Witch of the Eighty-Sixth

by contrastellar

There is no such thing as a clean war, and for those who know the secrets of this battlefield — what else could this life be, than a Curse?

2. Chapter 1

July29, SY 2148

There were no casualties on that battlefield.

A battlefield that had zero casualties was something that, up until nine years ago, was unheard of, unthought of. Something that would never have crossed the mind of any who dared consider themselves scholars of war. Something that up until nine years ago, the Republic of San Magnolia would have never thought it would fight. But now, it was a reality. Something that was the day-to-day life of Miorine Rembran; something that consumed her every waking moment. If one were to move their attention from the silver-haired Alba to the bigger picture: this was just a small stretch of road in the city of Liberté et Égalité, located in the first of the eighty-six administrative sectors of the Republic of San Magnolia — and despite the nearly decade long war that the military still fought, reading the faces of those citizens who were on the streets today, one might never even have guessed that there was a war being fought at all. It was not in the thoughts of anyone that Miorine would pass today. However, it would be on her mind all day. For it was her every waking moment.

Her heels clicked against the concrete as she walked through the city of Liberté et Égalité, doing her best to ignore those passersby who might give her a strange look for her Prussian-blue-and-white uniform. She knew people would look. They always did, no matter how many times she walked past her fellow Alba on the streets of the city. They all knew where she was headed, even if they had never met or talked to her before. Women like her were a rarity, despite the fact that they shared the same eyes, the same hair. All naturally silver, practically shimmering in the midday sun, clouded over with thought as she took her strides towards the Palace Blacneige — the headquarters of the Republic's military. She thinks not about the trivial matters that a young woman of her age might think — school, or relationships or shopping. Instead, she thinks about what she is — a Handler.

"…and no loss of life was reported on our side today yet again, thanks to our humane, unmanned drones — the Juggernauts!" A holoscreen nearby loudly chirped with the face of the military news reporter, a silver-haired, silver-eyed woman with features that of an Alabaster woman. "And that concludes today's update regarding the war. Hail the Republic of Magnolia! Glory to the five-hued flag!"

Miorine frowned, more inwardly than outwardly. Something had always sat wrong with her about referring to them as 'unmanned'. Ever since their unveiling as the replacement for the frontline and vanguard forces of the Republic's military; she had seen right through the façade. Those drones? The Juggernauts? They were all manned. By the Colorata that had been expelled from the eighty-five administrative sectors, and forced into concentration camps in the imaginary eighty-sixth sector. Many were conscripted into military service, as the information processing units of the Juggernauts. To the government and the people of the eighty-five sectors, these drones were humane, solely because of the idea that anyone who wasn't of Alba blood simply wasn't human. The Special Wartime Peace Preservation Act was put into place, and stripped all non-Alba citizens of their rights. In essence, making them nothing but pigs in human form. Those people who had been stripped of their rights, their homes, their very lives, had been forced to construct the Gran Mur: a series of giant walls meant to serve as the last beachhead of the Legion's unending advance, and simultaneously keeping all Colorata from entering the Eighty-Five sectors. They were given the name "Eighty-Six."

It was a simple logical deduction. She had only been six or seven when the Colorata were rounded up and moved to the concentration camps — she remembered some of their faces, some of their names. It only made sense, that when a few months later the 'humane weapon' of the M1A4 Juggernaut was revealed — it had only made sense to her in hindsight that things had turned out the way that they had. But it didn't make it any less horrendous to find that knowledge out herself. The fact that the adults were hiding it, or at least were denying it and lying about it, made it so much worse. That's what had driven her to become a Handler, that which had driven her through the Special Officer Reserve Academy — and when the call went out looking for new Handlers from the Reserve forces, she immediately volunteered.

That was how she ended up being the Handler for the Seventh Ward, First Defensive Squadron.

And now here she was, just a block away from the Palace, waiting for the streetlight to change.

The streetlight blinked white at her, signaling her to move across the street, following behind a couple. The girl couldn't be much older than Miorine was herself — and Miorine was only sixteen. Part of her mind berated itself for spending so much time around the Eighty-Six, rather than spending the early years of her life taking the easier, more straight-and-narrow road forward through her life. But at the same time, she couldn't help but care. There was too much injustice in this world for her to not care about her fellow man.

