Hey. It's been a while, huh? Lmao! Anyways, I want to apologize for not uploading in, like, what? Two months, I believe? I'm not sure about that. Anyways, I could say I was in a car accident and aliens came out of my ass and gave me superpowers or whatever the reason why I haven't been writing, but in reality, I was just simply procrastinating. That's it. Nothing more. Reason why? At first, I didn't know why. One reason I think is because it's summer break and I just wanted to just turn my dumb brain off and relax but after looking at the chapters I posted and my unfinished draft, I realized the problem.

I just don't like what I'm writing.

I'm not satisfied with where I'm taking the story or what I'm doing. I even cringed at some parts I've written. Now, does this mean I'm dropping the story? Fuck no! Absolutely not! I enjoy writing it. Like I said, I'm not satisfied with what I'm doing. So here's what's going to happen: I'm going to rewrite the whole thing. Change some scenes and add some new ones. You know, like a rewrite. Also, there's a possibility I'll write another story in the process as I wanted to write other things, so keep an eye out for that.

Anyway, here's the unfinished draft I haven't finished. So yeah, I guess that's it. So I'll see you all next time. :)

Keep in mind: I'm not dead, just thinking and writing. But I'm mostly thinking a lot.

Peter finally managed to skin the deer and cut it up into bits.

Peter put pieces of skewered chunks on a spit over the campfire. He did make sure to clean all the fur off the meat with a water canister he picked up from some dead bandits.

"I wish you could have helped CV." He said. Tapping CV data core on the leans. Who he placed on the grass next to him. "I really took your AI knowledge for granted."

While the meat cooked over the fire, Peter walked around the camp, careful not to step on any of the bodies. He picked up a can next to a brown bag. It was labeled 'Sweet Corn' with a picture of corn on the front. Corn? That's nice. It has been a long time since Peter ate some corn. He gives it a quick shake, hearing the corn inside sloshing around. He pulled the tab while holding the data knife in the same hand, revealing the contents inside. The small corn bits float around in the murky water. He opens up his helmet, and immediately the stench of death hits his nose. But he doesn't react to the rotten flesh smell. It's a smell you get used to if you've been around dead bodies for an extended amount of time. Peter lifted the can to his mouth, taking a big gulp. He chews the corn while drinking the sweet water. It was sweet. A bit too sweet, in his opinion. After finishing the can, Peter wipes his mouth with the underside of his arm, where it doesn't have the armor protecting it. He squats down and looks inside the brown bag. More canned food of all types was inside. Fruits, vegetables, and even some meat. Nice.

He grabbed the bag and placed it close to the campfire, near a pile of weapons and ammo he found around the campsite. Peter then again looked around the campsite, looking for anything of value. He walked over to a tent with a bandit on the ground on the left side, his bloody head lying on some stones. He peeks inside and sees a dead bandit lying dead in his sleeping bag, with a bullet hole right in the middle of his face. Next to him were a revolver, a belt holding eight three-pocket half-moon clips, and a holster. Peter stashes his data knife on his belt and grabs the revolver. The handle was made of a strong wood material. The grip panel helps the revolver hold strong in Peter's thick gloves. On the heel of the revolver was a lanyard attached to the bottom of the holster. Next to it were its cleaning kit and a small tin ammunition box.

He pressed the cylinder release on the frame. The cylinder pops out on the right side. Six chambers, three rounds, and three spent rounds. On the bottom of the case head was the caliber, 45 acp. An old-world pistol caliber that's still in use today. The RE-45 Autopistol uses.45 acp for its caliber. An effective sidearm if your primary weapon goes dry and you need to fill the air with fast-going rounds as quickly as possible. Popular among Pilots due to its high rate of fire and extreme reliability. Although Peter prefers the B3 Wingman more for its accuracy and hard-hitting round, he pressed down on the ejector rod, and one of the half-moon clips came off. The other stays inside the chamber. He grabs the spent moon clip, takes off the spent casings on them, drops them to the ground, and puts the half-moon clip in one of the pouches of his belt. He then put the cylinder back in and placed the revolver in its holster. The tin can and the cleaning kit were then put inside a bag on Peter's left side.

