The military vehicle started halting, canopy hiding several soldiers from the rays of the sun that threatened to consume the surrounding area in a bask of visible light, and threatened the emergence of shadows that could take not life, but could take away the false illusion that light is good. That it could shield the soldiers from danger, from that which lurks in, or for the younger and less experienced minds, are, the shadows. No, this did not catch the attention of the experienced lieutenant, a man who waved his hand through his blonde hair, olive skin resulting due to the aforementioned sunlight due to a tan.

Angloterrans ranged from light olive skin, their sunlight deprived skin colour, which was about the same tone as a dark toned caucasian, to extremely dark in conditions where exposure to sunlight was high. This natural tone was simply a result of tanning, although in the areas of sunlight and areas of lack thereof, the composition would change, and natural selection would take hold. However, as the man checked his bolt action rifle, a powerful tool, its design and that beautiful, long barrel that exposed the degree of accuracy the rifle could bring to a firefight. While, being a bolt action rifle, it did not have as high a rate of fire as the pistols, machine guns and, quite a new invention, sub machine guns, its power was legendary, for this rifle could easily drop a bear at a large enough distance to provide safety for the user, often five hundred yards. This rifle was also, due to the barrel, lethally accurate, and a aimed shot would drop a enemy combatant if the weapon was aimed to the right area upon the body. Furthermore, despite the bolt action, a trained user could snap off about twenty five shots a minute, well aimed ones at that, including the necessary reloads.

As such, its potential made it a versatile infantry weapon, a weapon that had found its way into the hands of soldiers of many militaries worldwide. When fired as a squad, the weapon had great suppressive effects, often stimulating machine gun fire when fired by a trained squad, and bloody accurate fire too, as many a surviving combatant would say. Not to mention that if a squad suppressed you, there was always at least two soldiers looking to outflank, or one sniper moving slowly until he had a shot.

But Manderson had no reason to worry for the gun as he loaded the clip and bought the bolt forward, locking the cartridge in the firing position and he checked, then double checked, that the safety was most certainaly on. Satisfied, he looked to his comrade and superior, major Halifax, and the dark skinned man nodded and walked on, having already left his vehicle.

Manderson motioned the men in this vehicle, his men, to do the same. Today was quite an important day for the lieutenant. The reason why he was in command of this mission, and not the major, was that he was to be promoted upon completion of the siege, and if he could demonstrate leadership capabilities in this mission, the incentive would be even clearer.

So, as he left the vehicle and spied the amassed soldiers around him, the major approached him, his rifle slung unceremoniously over his shoulder, he asked Manderson the details of the mission.

"Well, you are in command. What do you need us to do?"

"You simply need to wait here." Replied Manderson, his eyes staring into the major, who was not actually Angloterran born, but was now a citizen, and one with distinguished military service at that. "We will send up a sniper to mess up their formations and draw them in the wrong direction. My squad will quickly evaluate the building, while you load arnaments. Send up the tank upon my command, then prepare ordnance. I want that building levelled, not captured. My men will kill any and all revolutionary soldiers."

The major nodded, then turned to the tank, where the driver, Sherman, was leaning outside the top of his hatch. From above the turret, the commander, Chirchill, was fitting his helmet.

Like a kot of soldiers here, Churchill was wearing the new Angloterran helmets, which actually incorparated a gas mask, admittedly a small metal one that fitted over the mouth and nose, a very modern development for this time, which was, of course, attatched to the helmet. In actual fact, the metal was simply lining to the gas mask, which was itself made of several other materials. The gas mask, however, did not fit the coventional design, but instead was compressed and had two filters.

However, as he was experiencing as he put on the helmet, it made breathing as difficult as trying to stuff a cat into a bath. Still, that was constant with Angloterran helmets, and a fearure that he had long since adapted to.

He called over his friend, the N.C.O. known as Scott, and gaveva quick hand signal to the soldier, who followed him. Behind him, Sherman, who's arms were folded, gave a quick question to the major.

"How long we gonna wait, sir? The kettle's gonna heat up, we need the engine set up... gonna attract a lot of attention from those blighters, eh?"

As the major gave the unspoken command to wait, and Manderson climbed the short ridge that resulted from the sand to stare at the building ahead of him, and as his men moved up to the ridge to take up position, Manderson took out a pair of binoculars and contemplated the rhyming slang that Sherman had said for kettle. He suspected that it meant metal. He stared at the building, a rather ugly five story building that was made of rather horrible grey matter that seemed to be more concrete than brick... no wait, it was concrete. It was a rather basic building as well, a small rectangular block in the middle of nowhere. To define the building as weird was an understatement. It was Alien, a body that should not have been there.

"How long do you estimate, Scott?" Asked Manderson, staring at his comrade intently for an answer.

His comrade continued looking through his own pair of binoculars, not shifting his gaze to his superior.

"About two hundred yards sir... wait, two two five. We- bloody hell, are they Xingese?"

Manderson looked intently at what had caught the N.C.O's attention, and spied out the figures surrounding the building.