She showed her ID card to the guards at the front gate of the Palace, and walked inside the massive courtyard of Palace Blacneige, a former royal palace, from a time immemorial when the Republic was actually a monarchy, rather than the republic that it is today. It had two grand courtyards, one of which she now walked across, and around its massive marble fountain, which still spewed water in pretty arcs through the air — no drop was misplaced. She could appreciate that someone, at least, seemed to care about the upkeep of the fountain outside. The same couldn't be said for inside the palace, where she worked as a Handler. As soon as she entered the entrance hall of the Palace, she was met with the smell of spilled alcohol, and the sound of shouting and merry-making that most would consider unbecoming of officers and enlisted men and women. There were shouts, and cheering as a sports game was put on one of the TV monitors that was typically reserved for news feeds, or things regarding military business. This had not been the case for a time, probably since before Miorine had been able to join the Special Officers Reserve Academy. She didn't berate anyone, try and pull rank as a Captain of the military, even though she knew that several of the men and women who were rabble rousing were in the ranks below her. She simply said nothing, her brow still tied in frustration as she thought, continuing to walk towards the secure area. There were jeers as she passed, some words that were meant as whispers but in drunken stupor were said loud enough so that she could hear; "There goes the Princess of the Dogs. Look at how she walks, like she's more important than she is."

She ignored those words. Not once ever paying them any mind. She wasn't unused to being called 'Princess' — her pure Celena blood practically made that a given in primary school, and her father's status as one of the commerce giants of the Republic made it even worse. But it was the words that followed; "of the Dogs"… Like the fact that she took her business seriously as a Handler meant that she was no better in their eyes than the Colorata that they scorned as being sub-human.

She walked towards the secure area, tapping her ID against a turnstile as it swung open for her, leaving the jeering and the noise of those who would call her names behind in an area that even they weren't allowed to reach unless they had a good reason.

"Oh, it's Miorine!" A familiar, silver-bell like voice rang out through the secured area, the owner of the voice likely not meaning for her voice to be as loud as it was. There was the sound of heels not her own clicking against the marble floor towards her, as Miorine looked up to see the source of the voice.

"Major Milizé!" Miorine straightened up at the sound of the voice, recognizing it as the voice of a superior officer, despite the girl being not that much older than Miorine herself was. "Good morning, ma'am."

"Oh there's no need for that, Miorine." Milizé smiled. She stood a few inches taller than her, even with both of them wearing the standard issue uniform heels. Her voice was cheerful, despite the inner turmoil that Miorine felt at the moment, though those feelings vanished when the Major appeared.

Miorine did her best to put on a small smile at the Major's insistence. "Of course, Lena. My apologies."

"Do you have a deployment today, Miorine?"

"Yeah, strategic command seems to think that we'll be able to push through a force of Legion that have been spitting at my squadron for the past few weeks."

Lena puts on a knowing smile. "I understand that feeling." There's a buzzing from Lena's wrist, and a chime sounds throughout the secure area.

"The battlefield calls?" Miorine asks, knowing and anticipating the call for herself at any moment.

Lena gives a solemn nod, and leaves Miorine behind, heading up the escalator to the upper levels of the Palace, where the Handler facilities are. Miorine sighed inwardly, watching Lena's hurried footsteps as she went.

The youngest girl to make the rank of "Major", and quite possibly only because compared to those outside of the secure area, she seemed like the only one to take her job seriously — and quite possibly the only person to weather the storm that was the Eastern Front's First Ward, First Defensive Squadron; SPEARHEAD. More specifically, its commanding officer — Undertaker. An information processor unit infamous for having 'broken' several of its previous handlers, if the legends were to be believed. It had seemed, in the weeks since Lena's assignment to Spearhead squadron, as its handler, that she had been coping just fine, with no real threat of breaking any time soon. Miorine watched her disappear from eyeshot up the escalator, before sighing, this time outwardly. Her wrist buzzed, and another chime rang throughout the secure area. She didn't need to look at the watch attached to her wrist to know what it was — combat summons.

She followed Lena up the escalator, taking measured steps in her heels even as the escalator moved, to get to her designated command and control room all the more quickly – for the faster that she was able to deal with this, the more of the Processor's lives she could save.

At the top of the escalator, a hallway was bisected, the left side heading towards the offices of higher ranked officers than her, and the right leading further into the Palace, where the C&C rooms were. She went to the right, the hallway gradually becoming darker as more and more of the power in this part of the building was diverted to the powerful supercomputers that were the command and control consoles that each room had. She went to the room designated as the Seventh Ward, First Defensive Squadron's C&C space, and opened the door by pressing her palm to the door. It opened for her, as if it were magic. She slid into the darkened room, her eyes adjusting to the low light emanating from the console as she palmed the door closed behind her. She took off her officer's cap, and sat down at the chair in front of the quadruple monitors that made up the console.