He grabbed the belt and walked out of the tent, trying to put it around him. It was awkward trying to put a belt over another belt, and he eventually gave up. He took the pouches off the belt and popped them on his belt. However, he used one of his pouches on his belt to put in the empty half-moon clip. Once he was done with the pouches, he popped the holster off and placed it on his right side. Peter walked to the campfire, sat down next to the weapons pile, and began inspecting them. They all looked horribly kept. The reason Peter took the revolver was that it looked well taken care of and didn't look like it was made in a scrap yard. He grabbed an SMG that shot 9mm and inspected the bore. A small amount of fouling can be seen. What's more interesting is that it looks a bit burnt. That's not good. That only means one thing. These guns use gunpowder, or at least some form of powder, as the fouling is red instead of black. Well, some of it is black, but that's just the burned bits. Modern guns use an electric reaction instead of gunpowder. This heavily improves the ballistics, with the bullet propelled at an extremely high velocity, easily penetrating most cover except the ground. But even after centuries, dirt proves time and time again to be the most reliable thing to stop bullets. Peter drops the SMG and pulls out the tin can from his bag. On top, it read '45 ACP. Fire Dust.'.

Fire dust. What could it be? They don't use gunpowder, or maybe that's what they call gunpowder here on this planet. Peter pulled the lid up and grabbed a single bullet. It has the same construction as many of the spent casings around the place, but the body has the crystalline lines on it in red. Peter grabbed a nearby stone from the fire and the bullet on it. He pulled out his data knife and cut the top of the bullet. Once off, he then poured all the contents onto the stone. It was a bright red powder of some sort. It's no wonder those bullets didn't pierce his armor. For the record, he was shot five times in the back and was okay. But a bullet is still a bullet. Even if this new unknown propellant is weak like gunpowder, it's still going to hurt and kill. But out of curiosity, Peter pulled out his revolver, opened the cylinder, grabbed a single bullet from the ammunition box, loaded it in, and closed the cylinder. He spins the cylinder and stops it with the hammer to line up with the single bullet.

He then zooms in with his helmet on a tree. 12 meters away. He aims and fires. A burst of flame came out of the barrel, making Peter drop the revolver in fright.

"Shit!" He yelled. "Was that supposed to happen?"

He looked at the tree he had shot at. There was a small hole in it. The bullet wedged itself into the tree bark, but it didn't go through. A small amount of smoke was coming up from the surrounding bullet. He picks up the revolver. It didn't explode into parts, and it fired just fine. The bore wasn't damaged or anything. So what the hell was that? Is that why it's called fire dust? Fire comes out of the barrel? With a deep breath, Peter aimed the revolver at the same tree he shot at and fired. The bullet flies out of the barrel with a burst of flame, leaving a small trail of flame behind it before nailing the tree.

"Huh. That's interesting." He said. "I could even see the bullet fly in the air like a tracer round."

Peter noted that the bullet velocity of this round is quite slow. Now that could just be 45 acp, the propellant, or most likely both. Peter fires the last two shots. Both of them landed at the same spot. Surprise, the tree hasn't caught fire now. Peter ejects the casings, grabs the half-moon clip, and takes the empty casings from it. He then grabs the other moon clip from his pouch and begins putting new rounds on it. Once done, he reloads the revolver and holsters it. By now, the sweet smell of cooked deer was beginning to outweigh the stench of death. Peter grabs one of the skewered meats and chows down. It tasted a bit earthy or wild. Like he was taking a bit of the planet. A lot less juicy, but smoother and firmer. Quite firmer than he thought. But it wasn't as firm or tough as Prowler meat. That stuff you really need to chew. Peter sat there eating with his hand under his chin. All these weapons are nice, but they're not great. They have dirty bores, bent iron sights on some of them, stiff triggers, and no trigger guard on any of them, so if they're accidentally dropped, they could misfire.

Actually, they look like they could misfire if you drop them in general. To test that theory, Peter put the skewered deer in his mouth and picked up a random rifle in the weapons pile. The rifle he picked was of a bullpup design. With the magazine in the back and the firing grip in front. He took out the magazine, checked the bullets, and put it back in. The crystalline lines were light blue instead of red. He then slightly cocked the handle and saw that there wasn't a round in the chamber. He fully pulled the handle back and let go, letting it chamber a round. With the gun now loaded, Peter tosses the rifle away from him with the barrel facing away from him. And wouldn't you know it, the misfire. The guy fired off a round with a light blue trail behind it and hit a random bush in the foliage. Seeing this, Peter shakes his head.

"Mmmugh." He takes the skewer from his mouth. "Yeah, I'm keeping the revolver only. It may not be the smartest thing to pick a revolver over a rifle or an SMG, but I'd rather not have a gun that can misfire if a drop or a sudden strong movement can send it off." Peter takes a bite from his skewer. All these guns except for the revolver might have been made by four drunk guys who stumbled upon a junkyard and decided to make a gun, which may have been the case.