A couple of vehicles, rather advanced for rebel activity, were parked, crates stacked up alongside the vehicles, trucks like the Angloterrans had used tonget here, but as Manderson looked through his own binoculars, he could see people parading the windows above him, rifles at the ready, while below him were the people which had caught the N.C.O's attention.

Dressed in ornamental garb, the soldiers of Xing, with their robes that had been designed for military usage, as in shortened, but still a bright and dazzling display, stood ready, while to the side stood soldiers which Manderson suspected were Salatan, a small but advanced country just to the north of Xing. So they must have built the building.

The building, according to the scouts, who had done a remarkable job of not being seen, was where countries that recognised the free state of Xersia as a seperate country to the Angloterran empire, or to put it bluntly, recognised it's independance to the anger of people like Manderson, and were currently using this base, quite a distance from Xersia itself, as a means of supplying the rebels. In all essence, they were fighting a shadow war with Angloterra.

Manderson suspected that other nations were involved, and hostile to Angloterra's expansion, but the reasons for helping Xersia were different for every country, ranging from destabilisation of the empire, to genuinely supporting the rebellious city, to only doing it to get the Angloterran military pressure off their backs. And this was the pick up point.

It was an incredibly simple operation. It was a huge risk for Angloterra, since diplomatic tensions would soar due to this, but it displayed Angloterra's military might and made a clear message to the world.

The Angloterran Empire shall not allow you to interfere against us, or we shall crush you.

It was just another step to Angloterran superiority. Its goal was global dominance, and currently it seemed to be that Angloterra may very well achieve that goal. They had, after all, one of the most powerful, well trained, and technologically advanced militaries in the world, if not the mist powerful, well trained and technologically advanced. Well, it was in the world known to Angloterra.

And for Angloterra, it wanted to be the only military power in the known world. And then it would expand into the unknown as it had so many times before.

But these little trades, dishonourable actions (notice the hypocrisy?) That the other countries were doing were just annoying. Good men may die here today because of a bunch of bloody, no good Xersian rebel bastards and their little helpful friend's. But that ended today.

He had already formulated a plan which took into account external factors, had designed it so that all the outcomes led to one inevitable solution; he wins. He had also taken into account the fact that there appeared to be more soldiers than expected, due to what was probably a trade going on as of now, but he had the major on backup as well.

He had also ensured that, in the death of all commanding officers, the soldiers would know what to do.

Finally, he had factored in potential usage of Alchemy, although it seemed that Alkahestry may be involved as well.

He had the plan, and he saw his N.C.O, his friend, load his smg with a fresh magazine. It was a new Gothian invention, called the CQC-5 the fifth gun in the CQC range, a radical redesign, much better than the cheap, Anglian made SMG's that were in current usage with Anglia, and it actually had the clip on the bottom, something not yet done in Anglia for SMG's. Blimey, those Gothians were the greatest guys alive when you needed a good piece of inventing. Still, Gaulians had the art and a bit of engineering.

Manderson spied, using his binoculars, the ridge far away, about five hundred yards from the building, where one of his snipers had carefully concealed himself amongst the sand banks, gun just visible. He would be the man to start this, to fire the shot that wouls echo through the air and take the life of soldiers below as the battle between his men and the enemy began.

There would be casualties. One or two Angloterran soldiers may pose a significant risk for anybody... but in the midst of battle, as bullets flew round from soldiers on all sides, the very engagement would garuntee that at least some Angloterran families would never see their adventurous son, or doting husband, or loving father, again.

His men were ready. The tank crew were ready. The major was ready, and now aware that there was a bigger risk on their hands. Probably less than forty men, but It could even match one hundred, if the building was big enough. But then again, a few deaths would not stop Angloterra's march towards progress and the inevitability of an Empire.

And so, as the soldiers ouiside the building were more worried about the heat of the sun, and the water that they needed to give away that they so desprately wanted to quench their thirst with now then about a possible Angloterran attack due to its distance from the city, a gunshot from a snipers bolt action rifle, the same type as the normal rifle, albiet with a telescopic sight added, broke the unpleasent silence of the desert and announced to the soldiers that they had been foynd out, that they had been followed, that they had been caught, that they had been attacked, even all the way out here, and they were well and truly fucked.

...

To say that a lot of things were going on in the city is one of the largest and most incorrect understatements. Indeed, several people were touring the city, some firing off random shots at hapless Angloterran soldiers below from the great walls of the city, some tending to the horrific injuries, including loss of limbs, from the Angloterran counter snipers, Angloterran artillery bombardments, the mercenary attacks a while back, and indeed some from the more dangerous inhabitants of the city.

And even then, some of the city's key inhabitants, well... key to this story, anyway, were acting in the city. If one took the time to look, one would find Edward Elric in the library, reading on the symbolic aspects in terms of the symbols used In the Aclchemy of Xerxes. And he was annoyed that it was not science, or mathematics, although these did have a role to play, but myths and legends, theocracy from competing sources due to a drastic change in religion at about five hundred years before its unanticipated destruction at the hands of Father, and the fact that the symbols were exactly that; symbolic explanations that had made its way into the science of the Transmutation circle, which had been carried over to Amestris.