She looks directly at the first monitor.

"Captain Miorine Rembran. Eastern Theater Forces, Combat District Seven. Defense Line One, Unit Command and Control officer." The console quickly verified her identity based on her voice, and retinal scan, before blinking to life, all monitors springing up a nearly blindingly bright user interface. She blinked away the stars from the sudden brightness that formed in her eyes, and set about connecting her Para-RAID. She pulls it from her bag, the silver, choker-like device, that connected its wearer's consciousness to the collective unconscious of humankind, and allowed her to share voice and hearing with that of the Processors of the Eighty-Six.

She taps the center of it once as it presses against her skin.

"Para-RAID, Activate; Synchronization Target, DUAL WIELDER Squadron." The path between the senses of herself, and the squadron members of Dual Wielder was forged, and the sensory resonance connected itself.

"Handler One to DUAL WIELDER Squadron, good morning, resonance complete." Miorine speaks, although there is no one in the room with her. It doesn't matter; the sensory link was shared with those Processors anyways, and all members of Dual Wielder heard her. She is even polite about it, even though many other handlers would not be polite when speaking to the Eighty-Six, she, for all the pressures in the world telling her to not be, was.

"This is Snow Owl. Resonance Clear, Handler One." The voice of a young man, no more than a year or two her senior, responded.

Miorine quickly appraises the enemy forces as they appear on her situation screen, the blue blips of the friendly processor's Juggernauts, moving up the screen towards the nearly blotted out portion of the screen that was populated and advancing with red blips, signifying Legion forces.

"Handler One to Snow Owl, enemy forces approaching point four-zero-zero. Intercept." She instructs. "Enemy forces seem comprised of Löwe and Grauwolf, minimal Amaise presence."

"Copy that, Handler One. Fourth and Third Platoons will act as the rear guard, first and second will advance and intercept the enemy force."

There was no need to acknowledge what Snow Owl had said over the resonance. What was said was more for the benefit of the squadron who were also listening over their own Para-RAID devices, rather than for the benefit of Miorine herself. On the left screen, there were the indicators of the squadron's Para-RAID links, all of them listed with a letter, and a number; the letter signifying what platoon they were in, the number signifying their rank in that platoon. Five being the lowest, with one being the platoon leader. The exception, on this screen, was the spot occupied by Snow Owl's name; the Squadron leader.

"DUAL WIELDER, radar is down, please switch your radar systems to passive mode." Miorine instructs them in hopes that they comply. The active radar system aboard the Juggernauts would alert the Legion to their positions as they approached. "Be advised, I will not be able to provide—"

"We appreciate your concern, Your Highness, but we'll handle this." Snow Owl responded, coldly. Miorine didn't react to being called something other than her designated callsign. It wasn't unheard of for the Eighty-Six to refer to their Handlers as anything but their callsign, and this wasn't particularly offensive, so she didn't mind it.

The battle erupted as the lines of friend and foe converged. The chunk-chunk sound of the Juggernaut's 57mm guns were heard over the resonance, alongside the sounds of the Processors calling out to one another: targets, threats, where to go and what to do. This was a good squad, put together of those in their first year of conscription, but they fought well, had a good chemistry among one would certainly serve them well until the inevitable day that their squadron was disbanded and reformed with new members, the existing ones being shuffled around to different squadrons.

She wasn't sure how many sorties she'd observed since she had been assigned to DUAL WIELDER – just that it had been a few months, and in that time, the squadron hadn't lost a single unit. It was a point of pride that she had, that her squadron did as well as it had over these past few months.

She watched as her view screen filled with red; the sign of approaching Legion to DUAL WIELDER's position, as shown by the datalink between herself behind the Gran Mur, and the Juggernauts themselves. The only way to communicate data like that, as using eyesight from the Para-RAID for too long would burn out the users' brain — hearing was just enough strain that it wasn't pushing the user's brain too far. The datalink was the second part of the communication chain, although it was only used to send things like radar data, and IFF returns; and even then, with the Eintagsfliege in the air above, it was hard to have a stable link if one was even established at all.

She watched as the blue dots, indicating where the Juggernauts were, advanced on the red swarm.

"Alpha Platoon, engage." Snow Owl ordered, and immediately, a row of red blips disappeared from Miorine's screen. "Bravo, engage." Another row.

"Charlie Platoon taking small-arms fire!" Someone in Charlie Platoon reported. Miorine's eyes darted to the squadron readout screen on her left, seeing who it was who had spoken. It was Charlie Platoon's third in command. Someone who didn't have a name, and was just displayed as "C-3".

