"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." - Book of John 15:13, KJV


The staccato now had a rhythm. It was a long-winded crescendo of pops and bangs, rising but never breaking pitch. Sometimes it would cut out, but then come right back as strong as before. Other times it would build up into a chorus of rivalling engagements, then die down quickly. A chaotic symphony it was, so much that it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand.

The church was alive with activity. Nurses and volunteers could be seen moving around frantically in and out of their workstations. Whilst having to go back and get their stretchers, the Blackwell Angels were informed that their bunk beds in the lower level were being repurposed as beds for the wounded still recovering. As much of a concern it was for the girls to lose a place to rest, they didn't have much time to think on it.

The guns captivated them. When not being ordered around, their attention was turned to the north, to maybe catch a glimpse of the flashing explosions, and see the red tracers arch up into the sky. Many pairs of eyes watched on helplessly as the rhythmic percussion hammered at the militia's positions, rising and falling.

They knew they would confront this terrible beast up close, at some point in time. Assurances were whispered to each of them by Max and Victoria, that they would never cross into the line of battle without a good reason to do so.

Many wondered when that reason would come, on which date might it arrive and command them to bear the brute force of this monstrous tirade; but to be spared from such fires and shells, here in the rear line furthest from the skirmishing, it was a fate not much envied as well. For what good were they here, sitting and waiting for the right moment, when their brothers and fathers took these bullets and shells in their stead?

Much to the surprise of Max and Victoria, who were nervous to confront the moment they would have to lead their sisters and retrieve the wounded from battle, the anxiousness of a great many of the girls was translated into a burning anticipation, and spilled in harsh laments.

"Better to get it over with and get the hell out, than to sit here and do nothing," a particular grumbling came from Steph. Donned was she with her helmet and vest, and the stretcher rested on her shoulder and at the ready. Her rifle was slung cross her back and out of the way—it wasn't like she'd be using it anytime soon.

Her sentiments were not shared by Samantha, however. A stomach of butterflies shook Myers to her core, and she would flinch with each shudder of the earth by a heavy shell. Shaky hands clutched the wooden furniture of her Mauser rifle tightly, so that her fingers were white.

"…I wonder if they'll ever stop," Emilia muttered. She too was nervous, but her voice was steady. Her confidence held her together.

"They'll never stop, the Reds'll keep pounding them 'till there's nothing left," Sam hissed, her wide eyes flickering to the tracers and then back to her comrades, "and once they've made mincemeat of the militia, then it'll be us!"

"Keep your head on, Sam," Steph was quick to halt the panic, "We're not going in until Victoria tells us to. We'll be fine."

Nobody could say anything to doubt such steadfast assumptions, and neither could they claim it was true. They settled into a tense silence, waiting evermore for the signal.

First Squad was very much the same, clutching to their packs and stretchers.

"…they look like fireworks," Stella remarked, watching the red streaks arch upwards, "they're like the big ones that shoot up into the sky, just before they go kaboom—"

"How do they even glow like that?" Olivia wondered aloud. Her questions was supported by a number of curious hums, "Hey, Max, how do they glow like that?"

"I…don't honestly know," their squad-leader answered. She glanced up from her hand-held map to watch the tracers again, "There's probably some magic to it, if you ask me."

"Eyo, Alyssa, you know a lot about this stuff," Stella quickly latched onto the stocky girl beside her, "how do they make those bullets glow?"

"It's got something to do with the composition of the bullet," Anderson took the time to pull out a clip of ammunition from the bandolier around her person, and she demonstrated to them, "There's three parts to a cartridge: the bullet at the top, the gunpowder that propels the bullet, and the brass casing that holds it all together. The bullet can be a solid piece, or it can be hollowed out to put other materials inside of it. With tracer rounds, they look the exact same as normal rounds, same bullet, gunpowder and brass casing—but inside the bullet, there's a mixture of some combustible materials that burn really bright and for a long enough time that someone can see where the bullet goes after firing."

"Certified genius, I'm tellin' you guys," Stella quipped with a smile, "I woulda' thought there was some voodoo magic going on, like what Maximus was saying, but Alyssa here never lets us down!"

"Amen to that," Chloe smirked, "the gun nerd's got us beat when it comes to stuff like this!"

Anderson, who turns bashful when complimented, was flushed with embarrassment and hid her face at the praise, prompting her comrades to start giggling at the sight. It was a healthy distraction, and they took turns hashing out teasing remarks.

They stopped whereupon hearing the rumble of engines, and seeing a column of four vehicles pass them by, each one loaded to the brim with militia armed to the teeth.


For the briefest of seconds, the noise tearing apart the air was held back. The only thing he might otherwise hear is the ringing in his ears, and the chirping of the birds in the canopy above them.

A burst of lead snapped over the small cluster of militiamen in their dug-in position, splintering the bark of fallen pine trees as they struck. Another second after, a whistling gave way to a mortar shell crashing into the ground a dozen yards to their front, a great THWUM echoing in their ears as the charred-black clumps of dirt showered them.