He was also researching why matter was so easily converted from one state to another, when several highly detailed transmutations were needed in Amestris. Furthermore, he was seeing how the concept of life force, something that had seemed a simple idiotic function to him that he had no idea why his comparatively rational brother would research its Alkahestric form, was actually pioneered and explained, and he wanted to find out why that is. Furthermore, he was beginning to discover that the Xerxean and Xingese texts were badly translated, even though Amestris and Xing were created by the same people as whom had come from Xerxes, and finding that though spoken languages, despite being different, had been formulated with similar contexts, tenses and structures, due to the aforementioned involvement, the written languages were completely seperate due to cultural identidy, where Hohenheim and Father had instead used mathematical equations. But the failed involvements and shoddy translations to the more geographically neutral language, the Angloterran languages, were really ripping his research apart. Annoyingly, one book that could answer his questions on the scientific calculations from Xerxes, a book called 'Alchemic Algebra; the proof of trancha', was currently borrowed.

The other book that could answer one of his questions, why Hohenheim was here, was currently in the possession of Joshua, who was researching anti transmutations, and increased knowledge since Xerxean times (of which the improved knowledge made Hohenheims circle significantly more efficient for a lower usage of the souls trapped inside of him.). Indeed, Joshua was also researching ways to discretely use alchemy to escape, kill a few Angloterran soldiers, then pull back, before anybody had a chance to act.

Ayan Athens was in the tunnel, specifically evaluating the last exit to the outside of the city, now destroyed by dynamite and patrolled by its Angloterran destructors.

Beneath the city, in the sewers, Charles Montue also evaluated the sewers for any sign of transmutation, while Alphonse Elric did the same, albiet also studying Xerxean alchemy from 'Alchemic Algebra; the proof of trancha', lamenting on why he was seventeen, yet due to his crime, had the mental age of a thirteen year old, and thought of how useful it would have been in Amestris if he could actually have mentally aged.

He also attempted to use Alkahestry, succeding, but only to the extent of a vicious decomposition and sudden release of energy, i.e explosions, and only a very small one at that, and was testing both A; his low success rate, and B; whether he could do it without a circle either, or at least the second guiding circle. He had no success in determening an answer.

He also repeatedly smashed his head against the wall to knock himself unconcious to see if when he refused his body at the gate to fight father, the his soul had not spontaneously switched bodies. He quickly concluded, with his smarter, more developed thirteen year old mind, that using himself as an experimental subject was neither big, clever, or mos importantly, painless. Also, he felt his mental age drop by one month due to either A; trauma, or B; his stupidity in thinking that smashing his head against a wall would help in any way.

Also, Julian was having trouble producing a character for himself as he made a very simple chemical bomb for somebody and produced a detonator as well, realistically a pin that would cause something to move and the chemicals to mix in two minutes. He could not determine whether he truly was sociopathic chaotic evil mass murderer, whether he was a social darwinist that despised war and tried to end it by destroying the weaker side, or if he was a well intentioned extremist who truly had a noble long term goal in mind, or if he just wanted to advance Alchemy, whether he was a pragmatic man who had his own agenda different to the public facade that he provided, or if he secretely lusted for ultimate power and had a plan already in motion to do so, or if he was just simply a Kimblee clone. The Cretan decided that he could be all of those. Except the last one. Nobody was as magnificent as Solf J. Kimblee, who had blue and orange, or even above good and evil, morality and basically ripped Pride apart fom within to the extent that even a basic reaction that anybody could do would kill him, Edward instead turning himself into a one soul phillosophers stone not to kill him, as he could do normally due to Kimblee, but to save him and return him as Selim Bradley. A fitting end for Pride.

He sighed and returned the new bomb to its owner. Everybody misunderstood him, because his true ideals were utterly confusing. Not just on a blue and orange scale, as in his morality making no sense to the average homo sapien, but on a scale akin to crossing over into several forms of morality, making almost no sense yet somehow fitting into our idea of morality.

He wasn't complex, he just had a immoral methods to a utterly indeterminable goal. The man he had talked to last time was a man who attempted to get people to try human transmutation in search of knowledge, suffer the consequences, and bring the lesson to others. But Julian was not normal. And he honestly had no need for alchemic knowledge. He knew another reason as to why he had no need for such an obvious trap.

Still, he had an ultimate goal, and while it was in operation due to a rather effective crime syndicate, it seemed that it would soon come to a race against time before Angloterra won.

In all honesty though, he just latched on to an already existing plot from said syndicate and improved it. And if he won... Angloterra would have to see if they truly were brave enough to face Xing if Xing had Alkahestry.

Of course, he had no actual involvement in said plot, he only observed the results. But If the original plot worked, then the crime syndicate would be capable of destroying its rivals, and making its form of criminal activities utterly unstoppable, for they would have a very good system set up as a result that would be sustainable for itself and would ensure that cooperation would be vital, and also discourage rival factions from doing the same.