"Charlie, scatter." Snow Owl ordered. "Delta and Epsilon, take their place."

"Charlie backing away. Get a move on, Five!"

There was a stuttering response to that urging call, and Miorine flicks her main display screen to see that of Charlie-5's immediate area. They didn't move from their position, even as the Legion began to close on them.

"Five! You've gotta move!" Charlie Platoon's leader urged over the Para-RAID, panic inching into their voice as the Legion encroached on Charlie-5's position. "Move, kid, move!"

There was more stuttering; and Miorine felt all the more powerless to do anything to change the inevitable fate of this Processor, if they didn't react or move.

Time seemed to slow, as the first Löwe moved its sights onto the motionless form of Charlie-5's Juggernaut. There was a sound like stammering, or inaudible pleading, as the Löwe's turret mercilessly fired. Miorine had no way of seeing the turret fire, so much as she knew that it would, from months of watching this scene play out before her very eyes on the depersonalized screen in front of her; the real battle — the real events were occurring nearly a hundred kilometers away from where she sat, inside the comfort of the walls of the Gran Mur. As the Löwe fired, Miorine didn't notice the darting of a friendly between C-5's position, and the Löwe as it unleashed its 120mm APFSDS shell towards Charlie-5.

But Charlie-5's icon on her screen didn't disappear, even as she heard the sickening sound of the shell hitting something, as Charlie-5 heard it. Instead, the icon that had been moving between the Löwe and C-5, had spiraled away, and there was a sickening, heart-stopping crunch as the icon stopped moving. It didn't take long for the screen to update, and for Miorine to see what had happened.

"S-Snow Owl's been hit!" She cried out.

There was a sickly cough that came across the Para-RAID. Before weak words were heard; "Get out of here, Kid."

There was a sound like a sob, and in the split second between those words, and the Löwe's next shell being fired; Charlie-5 darted away from where it once stood.

Crying. That's what Miorine remembered the most, the screams and crying of the Eighty-Six as their Squadron was slowly picked apart, one by one; until only a handful of stragglers remained, fending off the Legion as best they could. Among their ranks was Charlie-5. But not a single namebearer of DUAL WIELDER remained.

"Handler One to all DUAL WIELDER units… The… The Legion is in retreat…" Miorine reported, as she watched the swarm of red on her screen start to back away, slowly at first; then all at once, as if moving in unison. "Please return to base…"

"Roger that…" was the cold response of DUAL WIELDER's newly promoted commander — Charlie-1. A Processor who didn't even have a name yet.

"About the eighteen who died…" Miorine started to say, until there was a sound like someone hitting their closed fist against the canopy of their Juggernaut.

"Don't…" The voice of one of the Processors warned, and Miorine wasn't sure if it was directed at her, or at whomever it was who had slammed their fist. Miorine wanted to wince at the sound of the voice. "Thank you, for your kind words, and everything, Handler One… DUAL WIELDER is returning to base…"

"Just so you know…" Miorine did her best to keep a straight face, although the feelings of failure bubbling in her chest did not help her trembling bottom lip. "DUAL WIELDER will likely be reformed after today's mission… Please be aware that it's unlikely that I will be the Command and Control Officer going forward…"

"Acknowledged. Thank you for your work, Handler One."

The Para-RAID was cut.

Miorine wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. For her failure in losing so many Processors in a single battle; for not even being able to say her apologies to the Eighty-Six for not doing better herself. She didn't know what to do, what better orders to give, how to give them, to try and be a better Handler for the Eighty-Six, and not just someone who sends them to their deaths.

Her tablet buzzed inside her bag. She blinked at it, unsure if she had actually heard it buzz, or if that was a figment of her imagination. She reached for it, and pulled it from her bag, the tears still pricking at the corner of her eyes, her breath catching in her chest as she read the message that was displayed on the tablet; "Report to BG. Karlstahl as soon as possible."

She didn't quite know what to make of the notification. So she did her best to wipe the tears that threatened to run down her face, and stood up from the Command and Control console, the system shutting itself down as it recognized her motion to log out. The tablet slid back into her bag, and she pulled her officer's cap back onto her head. She sniffled, and then tried to clear her throat, in an attempt to make herself look more presentable and less despondent following the events that had just occurred. She exited the room, without looking back at the screen, and with her bag slung over her shoulder.