Having a gun now is nice and all, but what Peter wanted was a map. He had no clue as to where he was or was going. Peter has been lost on planets before; Typhon is the prime example. He can't forget that experience. But in those cases, Peter had CV or other SRS Pilots to help him navigate around the world and do a mission. But now Peter was all alone. With no mission to do. He does have a personal mission, which is to find CV, but what happens after that? He could find the headquarters of the ship and signal an S.O.S., but he doesn't want a repeat of Troy. That's a gamble Peter isn't willing to make. This is assuming the ship is even here. But his gut is telling him it is here, because if it wasn't here, then Peter really wouldn't know what to do. He can't imagine a life without CV anymore, or even war. God. What was the last time Peter did something that wasn't related to war? War has been his life. His earliest memories were of war. He still remembers the stench of puke and blood inside the ship. He sighs, picks up another skewer from the fire, and begins to eat. He grabbed the tin can of ammunition inside the bag and sat there eating and thinking for a long time.

But Peter was kicked out of his thoughts when he heard a loud boom fallow by dozens of cracks of gunfire in the deep, unknown woods. He looks behind him, starting deep in the forest.

"What is going on in this place?" Peter said to himself.

He looks at the dead bandits around him and thinks back to the time he saved that family from a bandit attack. It soon clicked to him. He stands up, picks up CV, and puts him in the bag on his left side. He puts out the fire by covering it with dirt and rocks. He waited for the fire to die down before pressing the button on his helmet to snap it closed and walk in the direction of the gunfire. Peter will continue to search for any remnants of the ship. But in the process, he'll do something good to occupy him. Something to ease his urges.

--

The heavy twin-barrel machine guns mounted on the village wall fire at the tree line, hitting one already-hit bandit in the face as he peaks his head out behind a tree. The.50 caliber rips through his aura and comes out the back of his head. Brain matter splats on the bushes behind him. He drops to the ground, and his head nearly spits in half.

"Got one!" The guardsmen cheered. "Follow my rounds!" He told his fellow guardsman to his left, holding a single loaded grenade launcher in his hand. He raised his launcher, and the well-known bloop of the 40mm round leaving the barrel flew in the air and landed where the tracer rounds are hitting. Multiple bandits yelled out in pain as shrapnel hit their bodies. Some are knocked over, allowing the machine gunners to rip their bodies apart. But one of the bandits quickly got out of cover, holding a rocket launcher.

"Look out!" The two Guardsmen flopped to the left, hitting their steel helmets on the stone ground. They felt their bodies shake as the rocket destroyed its target. They avoided most of the rocket blast, but shrapnel from both the rocket and machine gun hit the back of the guardsman's foot, breaking his aura and sticking itself inside his foot. Their heavy machine gun now lay broken and blown to bits on the ground. The other five mounted heavy machine guns fired every last bullet they could, but they too were blown up. One rocket killed one guardsman; his chest was ripped open, showing the insides of his chest. Another was heavily wounded. A large piece of shrapnel was stuck in the wounded right arm. Bits of bone stuck out as it hung like a wet rag. The Guardsmen cursed. The Guardsmen were wondering how the hell these bandits got their hands on rocket launchers! He looked over the wall behind him and could see the townsfolk panicking in the streets. They trip and fall over each other, children crying for their parents and women screaming. It was a disaster. And it was about to get even worse.

"They breached the north gate! I repeat! They breached the north gate!" The panicked voice on the other side of Robert's radio made everything so much worse. This was something new for Trailon. They have experienced bandit attacks before, but they were always attacks on wagons traveling down the roads connecting the five towns or crops being stolen on farmland, but this was something else. This was a full-on attack on one of Trailon's five towns. And none of them were prepared for this. They were trained to fight wars against Grimm, not human beings.

The same can't be said for the bandits. They started to feel grateful for the training and planning that ex-Atlesian soldiers gave them. And it was all their leader's plan. They may have taken several losses, from fifty to thirty-eight, but the number would have been worse if it weren't for the help of that Atlesian their leader allowed into their new tribe. With their training, everyone, especially the LMGs, shoots over the Guardsmen's heads, forcing them to stay down.