Admittedly, the man he had talked to had started the plot, for one of the gang members had actually fallen for the trap. Not opening the room, but finding the evidence of transmutation nearby.

What he had found had cost him his genitals, a rather unfortunate rebound. What he had gained was worth it in his eyes.

Futhermore, in the palace, two events were taking place. One was that an investigator had broken into the palace, his past as a thief paying off as he snuck into the palace and opened the closely guarded vault that contained the secret that he planned to give to the anti Isosceles faction as a way of proving him guilty of attempting to kill civillians. This did not work for several reasons. First was that the evidence would only have lowered Bashir Hoplite's credability as a human being.

Second, there was no actual evidence for it now, and what had been evidence was a now evidence no longer, and it had been public consent arisen from a question by Isosceles that lead to its removal.

Third and finally, although undetected by the guards, he had been spotted and followed. And the man had taken it from him due to suspucious activity that needed to be properly evaluated.

The investigator could not do much since Alexander Fields was holding his SMG, which unlike the Gothian machine pistols, had the clip on the side. And the Investigator knew that he had lost, for said weapon was pointed at the back of his head. So much for trying to fulfil his own agenda with such a lawful neutral character nearby.

But up above, the meeting that would determine a good portion of the future of the revolution was being held.

Currently, Abdul Isosceles sat upon his armchair, his eyes distracted from the other men sat around in various seats as he looked out through the open window/door, across the white washed balcony into the cloudless sky above, his mind working at a pace not normally matched by most individuals, but not to the same extent as the ever intregued alchemists of the city of Xersia.

There were two other men in the room, and one other seat laid bare, its supposed occupant running late. Of the two already present men, one was Bashir Hoplite, who was pretending that the world around him meant nothing to him, but was betrayed by the notebook that lay upon his lap. He was here for a reason, that was for sure.

The second man was commander Abu Troy, a relatively new commander due to the death of the last commander in a very unsuccessful raid upon the Angloterran camp. He clearly had no idea as to what the meeting was for; a clear indication of his inexperience. Still, he had done a good job of policing the city, especially after the mercenary attacks, and now the soldiers could probably deal with another attack. Still, he was hopelessly outmatched by Lancaster, demonstrating the reason why Angloterra was pretty much on the verge of victory against this uprising.

Isosceles was cut off from his gaze over the balcony by the arrival of a third figure, who stepped through the door and sat his bottom down upon the empty seat that had been arranged for him. The man threw his hands through his short, quite dazzling golden hair, his light brown eyes gazing upon the three other men.

The handsomely built twenty three year old man, with features that could potentially kill a female, or male, or even a transsexual. His name, as he sat down in the black chair, was Sallam Poseidon, and he was the diplomat of the free state of Xersia, and quite an influencial person in the city as well, widely regarded as a smooth, charismatic, idealistic man who could sway the crowds like Hoplite, but could sway individuals as well. It was a blessing that Xersia took full advantage of.

"Ah, Poseidon, how goes your venture to Aerugo?"

The man settled down and waved a hand in response to the question.

"A most successful venture. For one, they gave me the free clothes I am wearing now. However, to be more important, I have persuaded the royalty there, and the prime minister, to recognise Xersia as independant from the Angloterran Empire. In addition, because of the recent peace agreement with Amestris, they have agreed to supply us with new weapons, supplies, and have also offered to pave the way for the hiring and distribution of mercenaries to assist us. A most fine public display was also made of my visit. The masses of Aerugo support us and our struggle for independance."

Isosceles smiled, happy to finally have a victory. Even if they were losing, the hope that captured the hearts of so many civillians was held fast by the prospect of foriegn aid.

"Very good Poseidon. I knew that we could count on your natural charisma. Did they ask for anything in return?" Asked Isosceles to the Xerxean skinned man.

"No, although I believe that they strongly implied that our alchemic knowledge would be sufficient. Apparantly, they want to get back their lost territory due to Amestris diplomatically, either through trade with Amestris, or offering the knowledge to Creta."

There always was a catch, but honestly the alchemic knowledge meant little in the way of tue chance for victory. Yes, it was the classic Aerugan tactic, but it seemed to be more like one of several reasons for assistance rather than the sole reason.

"And how are the other countries?" Asked Isosceles, jotting down notes on his paper.