It was a short walk to the Brigadier General's office, returning back to the fork at the top of the escalators, and instead of going down the escalators, instead heading towards the only other direction she hadn't gone today. Already the sun was starting to make its way down towards the horizon, the haze of the city stretching on towards the horizon giving the sky an orange-like glow as the sun's light passed through it. She walked through the nearly-empty hallway, her heels clicking against the floor. She tried to keep her emotions in check, but that was something easier said than done. Still did the tears threaten to form themselves at the corner of her eyes, no matter how much she tried to keep them from doing so.

She stopped in front of a door, a familiar one, as she'd been in this office before — not all that long ago — for when she was initially assigned to DUAL WIELDER to be their Handler. And now, here she was again, so soon, and with less than half of that initial Squadron remaining.

She knocked at the door, and heard from beyond it, a gruff "come in". She reached for the handle and turned it, the heavy oak door swinging wide, almost of its own volition, compared to how little strength she put into opening it.

"Brigadier General Karlstahl…" Miorine said, almost as soon as she opened the door, saluting as she stepped into the room.

The General returned the salute. And Miorine stood instead at attention as he motioned to a chair; at which she moved into the room, closing the door behind her.

"I heard about the losses of your drones today, Miorine." Karlstahl says as she sits down at his desk, across from where he sits, with his back to the windows overlooking one of the Palace's courtyards.

"Me too, sir." Miorine says, paying too much attention to how straight her back is against this chair, rather than the conversation itself.

"The losses are great enough that we're going to reform the Squadron, shuffle in some stronger Processors in their third and fourth years, and some fresh blood to learn from them." Miorine practically winces at the phrasing.

"What about me, sir? Will I remain DUAL WIELDER's Handler?" She asks, her hands resting in her lap clenching themselves into fists.

"No, you won't. As a matter of fact, we're promoting you."

"P-promoted?" Miorine asks, looking up from her lap to her superior officer; "What did I do to earn a—"

"'Captain Miorine Rembran exhibits an exemplary record in her Command and Control record, managing the units under her command with efficiency and tact like no other.'" Karlstahl quoted. "That's from a recent evaluation done of your work as a Handler. Done without your knowing... Strategic Command wants to give space for some of our older Handlers to retire early, and that's opened spaces that we need to fill."

"Like what, sir?"

"Like the Eastern Front's Second Defensive Ward, First Defensive Squadron. Code-named 'LFRITH'. Quite a mouthful, but you'll find that they're an excellent Squadron." He slides a sheet of paper across the desk to her; the transfer orders themselves — including the roster of Processors in the squadron. Most of whom were namebearers, but a few were not. The top of the list, however, was blank.

"Sir? What about this first slot?"

"The Tactical Commander? We're not sure. The Processors name themselves; and we've gotten conflicting information on what that Processor's name is."

"Why not just ask them..?"

"Ask a pig what its name is? How absu—"

"They're not pigs, sir." Miorine said, firmly, cutting off her superior officer, in a flagrant breach of protocol.

"Miorine." Karlstahl says, kindly, but just as firmly in turn. It had been a long time since she'd heard him use her first name like this. The familiarity of it was not lost on her, although she wasn't sure what to make of it at the moment. "If your father had his way with the military, the way he thinks his money does — you wouldn't be getting promoted like this at all. Quite the opposite actually. He wants you as far away from the front lines as possible. But that's not how things work. And your record as a Handler is beyond exemplary. So I'm willing to overlook your overtures of insubordination in favor of you performing admirably with this new Squadron."

"Sir—"

"If not, I, and the rest of the Strategic Command, can find a different replacement for LFRITH's Handler."

"No, sir. That won't be necessary. I accept this post." Miorine said, standing up and handing the paper back to Karlstahl.

"Good… Now, about your father… You know he's worried practically to death about your service, right?"

"I wouldn't know, sir. We hardly talk anymore." Miorine responds, not trying to sound overly enthusiastic about the fact that she and her father haven't talked much at all in the years since her commissioning as an officer for the Military. She had to practically bite through her tongue until she tasted blood to not let that enthusiasm slip through.

"Well, he and I do. And he's worried about you. What this war is doing to you."

"Sir, I—"

"Consider this; at least follow through on this post, and then retire from the military. Get a head start on starting your life for after this war is done. Maybe find someone, start a family."

"Sir, that's not what I want for myself."

Karlstahl smiles faintly at this. "I knew that you'd say something along those lines." He stands up now. "Go home for the day, think on what I've said. You don't need to give me an answer now. But consider how much different your life would be if you had something outside of the Military."

"I'll consider it, sir. Thank you."

"That'll be all then, Captain. And congratulations on your new post."

"Is it effective immediately?"

"It'll be effective as soon as tomorrow morning."