His name was Brandt. His surname, at least. He never bothered to give a first name and preferred to use his last name as a placeholder. It made it easier when there were other guys with the same first name as him, so that he might be distinguished from the others.

Which is why he jerked his head towards his squad-leader a bit further down the line, who was shouting over the din of fire as best he could, "Brandt, get that fucking machinegun up and start hammering these fuckers now!"

Ah, right. The M249-SAW in his lap. The one which he was currently loading a new belt into. Best to hurry up now, lest they be torn to shreds.

Bolt's locked open, the cover lifted up. Line the ammunition belt up, close the cover, safety switched off—

Brandt rises into a crouch, and squeezes the trigger. The SAW sings a thunderous fury, roaring against the crackle of incoming fire. Immediately the others beside Brandt suppress with their carbines and long rifles as best they could.

"Fall back, two at a time!" the squad-leader shouted again, "Brandt, cover! Hendricks, BT, displace!"

The two men to Brandt's left ducked down and began crawling in the low ground between them and their squad-leader. Stray rounds whizzed over their prone forms, but otherwise missed their mark, and the two riflemen reached the relative safety of another position. Brandt's machinegun held back the Reds' chance to capitalize, and again the squad-leader called to his men, "MacDonald, Harris, displace!"

The two men to Brandt's right ducked down and followed after their buddies, Brandt still hammering away with heavy bursts at the attackers.

The first man—MacDonald—reached the relative safety of his buddies and squad-lead, and quickly made room for his friend. But Harris was too easily intimidated by the swish of the bullets passing over his head, and panic stunted his crawl.

"Harris—c'mon! C'mon, goddamnit!" his buddies called for him, but amidst the din of battle the poor man could not hear them. Brandt's furious suppression and the Reds' attempts to overcome it were all that could be heard, an incessant roar collapsing around Harris. He clutched the sides of his head and shivered.

Then, from above, a whistling came.

"Aw SHIT, COVER—!"

THWUM

Brandt writhed in agony as the dirt displaced by the mortar shell assailed his back, and a particularly heavy chunk slammed into the back of his helmet. But his disposition changed whereupon realizing the shell had landed closer to the others than him, and he rolled to face where MacDonald and Harris had gone.

He found Harris lying opposite the hole Brandt laid in. The dead man was split in two at the waist, where the shell had struck him. Brandt came to realize in this split second, when it was just him alone to witness such bodily horror, that the corpse across from him had been sent flying into the air, and had come back down at the lip of the hole. In actuality, Harris had eaten most of the shrapnel that otherwise would have torn through Brandt.

Also, the lower half of Harris's body had been what struck Brandt in the back, as evident by the two broken legs beside him.

"Oh…oh fuck."

"Brandt!" All at once the roar of gunfire snapped into focus, and Brandt could barely hear the shouts from across the way, "Get your ass over here, now!"

Bark snapped off the nearby trees as Brandt cradled his automatic weapon, the gun barrel's heat scathed his arms as he crawled to his squad. Teeth clenched, blood coursing through veins, the sweat dripped from his brow and splinters poked at his arms.

The mortars were too slow to claim his life. Brandt was practically dragged into the position his fellow men occupied. From there, he followed the small trench that connected it to the rest of the forward position, and found himself another spot to engage the encroaching tide of Reds.

In the time it took to vacate from the previous position, a vicious exchange of fire had been occurring between fellow militiamen and the attacking force. Delaire's brigade on their left flank had swung some of their guns to bear down on the Reds, and this was met in turn by more mortar strikes along the line.

Hendricks, BT and MacDonald came shuffling into Brandt's proximity, each one out of breath. The squad-leader followed shortly afterwards, his brow set in a steep grimace.

"Fall back, we're not staying here," he bellowed, and skirted his way to the front, "Get up, we're not out of this yet!"

"What about Galveston and the others, over on our right?"

"If they have any sense left in them, they've already pulled back, and we should too," the SL spurned them to action by his sheer force of will. It wasn't like they needed much convincing, however—Harris had already convinced them well enough.

Your death shall not be in vain.

Brandt muttered this under his breath as he clutched his M249, and fell in rank with his squad, scurrying down the trench line to reach the next set of defenses set up for the Reds. Delaire's men kept up the fire and covered their retreat.


The ground rumbled. The barest feeling of tremors could be felt in their boots. The air was charged with moisture and electricity.

"Five minutes."

This had been spoken to them quietly, and passed around. Since that moment, they clung to their rifles and stretchers and awaited the moment to come. Silence was their language, and they spoke it well.

They were due to become involved in the tussle. More and more calls for medevac were coming through on the radio, and Dr. Neumann was getting antsy. They could tell because the Head Doctor couldn't stand still for any stretch of time, always would he be pacing back and forth near the radio operator, waiting just like them for a signal.

The Angels were waiting in the trench once more. Helmets were donned, and orders were given to leave the rucksacks and to take just their rifles, ammunition, medical bags, and stretchers. The rest of their stuff would be left behind, as it was unnecessary to their task.