"Amestris has shown a vague interest, a unsurprising turnabout, given its rather dark and troubled pre coup past, especially regarding Ishval. However, I would not trust them; Bradley was a benevolent and kind ruler, much loved by his people, despite his terrible diplomatic policies, but his generals used him to further their own ends. However, Grumman's new regime is still a parlimentary dictatorship, like Anglia. It is possible that they could sway back to their pre coup behaviour. Amestris, Creta and Drachma are too caught up in border disputes and attempting to find a way to destroy, or protect for Amestris, Briggs. Creta and Drachma might ally, but all three countries are too caught up in war. The west has been unsuccessful apart from Aerugo. Xing is in turmoil, and while the majority of clans are neutral, support is often unofficially given to clans supplying us. However, it seems that a couple of clans have cast their lot in with the Angloterrans instead. Also, an emperor has not been chosen as of now. They helped us a lot, and despite their neutral stance, public opinion is in favour of our independant state. Marsidia is too engrossed with Angloterra; they seem to be in bed with one another, although it is only because Marsidia does not want to be conquered yet. Salata officially recognises and supports us, as do several other small countries surrounding Xing that Angloterra is significantly threatening. However, we have no support from Angloterran colonies east, for various, obvious reasons. Ultimately, if we want to win, we need to use the countries we have."

A murmer of disagreement came from Bashir Hoplite.

"Sorry, but all this aid is impractical, Poseidon. We lost our last hidden entrance to those Angloterran bastards! Yes, we may have support, but now we are going to starve or die of thirst first!"

"Or run out of Ammunition." Added Isosceles, trying to make it seem that the rebellion would fight to the last bullet, the last man even, if the public voted for independance from the Angloterran Empire. But all he managed was to add another glaring point to an already oversized list.

To make matters worse, Troy had even more news to add.

"We recieved word a few moments before the meeting. The supply base... has come under Angloterran attack."

A audiable gasp came from the other three people in the room, all three knowing fully well that Angloterran soldiers were definitely going to destroy the supply depot. To Isosceles' surprise, it was Hoplite who gave the optimistic comment.

"Relax... we outnumber them, right! And with Xingese and Salatan troops there, we can fight them off!"

Continuing this rather strange trend, Isosceles proceeded to be the pessimist.

"These are Angloterran soldiers, Hoplite. Trust me when I say that they will win with comparatively minor casualties. They are a army of elite mooks, and they will wipe us off the map. Also, In the unlikely circumstance that we and our allies are victorious... they need only to send a larger force. Face it Hoplite... our last supply base has fallen. Our rebellion needs to end soon."

"I am just surprised that they had the balls to attack the base while our allies are there! Do they want to declare open war on the other countries!" Exclaimed Hoplite angrily, smashing his hand down hard upon the armrest of his chair. But he knew that if Angloterra won... his career would end alongside his life. And that he never wished to happen. Damn it, he had so much ambition left!

Troy was panicking slightly, and Isosceles was running through his head, although he betrayed no emotio explaining this, the chance that the people may want peace, in which case he would sue for peace. But Poseidon had kept a cool head throughout the revealation, and he decided to demonstrate what he had thought of the whole affair.

"This serves little but to demonstrate Angloterra's strength and commitment. And any nation that does complain is basically going to have to admit to collaberating against Angloterra; exactly the kind of excuse Angloterra needs to invade said nation. Let us face it here... whatever happens as an outcome, Angloterra will ultimately win. So we need a new plan. Right here, right now. We can't simply win through might, diplomacy, backup or even technology, but we have one thing that they only have an estimated fifteen of; alchemy. They have about fifteen Empirewide conciousnesses, for their lack of souls, bonded to a suit of armour. Now, our alchemic might alone is not enough to win, for that lunatic of a lieutenant colonel, Lancaster, is simply too savvy for that. However, he does not know the power it has, and overestimates its potential to an extent. Not a bad idea, but we can exploit it. You see, if we were to fake alchemic reactions in the sewers, the investigators would definitely find out. And if that happens... Lancaster will start to get a bit worried. He would hire mercenaries, more of them, to do his dirty work, while he continues to besiege the town. And if we play our cards right... we can get the Aerugan hired mercenaries in the camp. And all it takes is a few lit matches... and the Angloterran weapons will go up in smoke. A few bombed train lines, supposedly by us, should stop the reinforcements. We can destroy the cannons, free up sewer exits. But do not stop there. Even if we do this, it will be a temporary setback, and the town will remain besieged by the Angloterran military. But if we use the chaos to prove that Angloterra can be held up... the united people will rise up against the Empire all across the globe, and maybe even foriegn nations will get involved. For whatever we do, if we are to win here, we don't just need to beat these forces; we cannot. But we can provide hope to the world, and that is what will save us and defeat the Empire. If we are to remain hopeful, we need to prove to others that holding hope is not an idiotic fallacy. It is the key to the future."

The powerful speech instantly won over Troy, and caused a bit of a glare from Bashir to Poseidon. But Isosceles was not convinced. Surely, if Poseidon was this clever, he would have a backup plan. So what ever in the name of Xersia could that plan be?

However, he had little choice. He disliked being desperate, but for the whole rebellion he had been desperate. And now he was desperate more than ever.

So, for the next hour, the men sat around and discussed the plans, making phone calls to see if such a plan could be carried out. But when the meeting was concluded and the day was done, his comrades had left, leaving him staring out over the city as he walked out to the balcony and gripped the marble banister tight. It was a now or never decision. Poseidon had a good, solid plan, there was proof from empires past that it would work, there was the opportunity to remove the threat of Angloterra for good, and thete was always the option to increase diplomatic ties so that Xersia could remain an independant country.