"Understood sir. Thank you."

Miorine gives another salute, before turning to leave the room, bag in tow.

July29, SY 2148

There was a certain kind of beauty in the sorrow, or at least that's what she thought in the quiet moments. Between deployments, when their obnoxious handler would leave the squadron alone, and let them have time to themselves. There's a kind of beauty in the sorrow, found when she'd watch the drops of blood fall from her chewed-through lips, from anxiety, from nerves. A habit she didn't even know that she had, until she made it this far. She was one of a select few, the oldest of her squadron, and the kind of person that had been forged into something that she was never supposed to be, never destined to be. A name-bearer; a living weapon, a tool to be used at the whims of someone else, whose only personal goal was 'survival', but even that, she knew, was not assured.

She had many names in the nine years since she, her mother, and her sister had been expelled from the Republic of San Magnolia.

Pig.

Dog.

Whore.

Witch.

That was the one that stuck. The one she was called now, by those who knew her. By those who didn't know her. By those who only knew her through her battlefield record, through her kills and fighting style.

Her personal name, earned from years on the battlefield against the Legion is "Aerial". But most people just simply called her "Witch" or "the Witch".

She had a more human name once. But it was so inconsequential now. It felt like a distant memory, like the shape of her own name was on her tongue, but she just couldn't find the actual syllables that comprised it. So she didn't think about it anymore. She used to, back when she had first forgotten her name, she'd wake up in cold sweats, her lip trembling as she tried to remember the name her mother would call her. Or the face of her elder sister as she would call her that affectionate short-hand for her name that she couldn't remember anymore.

The Witch closed her eyes against the stream of water washing over her body. She was at LFRITH squadron's base. A small, almost ramshackle building on the outskirts of a larger, abandoned city, there was an open field to its west, part of which was paved in long stretches — that the older mechanics told her were used to be the strips of land that large numbers of airplanes would land and take off from. But now its only use was to land the transport planes that would bring replacement parts for their Juggernauts, or signaled the reformation of the Squadron. There had been one such plane just a couple weeks ago, bringing supplies and new parts for their Juggernauts from behind the Gran Mur. But now, there was nothing but silence out in that field, punctuated by the occasional clanging from the mechanic team as they worked in the hangars adjacent to the base, while everyone else was getting ready for bed. There was no need to worry about noise at night — the Legion didn't tend to operate at night if they could help it, preferring solar energy over using their energy packs.

This was home, or at least the closest thing to home that the Witch had experienced in a very long time. Since before she could remember, she had been shuttled between camps, between bases once she enlisted. All the while feeling like nothing more than a replaceable unit, rather than a human being. But this? This was home to her, now. The water was never warm in the showers, the commons were never cool in the summer, the heat didn't work in the winter, and the supplies were meager at best. What the Processors managed to scavenge from the city's ruins was more palatable, if not more edible, than the artificial stuff that was shipped in from the eighty-five districts. But for now, instead of thinking about the state of supplies, or the coolness of the water that ran through her hair, she thought instead about who her next Handler would be. The last one had announced his retirement from the military, sounding prideful of his command, and what he'd done, even if what he'd done was nothing more than get her fellow Processors killed, sometimes in ways that made him sound proud of what he'd done — other times in frustration at his own inadequacies, like the his true feelings about the nature of the Eighty-Six would peek out from behind the dark cloud that was his prejudice against them.

She turned the faucet of the shower to 'off', and stepped towards her towel, dangling from a broken tile in the wall, beginning to dry herself off. She started with her neck, and worked her way down, toweling off her legs last, before wrapping the towel around her body, despite there only being one shower room, there weren't stalls. It felt weird to possibly be seen naked, despite having been seen naked on plenty of occasions by her female cohort anyways. She stepped away from the shower, and towards the sink, where she could get a good look at herself, at the source of the stinging on her lips as chewed the skin raw. What looked back at her, in her reflection, was a girl, or at least the visage of one. A girl that didn't seem to move the same way she did. One who was scarred, and chewing the skin of her lip until it was bloody yet didn't tremble in fear with the reality in which she lived in — at least not anymore. A girl with the messy, carmine hair of a Pyrope, and the dark blue eyes of a mixed-Sapphira. She didn't pay any mind to the Para-RAID embedded in her ear, or the tired, sullen eye sockets of the girl — everyone in LFRITH looked that way. Her hair was still wet, so she took the outside of her towel, and dried her hair as best she could, before wrapping the towel back around her chest and waist, and leaving the shower room behind, heading towards her own private room. She walked silently through the halls of the base, passed by closed doors with the faint sounds of snoring or the silence of sleep emanating from most of them, the rest had the quiet whispers of those who bunked together talking between themselves.

