Corrin dashed down the street, flanked by his allies. His slug rifle kicked lightly against his shoulder as he sent the Imperials to whatever Hell was theirs. They faltered and fled at the sight of the approaching Merican warriors.
"Retreat!" One roared as Corrin swung himself over a small barricade. His slugs bounced lightly from the ground as he downed more and more soldiers. His palms relished in the heat of the barrel as the slaughtered bodies of the Imperials finally fell to the ground.
"The street is ours!" roared Corrin as he looked around. He spoke to quickly. A massive form emerged from the smoke, its twin barrels glistening with fire. Several Mericans blasted into the air like rag dolls as the tank fired its massive las-cannons. There were shouts and yells as more Imperials emerged from behind their vehicle.
Corrin dodged left and hid himself behind a small building. Leaning out, he fired at the oncoming attackers with no abandon. They fell in place as ceased to move. He groaned as the gun clicked. The cartridge was empty.
He rolled from cover and slid into a ditch that had been sliced from the ground by the tank's canon. Slowly, he unsheathed his knife and crouched. An Imperial moved above him. He pounced with the agility of a trained predator and cut the man's chest open. He spun and garroted the next across the neck as blood splattered across his face.
Grange was beside him, firing away at the horde of Imperials with extreme prejudice. Corrin looked for his Merican brethren. He had looked away. There was a blast. He was thrown off his feet. Sharp rocks jabbed into his rough skin. He felt the warm trickle of blood flowing down his back.
There was no time to waste. He pulled himself up, painfully, with his cyber arm and attempted to come to terms with his surroundings. Blurred figures moved about in indiscernible ways. The world shifted focus too quickly for Corrin to comprehend. He had felt this before, shell shock. Muffled words were called from his allies and his enemies as the battle raged on.
He stumbled across the street and groaned as his back panged in hurt. He wept in agony and confusion. His shoulder touched the side of a concrete building lightly. He felt sick.
"Corrin!" someone called. He opened his mouth and let the sickness drain out of his form.
"Corrin, move damn it!" It was Grange. He looked up. The tank's turret was aimed directly at him. He dove to the side. He felt his body being torn from the ground and across the air. For the second time, he felt a sick sensation in his stomach as his body crashed through the broken walls of the building beside him.
He moaned again. Muscles squealed in resistance as he attempted to move them. "Yeah, take up position in this building, first. On me!" Someone called from just outside. Corrin held his breath and ceased to move. Imperial soldiers stormed inside.
"Sir, sir, I think this one's alive." said another Imperial.
"It doesn't matter. Kill him." A tall Imperial replied, his cuffs representing leadership. The other Imperial raised his gun. Corrin blinked. They soldiers fell in a perfect line. Someone rushed to his body and began to drag it away.
"Who…?" Corrin began. He swallowed his words and simply gaped at the man who stood above him. "Johno!" Johnson was silent, not even a smile. Corrin squinted as he felt a piercing in his mind.
Corrin, It was Johnson's voice. Corrin, I don't have much time. Corrin looked on at the still motionless face of his old friend. I've overpowered him, but for now. He will punish me.
"Keep yourself alive, Johno! I can't loose you!" Corrin began.
Stay quiet, Corrin. Let me do the talking. Johnson continued. Corrin, you are It. You are the final strain. He didn't know it, I didn't know it, no one knew it, until recently.
You have it, Corrin, Johnson sounded more urgent now. You have the Raging Soul, you have the Devian Furis. You don't understand now. You will. You must. You are our last chance…my last chance.
There was a flash in Johnson's eyes. A desperate look crossed his face. He howled in agony and crouched to the ground. Save us, Corrin. Fulfill.
Corrin shakily extended his hand to grasp Johnson, but before he could speak, his friend was gone. He had leaped from the rubble and sped to the Imperial army. Corrin realized his breathing was at an increased rate. He sighed and attempted to regain control. He could not. He would not. His body collapsed as energy flowed, undeterred, into his mind.
He righted himself. He had never felt it like this. He blasted from the building and crashed into the Imperials. Laughing at the looks of terror on their faces, he swiped about. Men fell like hay to a scythe. His energy continued increasing.
He was infected. He was a Raging Soul. One virus cannot live with the other, unless one is stabilized. Only then can it cultivate. Only in an Immune. Only in him. He was the last chance for his people. He was the last chance for the world. As he stood there, soaked in the blood of the enemy, that he realized it. And save them he would.