He looked at the Englishman with a childish grin, slightly hidden behind a heavy scarf. Arthur slowly pulled himself to his feet, gripping his gun as though it were still loaded. He leaned heavily on the cab for support.
"Drop your weapon, comrade. It is over. There is no more need for fighting." Ivan chimed, unflinching as another aircraft crashed in a ball of flame. Arthur winced. "Bite me." He growled defiantly, holding himself tall and proud despite his condition.
As though controlled by a hive mind, the soldiers in view of him raised their guns and prepared to fire. Arthur held himself taller, gaze locked onto Ivan's, his breath coming out shakily. "Ah... Silly Englishman. You will cooperate soon. For now, though, we can do it your way!" Ivan smiled brightly and gave a vague wave. The gunshots rang in unison.