Her room was devoid of any such noises, as the captain of LFRITH, she instead found herself with the only single-person room in the base. Even the mechanics that kept the Juggernauts running had bunk rooms, rather than the quiet solitude of her own. She didn't mind it. It was privacy in a place that didn't put a price on such a thing, the one place where she could truly be alone on this battlefield. She slid into the door of her room, and closed the door behind her, letting the towel slip from between her arm and chest and to the floor, as she grabbed her underclothes from the bed, and slipped them on. She took two pieces of what almost looked like jewelry from her bed. Slipping her still-damp hair into the rings, to keep it contained while she slept. And then took a hairband from the bed, and slipped it onto her scalp as she continued to get dressed.

She was pulling on the pants of her field uniform, and then her tank-top over top of it all, when there was a soft chiming in her right ear, indicating an incoming Para-RAID connection. She instantly tensed up at this. There was never a reason for someone to resonate with her, unless it was someone else in LFRITH — which was rare — or their new Handler, with reports of Legion movements, and orders to sortie. She hoped that it wasn't the latter, most of the Juggernauts for LFRITH were still in repair from battle the day prior, and wouldn't be fully functional until the next day. A sortie in the present conditions that their Juggernauts were in, would be tantamount to death orders.

"Handler One to LFRITH Squadron. Starting today, I'm your new Handler." The woman who spoke over the Para-RAID's connection, and did so with the intonation of a girl that the Witch assumed would be of a similar age to her own. Was the Republic really so desperate that they needed teenagers to serve as Handlers? It wasn't like the Witch had kept track of her own age (hell, she barely even remembered her own birthday), but that didn't change how the Handler sounded to her.

There was silence over the Para-RAID, that lasted a moment or two. The Witch didn't think much of it — the connection to the Eighty-Six would be sparse anyways, as most of them were asleep, and the connection didn't work if one was unconscious.

"Handler One, this is LFRITH's combat commander, personal name: Aerial." She sighed as she picked up her towel from the floor, and hung it up on the hook on the door. "Everyone else is asleep. It's just me tonight."

"A-already? It's not that late…" The Handler sounded confused.

"We had a battle yesterday." The Witch explained. "And we were out on patrol today, so many of us are tired. Myself included."

"O-oh. My apologies, Aerial. I have nothing else to report or request, so I'll let you get your rest."

The Witch subconsciously gave a small smile, hoping that it wouldn't be transmitted over the Para-RAID. For a Handler, this new one wasn't as assertive as the previous ones the Witch had dealt with.

"Thank you, Madam Handler." The Witch responded, with a hint of sardonicism in her voice. She reached for her ear to swipe the Para-RAID to silent, and just as she did, the voice of the Handler came over the link once more.

"I look forward to working with you, Aerial."

This time the Witch smirked, rather than smiled, and cut the connection.

When she finally managed to will herself to sleep, the Witch dreamed in red.

Not red like her hair, but red like pooling blood in the eyes of friends who had pushed themselves too far in controlling their Juggernaut, and had been killed for it. Not by their machines, nor the machines they fought against, but by their own bodies. Maneuvers that no person was ever supposed to be able to pull off in a Juggernaut. Even if their cause of death had been truly a discarding sabot shell penetrating the paper-thin canopy of their Juggernaut, and had mortally wounded them that way; it was still those bloodshot eyes that stuck with her, never the carnage and gore of the remnants of that friend's body; but the lifeless, blood-pooled eyes that stuck with her the most. The way that the blood would seep from the eyes, and drip along their faces until it fell from their cheeks like tears, and stained their combat fatigues a dark color.

She didn't sleep well, but she slept, tossing and turning, and waking up to the same feeling of a sweat-covered forehead, and the feeling of being tangled up in the scratchy, thin blankets that served better as kindling than they did as sleep coverings. She untangled herself in the low light of early dawn, and sat up. Looking around her spartan room, versus just a plain old room. There was a desk by the window, where she "penned" all her reports as Squadron Captain, and a plain wood chair that served as the only bit of furniture in this room. There were no posters, no flags, nothing really indicating that it had been lived in, save the fact that she was currently in the room.

The springs of the mattress squeaked as they pressed into her body as she shifted to stand up. She slipped on the wool socks that were practically worn through with use, and then pulled her combat boots onto her feet. Lacing them up with practiced, nearly natural movements of her fingers. She stands up, and moves to the door where her uniform fatigue's jacket is hooked beside the towel that she used the night before. She pulls it around her shoulders, and buttons it most of the way to the top. Leaving just enough space so that it doesn't feel like it's slightly choking her.