But as he stared at the beautiful city that was his life, past the museum and the library and the all encompasing square, he reflected on what the future could bring to the city. Would they truly become a free, independant, democratic society? Or would that all be taken away by another foriegn power? Could they support themselves to be democratic, or woukd a bigoted dictator rise and take power? And could they even finally be free of Angloterra, or would Angloterra take It all away immediately afterwards, or even crush the dream of the city right here, right now, as Poseidon's plan failed?

As it turned out, he didn't need to reflect on the future of the city. You see, the present was of a more immediate concern.

In the room he had come out from, there lay a briefcase. And while Isosceles phillosiphosed the future, the present dictated that the timed lock would end due to the little pin being removed. The little compartments opened, releasing two violent, unstable chemicals right into each other in a high pressure enviroment.

And the resulting explosion sent shrapnel directly into Isosceles' back, killing the kindly representative instantly from the shock and throwing his lifeless, limp body off the balcony and into the small area between the main street and the five palace steps below.

...

"Move up lads!" Yelled Manderson, aiming his rifle at a Xingese soldier in a window of the building and firing, but to no noticible effect bar supression.

It was true that Anglia could be characteristically evil at times; all of the scientists were testing on prisoners, all of the doctors cut up live humans for research, all of the MP's were political backstabbers willing to do anything for power, all of the military is psycotic, and even civilians will kill you for indeterminable, often stupid reasons. But despite all of this, the royal Anglian military was well trained, disciplined, and combat ready.

Well, royal was no longer the correct terminology. Ever since Arthur took power, the usage degraded. Nowadays, it is oficially, and unoficially, the Anglian armed forces. The traits of a monachy long past were finally removed from Anglia, and nobody could do anything about it.

At the same time, there was no doubting that the Gothian military was on the rise, especially the air force, which now was three times the size of the Gaulian air force, and twice the size of the Anglian air force. Indeed, Gothia's increasing importance in affairs was becoming a bit of a pain in the arse for Cunningham, and he could do very little to nothing about it.

Indeed, although it had been done so in Gothia for many centuries, social Darwinism had taken over the empire, although not in the form one might expect. In actual fact, it was in the form of a welfare system, for the Angloterrans believed that equality and working together was what made humanity, and by extention the empire, so successful. That was why they reversed Charles Zi Brittania's infamous quote a few chapters ago. Still, the fight was getting intense.

A two man group of Angloterran soldiers set up a machine gun on the ridge and fired indiscriminately into the Rebel, Xingese, and Saltarian soldiers below, masacarring any who dared to stick his head up to fire back. Meanwhile, the snipers, who had badly missed their first shot due to the extreme distance, used their spotters to guide them as their bullets hit closer and closer to the mark. Eventually, as the enemy soldiers below watched for attempts at outflanking, a common Angloterran tactic, the first bullet to hit wedged itself in a Saltarian soldier's arm.

While the Saltarian soldiers were the biggest threat to the Angloterrans, they were few in number and had increased self preservation instincts when compared to their counterparts. As such, they were inching their way past the ruined trucks to the building's entrance, hoping for more cover.

As more Angloterran soldiers moved up to the ridge, a sniper in one of the windows fired at a private, who quickly started to crawl back down the fired at the window with his smg/machine pistol, depending on which country was using it, not hitting his target but setting the soldier slightly on the retreat to stop the bullets coming from the window.

However, the building exterior was a curb stomp battle for Manderson and Halifax's unit, with a huge amount of rifles that contained the little lead pellets of death firing upon the split, broken and supressed soldiers below. However, the building was a different matter, with plenty of windows, cover and opportunities to fire at and kill Angloterrans.

"Any unit experiencing contact?" Asked Manderson.

"One mounted gun firing at our 'glare' machine gun! The loader's hit, but it only grazed! Second floor!"

Manderson spied on the offending machine gunner, a Xingese soldier firing intensely at his targets. Manderson lined up a shot, but the small, involuntary movement of his muscles and his breathing meant that the shot missed. Angrily, he cycled the cartridge and fired again, this time hitting home and sending a quick squirt of blood as the bullet impacted into the man's chest. He picked up a Saltarian soldier aiming at a soldier in halifax's unit from the bloid and body stained exterior, and cycled the cartridge to input a new round into the chamber, and his next shot did not miss either. Although it only ruined the Saltarian, the sudden pain would save the life of one of Hakifax's men. The firing continued from both sides, and the rebel forces managed to wound a couple of Angloterran soldiers by firing from the windows. The next shot, a random bullet that had been much the same as the shots fired by both sides, pierced the goggles of an Angloterran and killed him instantaneously by lodging its way into his brain from just beside the eye.

"Report! Any other contact!" Asked Halifax, taking his cue from Manderson's earlier statement.

"Building and courtyard! Agh, some wanker is underneath the truck! I can't hit him!"