The roll of a mortar barrage sounded in the distance. The ragged pops and cracks of small arms filled the intervals between these hammering notes.

Victoria spared another glance to the wristwatch on her left arm. A gift it was, from a nurse who had taken the time to come and thank them for their bravery in helping with the wounded. The sentiments not otherwise spoken aloud between the Angels and the medical volunteers were teeming with appreciation, and these nurses expressed this profusely to the Angels' squad-leaders.

Caulfield herself was gifted a lot of praise, not merely for her feats as leader of First Squad but as a hero in the Siege of Blackwell many days ago. A mythical persona now seemed to follow the mousy brunette with every step she took, and this was to Max's deepest aggravation.

Victoria huffed in amusement. She would've been foolish enough to think such a boost to her own ego was worth more than this watch, not a couple weeks ago. She imagines reaching back in time just so she could smack the stupid out of her past self, so that her gratitude for having something as simple as a wristwatch might be recognized a lot sooner than now, at the twilight of battle.

The hands on the clock were set at eleven-fifty-six, four minutes until noon. The smaller dial clicked around the watch face, slowly, steadily.

"River."

"Yes?" the pony-tailed blonde snapped from her dread, and turned to her squad-lead.

"I need you to walk to Caulfield and Price over there," Chase gestured to the two standing members of First Squad over yonder, "and tell her that you are my second-in-command,".

Schwartz did a double-take, and curiosity got the better of her, "Wait, what? Why don't you do it?"

"Because of protocol," Chase answered, "I've already talked to her 2IC, now I need you to do the same. When we go over, I'm keeping you behind to keep up communication with her and her squad, since we don't have any radios."

"Keeping me behind?"

Victoria looked down to her, and made sure that River was attentive to her words, "Yes. I'm keeping you here, so that if I get hit, the squad will have someone else to look to for leadership. Now get over there and talk to them."

Schwartz nodded, and meandered her way over to First Squad further down the trench. She passed these feminine figures, donned in steel-grey helmets and black boots with their rifles slung across their backs, their soft voices speaking to each other as she walked past. She approached the side of their squad-leader and second-in-command.

"Max?"

"Yes?" Caulfield turned to her, her blue eyes shining brightly under the shadow of her stahlhelm.

"Victoria told me to tell you, that I'm her second," River explained, "and that I'll be staying behind."

"Good to know," Max smiled, "Chloe's my second, and she'll be the one you'll relay to."

"Wassup," Price nodded in greeting, eyeing the nervous blonde, "Here's to us not getting our heads shot off."

"Yeah, huh."

River returned to her post. Despite her trespasses against her own squad-lead, the thought of leading a group of her peers suddenly dawned on her, and the weight of responsibility loomed over her head. She found herself muted by the callousness of Victoria's assumptions, that her own life was to be spared to chance—

if I get hit, the squad will have someone else to look to

Maybe that's why Victoria's brows were pinched, and why her hands shook the slightest. Not that the others have seen it, but River was always by the pixie-blonde's side, so noticing these things became a common occurrence.

She noticed first when Victoria glanced at her watch, then turned back to the church. A runner stepped quickly outside and towards their position. Chase and Caulfield met the runner halfway and exchanged a brief word, before heading back to their groups.

"Second Squad, standby!" Chase called out, and the girls rose from their spots, "One minute!"

"Tay', come here," the pixie blonde lowered her voice to speak to Christensen, who now stood close, "I need you with Greenock, keep an eye out for her on my behalf."

"Will do."

"Court', you'll be teaming up with Sara and I. Stick close to me, and we'll get through it."

"Got it, Tori'."

"Steph!"

From the cluster, a green helmet bobbed its way to the front, "Yeah?"

"I doubt you'd prefer otherwise, but you're with Sam."

"Wouldn't have it any other way!" Steph boasted, then gave Samantha a sharp pat on the back. The shorter brunette grumbled at her partner's enthusiasm, but said nothing in protest.

"Sara, I want your group to be with me. Stay close."

"Understood, squad-lead," came the smooth reply. Beside her, Jenny and Jasmin stood at the ready.

The clock hands turned. Slowly, steadily. The guns were rumbling still, but the rage of battle had simmered down, to where they could place each individual shot as it sounded.

Thirty seconds.

"We'll move in pairs, I'll be leading from the front. We'll take it slow at first, cover to cover. Stick close, but don't bunch up. When we reach the line, remember your training, and be prepared to get in and get out fast!"

Twenty.

"Stretchers to whoever's the strongest of your pairs! Keep your straps tight, don't let your stuff weigh you down!"

Ten.

"This is what we've volunteered for! For our families, for our friends, for our home!"

"For Arkadia!"

Five.

Chase glanced back to Caulfield, and raised a single thumbs-up. It was returned.

One.

"Up and over!" with a swing of the arm Victoria led her squad up and over the top of the trench. River looked on as her sisters-in-arms hoisted their stretchers over the top, and she likened them to great spears and lances being thrust up into the sky, a mark of defiance against the gloomy backdrop.