"Now is our time! GO!" One of the bandits yelled. Pointing at the front gate. Four bandits ran out of the tree line and ran as fast as they could to the town's wooden front gate, carrying satchel charges in their arms. A couple of bullets wheezed by them, hitting one in the arm, but his aura took it for him. Once they reached the gate, they strapped on four satchel charges, pulled the fuse, and ran to the sides away from the blast. A grenade was then dropped from the wall and fell on the bandits' feet. Before they could react, it exploded, destroying one aura completely and heavily damaging the others. They weren't dead, but they weren't going back to the fight immediately. A few seconds later, all thirty Guardsmen on the wall felt their bodies violently shake from the explosion down below. The gate has been breached.

"FUCK! Where are the Rangers?" The Guardsmen screamed. He fired overhead until he emptied his magazine. Neither he nor any of the Guardsmen will let them pass the gate. They will fight until they use up all their ammo and grenades. They fired at the bandits with everything they had. Firing rifles, pistols, and grenade launchers over their heads or placing rifles on the crenel between the merlons of the wall. They throw grenade after grenade, killing and injuring a few. But a rocket was fired, destroying a portion of the wall and killing two Guardsmen. Then three more. The force of the blast and the debris and shrapnel knocked them all to the ground. One guardsman had his face caved in by a piece of debris flying at him after his aura was broken by shrapnel. The bandits then charged, throwing their grenades at the Guardsmen. The grenades clattered around the Guardsmen. Hitting brass and empty 40-mm shells. Some managed to throw back a few, injuring one bandit by having his foot blown off, but most exploded around them. The guardsman himself was hit multiple times and passed out from blood loss. It wasn't long before the only Guardsmen left defending the wall were dead or too wounded to fight back.

The bandits ran through the gate, ironing their wounded, and began ransacking the town. Market stalls were ripped apart for anything valuable. Buildings were kicked in where families were hiding. Some bandits ignored them, while others did not. More gunfire up north can still be heard from the last Guardsmen still fighting, and a few ran up the streets to help. But besides that, the town is mostly theirs now, but they're going to have to loot the place fast before the Rangers can come and deal with the outsiders.

Unbeknownst to the bandits, they are not the only outsiders in town.

--

Peter stands on top of the roof, watching a group of six bandits camp around behind a building. They seem to enjoy eating the fruits and bread they stole. Well, he sure hopes they're going to enjoy some shrapnel. He holds a grenade in his hand, getting ready to pull the pin. The grenade he picked up from a dead bandit at the front gate. He picked up over a dozen. All placed inside a bag just meant for holding grenades. Behind his back was a high-quality rifle he picked up from one of the guardsmen. Unfortunately, he couldn't arrive as fast as he could to save them. He'll make sure their sacrifice is not in vain. With the pull of the pin, Peter threw the grenade at the group. The satisfying ping of the safety leaver coming off rang out in the air. The grenade spun in the air and landed in the middle of the group.

"...is that a gre-"

The grenade exploded, killing half of the group and heavily wounding the rest. Peter noticed there was no colorful light shining around their bodies the last time he fought against the bandits that night. He pulled out another grenade from his bag, took the pin out, and threw it at the next group of bandits he saw hanging around on the side of the street. They all panicked and scurried inside the building. One bandit was brave enough to kick it away, but it landed through a window and inside a building where a small group of bandits were on the other side of the street. There were screams followed by an explosion, which ended with multiple moans of pain.

Peter grabbed the rifle from his back, putting the safety lever on the left side on automatic fire. He aimed at the bandit, who kicked the grenade away, and fired a three-round burst. The bandit drops to the floor, holding his head, which felt like it was going to explode. Not a second later, a small hole bore in his forehead. Peter moved on, firing at anything that held a rifle in rapid succession. The bandits ran for cover. Some hide behind buildings or stalls; others enter any nearby buildings. The rest were shot. Peter aimed at a bandit who ran towards a food stall. He aims and fires a six-round burst. Four rounds hit his chest, while the rest hit his neck and head. The last two rounds cause his body to shimmer in light, and he drops to the floor, holding his throat. Blood leaked through his hands. He then started gaging and, frankly, moving his legs around. Then he stopped moving. Two bandits hiding behind a fruit stand looked around, panicked.

"Who's shooting!" One bandit yelled.

"I don't know!" The other yelled.

Mark zoomed in and fired six shots. The bullets exploded the apples, strawberries, and watermelons sitting or hanging around the fruit stand as they zipped through them to get to their initial target. Some juice gets splattered in their eyes, making one of them drop his rifle. One got hit two times in the head and one time in the neck, making his body shimmer in light. The other got one in the shoulder and in the neck; the last bullet missed just by an inch on his cheek. They both drop to the floor, hiding behind the fruit stand, rubbing their eyes, or holding where they got shot. Peter jumped across the rooftop and