"Far right one?" Inquired Manderson.

"Yes, gov'nor." Came the response.

"Hold on, I may have a shot, cover me while I flank!" Yelled one of Manderson's men, and Manderson could see out of the corner of his eye a soldier start crawling back down and around the ridge to do the maneuver he had described.

Since the Angloterrans had the ridge, they could pull back quickly to safety if they came under fire, and Manderson found himself doing exactly that as two Xingese soldiers fired at his position, the man next to him doing the same.

"Sir!" Yelled a panicking soldier. "Monty Python references coming from the right flank!"

"I thought Monty Python was the best comedy of all time!"

"It is sir, but if the references reach us, all originality in this story will disappear!"

The soldier was drowned out on the radio as the tank rolled past Manderson to the ridge, ready to break apart the building piece by piece. Manderson never regretted using tanks, and why was about to be displayed as some of the soldiers srarted to pull back from the windows in the correct foresight of what was going to happen next.

As Churchill fired the machine gun through the small hatch inside the tank at the ground floor, he shouted out an order to his gunner.

"Fire!"

The reaction shifted the tank back slightly, and Sherman barely managed to keep the tank from rolling back down the hill as he was jolted by said reaction, but the shell hit home on the first floor, and tore a chunk out of the wall, and a bit of the floor as well, and felling an unfortunate rebel who was too close to escape the resulting shrapnel from the blast. Cromwell reloaded the cannon, and the next shell hit the third floor, destroying part of the concrete and exposing the structural framework of the building, and two Saltarian soldiers who quickly ran for cover, one of whom was wounded, soon to die from it, by a large volley of fire from soldiers on the ridge. As the loud shots of gunfire filled the air, the rebel sniper that Manderson had supressed earlier killed one of Halifax's soldiers as he dropped back, but was quickly avenged by a Angloterran sniper even further away. The machine gun had stopped firing upon the courtyard, and for a moment Manderson suspected that the gunner had been injured or had become the third Angloterran fatality today, but was corrected when the machine gun instead started to fire upon the building.

With nothing better to do in this quick, brutal battle, as the tank took larger chunks out of the building, Manderson aimed at the machine gun from earlier, trying to disable usage of it, but was quickly bought back into the real battle when a bullet glanced off his helmet.

"Shit!" He swore silently to himself, and he ignored self preservation for a moment as he searched for his perpetrator.

Said perpetrator was a Saltarian soldier who had come up from behind the bonnet of a truck, having survived the massacre earlier, ahd the two men quickly pointed rifles at each other in a fleeting instinct.

Manderson swung his rifle round at his attacker and lined up a shot, while the soldier lined up his rifle and pushed the bolt forward and locked it. Both men instinctively went for the trigger, knowing that whoever shot first would live, and the other would die.

However, two factors made their conclusion invalid. One was that both men, in their rush to fire, would have missed, and the other was that the Saltarian was exposed himself, and was actually killed by an entirely different Angloterran soldier that he never saw.

Spying across the exterior, one Xingese soldier and one rebel remained, while a pool of blood under the far right truck confirmed that the soldier indeed had obtained a shot by flanking the soldier.

Manderson was quickly cut off by part of the building collapsing from the next tank shell to crush the soldier on the floor below. And with that, as the soldiers on the ground outside the building were finally taken down, the battlefield fell quiet at last.

"Anybody got any enemies in sight?"

A thin silence filled the radio operators earphones, and he shrugged his shoulders at Manderson as the lieutenant descended the ridge and picked up the mouthpiece.

"This is lieutenant Manderson to Major Halifax, have you encountered any hostiles yet?"

No reply came from the headphones, causing the lieutenant to raise an eyebrow.

"Major?"

Still, the agonising silence filled the eardrums of the lieutenant, his ears looking for a response.

He was quite surprised to actually get one.

"I'm here lieutenant. No sightings. Estimated about... thirty five enemy fatalities. Twenty outside, fifteen inside. We have five casualties; two dead, Smith and Harrow, and three injured."

Harrow... only last night the man was sitting around chatting with the lads. Still, it was the inevitable outcome of war, when people... no, friends, died. All their families would ever be told was that they died in the line of duty.

"Two casualties here, corporal Sopwith is dead, private Johnson is injured. Apart from that, only minor scratches. Tank is alright. Still... only thirty five. Do you think that they are using tunnels to outflank us?"

The radio remained dead for a second, but the reply came almost instantly after the question had been taken into the Major's head.

"Affermative. They most likely are. Should we set up a defensive perimeter?"

"Roger that, I'll send out patrols in case they are running."

Manderson dropped the radio and turned to his men.

"Right, I need twelve men... yeah, you lot will do fine." Ordered Manderson, gesturing to twelve uninjured men. "Right... six squads of two. You will work in three groups, each group consisting of two squads... four men. If your partner disappears or is killed, blow into it, unless it is dangerous to do so, and run here as fast as possible and inform my eight man reserve group to back you up. Each group will agree a set location for both pairs to meet. If the other group does not arrive, do the same as if your partner is missing. If you see a rebel, dispatch him, then inform us. If you come under attack, run like hell and make as much noise as possible, unless you are pinned or in a defensible position, in which case just make noise. I want one squad in the building... be careful there structure is not intact, and two patrolling the desert. One radio operator per group. Get cracking lads!"

The soldiers saluted in the Anglian manor, the hand to the side of the head with the palm facing outwards, then thumped their hearts; the salute of the united Terran continent. Each country had their own salute, and would then give the Terran salute. The soldiers arranged and headed out, leaving Manderson alone as the defensive perimeter was set up around him, the tank covering his rear facing away from the building. And so the plan started.

For ten minutes all was silent. No reports came in, and no attacks came either. All was quiet on Halifax's end as well, the enemy forces disappearing as silently as the insects flew through the air.

Manderson wondered if he would at least get the report for this mission in.

Finally, after ten minutes, the radio came back to life.

"Lieut-nant?" Came a fuzzy voice from the other end.

"Manderson here, your reception is a little fuzzy.

"I know. S-thins interfering. Think t-ave radio-ell as us. Ba-leigh re-ted in. Apparantly, enemy diplomats w-eeing in - convoy. B-gh's squad killed them all. No-ther sightings."

"Very good. Return here at once."

"Y-s s-r."

The radio went dead again, but just a few seconds later, it perked up again, louder and clearer this time.

"Sir? This is Haynes. We have found a Xingese soldier planting some knives in the ground. He was planting one, and he had several more. We shot him dead. Permission to ask if anyone knows?"

Manderson shook his head.

"You don't even need permission!" He responded to the man on the radio, before turning to his own men. "Does anyone here know about Xingese knives?"

A young private stood up and saluted.

"Kunai, sir. Used as weapons. Why do you ask?"

"Some Xingese soldier was planting them in the ground. Any reason for this?"

The cogs appeared to turn in the young soldier's head, but when the circuit was connected and the current flowed, boy, was the voltage over resistance high.

"Oh shit sir! That's Alkahestry! Xingese Alchemy! That is their second Transmutation circle! We need to remove it!"

Manderson ran to the radio, and picked up the transmitter.

"Sir, did you-"

"Remove the knife and hold that position at all costs! I'm sending the tank to help."

Manderson was cut off by the sound of gunfire behind him.

"Bell! Get over here and get their location, then give it to the tank! We've got company!"

Bell did so as he went to all the commotion, where in the courtyard, he saw a dreadful sight.

Inside the courtyard where the Angloterrans had massacared the combined enemy forces before, the scene was reversed. The group that was searching the building was pinned down by a combined group of an unknown number of rebel, Xingese and Saltarian soldiers. Lance corporal Halburn was bleeding from a wound in his gut, bring tended to by a field medic, while the radio operator and the other soldier was firing back.

Manderson sneered. Damn these bloody terrorists! They had used the tunnels for their important induviduals, and the men remained inside to die so that the Xingese could use Alkahestry? Or were the ambassadors the sacrifices? No, that didn't seem right. Maybe... ah. They were trying to get his and Halifax's forces out of here, then move the supplies anyway?

Well, there wad no way he knew of into the city now, and chances were low that there was another secret enterance. All of them had pretty much been taken or destroyed. Damn it, the false hope so many rebels had...

Manderson ordered his men up to the ridge to open fire, dissapointed that he had sent the necessary tank away on a necessary order. He needed it here badly, so that he could destroy the rest of the building, but he had little choice. He would have to kill them by hand. So his unit fired, while a small detachment of Halifax's men, including the major himself, helped to kill the soldiers in the building. But as the battle went on, a Xingese soldier mounted the machine gun that Manderson had tried to destroy earlier. And as he fired randomly, Manderson did not notice until the bullets dislodged sand into his goggles.

The lieutenant attempted to move back, but a bullet pierced his thigh, sending the soaring pain thrpugh it as his body burned as an automatic response.

Quickly, his self preservation instincts kicked in, and he rolled backwards down the sand ridge, the sand entering the open bullet wound and each granule of sand caused the burning to once again engulf his being. And as he rolled, the snake of sand being kicked up by the bullets spat from the machine gun followed.

In just a few seconds, the last rebellious resistance in the building was defeated for good. The last of the remaining rebels wete curious as to why their transmutation failed, and went to investigate the position of the one man who didn't make it back. They found out too late why he was dead, and what metallic monstrosity awaited them in his place.

All in all, it was a textbook display of Angloterran military prowess. All enemies defeated, illegal contraband siezed, and a very clear message sent to the world, and especially the nations supporting Xersia, what Angloterra will do to win.

The Angloterrans had defeated their more numerous, some even highly trained, enemies with minimal casualties. Of the Angloterran casualties, the only fatalities who would never return home to their friends and/or family were Private Mike Smith, Private first class Stuart Harrow, Corporal Jeremy Sopwith, and Lieutenant John Manderson.