She left her room behind, and made her way towards the entrance to the barracks, where she could find a quiet spot to stare out at the Eastern sun, and watch it rise. There was nothing better nor worse to do. There were books to read that she'd stashed away under her bed, but she'd read them all countless times during the down time that the squadron had between sorties. But now she practically knew them by heart — what was the point of reading them again and again?

She crossed the threshold of the barracks, the land outside starting to become slightly more visible in the pre-dawn light. She walked across the dew-covered grass, passing in front of the hangars that served as the storage and covering for the Juggernauts. There was still the noise of work and exertion from those maintenance crew who had been working through the night to get the Juggernauts combat-worthy again; replacing legs, servicing servos, patching holes in the canopies where enemy gunfire could seep through. She passed by the opening of the hangar, watching through the corner of her eye, as the maintenance crew worked. She was so fixated on those machines, and the scavenger that was helping the work, that she almost walked into someone, but stopped just short of doing so.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" The girl who the Witch had almost walked into said. "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, I'm so sorry, Witch."

"No worries, Miss Nika. How're things?" The Witch turned her attention from the Juggernauts, to the girl in front of her, who was oil-stained and well-built from years of working as a mechanic, yet retained a girlish figure. In the dark, pre-dawn light, her dark blue Sapphira eyes looked almost black in this light, although the streaks of blue in her hair that peaked out from behind oil stains seemed to glow slightly. The Witch didn't know from what part of the world there were people with blue hair, but she'd never thought to ask Nika about it.

Nika grinned; "We fixed up Aerial for you last night, and we're working on getting the legs put back on the younger ones' Juggernauts right now." She held a clipboard to her chest, which had all the information regarding all the Juggernauts still in service, including the ones that the Scavengers had salvaged from the battle two days ago now. They'd only lost one Juggernaut (and its pilot) in that skirmish, but the Juggernaut's legs were perfectly salvageable, so the Eighty-Six had it brought back to base. "We figured that if we had an emergency sortie, your 'toon would be the first out the door. Giving us time to fix up everyone else's."

"Good thing we didn't need it." The Witch looked back into the hangar, watching as a couple of the crew working fit the leg of one of LFRITH's processors back into place. "Did you hear we got a new Handler already?"

"No I didn't." Nika shrugged. As non-combat personnel, the maintenance crew weren't fitted with the ear-cuff implants that served as the Para-RAID unit that the combat Processors did. So she, and the rest of the maintenance crew hadn't heard the exchange between the Witch and the Handler last night. "How is he? Just as annoying?"

The Witch shook her head, "A princess, believe it or not."

Nika half-scoffs, "Really? What did she want then?"

"Just wanted to introduce herself, I guess." The Witch shrugs. "Who knows. I don't."

"Awfully polite of her to do so… A princess, I guess you're right." Nika said, sighing at the final word. "Well, I don't really have anything, unless you'd like to look over Aerial before I do."

The Witch shook her head at this. "Nope, I trust you, Miss Nika."

"Alrighty then. Have a good rest of your morning then." Nika gives a small wave with one of her hands as she walks away, towards the hangar to resume her work.

The Witch watched her go, before continuing her walk in the direction beyond the hangars. The noise of the hangar rapidly returned as she walked, not even waiting for her to be out of earshot before getting back to work. She rounded the corner of the furthest hangar, one that no one uses, not even for storage of anything, and heads towards where a fence should be, but has long since fallen down due to misuse and disrepair since it was initially abandoned by the Republic nine years ago.

She walked past the fence line and towards the city that the base stood on the outskirts of. Within minutes she'd been surrounded by overgrown and dilapidated buildings, and the base wasn't in sight behind her — she knew where it was, and didn't need to keep the base in sight all the time in order to make her way back. Instead, she was far more focused on where she was going. She walked along the overgrown city blocks for a ways, her step light, and nearly quiet against the birds chirping in early dawn as the first vestiges of sunlight threaten to break over the building-covered horizon. She came to a sizable building, ostensibly a skyscraper, and entered through a broken ground-level window. The window pane used to stretch all the way up to the second story above the vaulted ceiling of this building, but now rested as shards of glass that she stepped through to enter the building. The most noise she made while walking was here. She crossed the lobby of this abandoned building and crawled over the top of one of the counters, to get behind the blocked off area where the stairs are. The doors that would open to this area had long since been sealed mechanically when the power went out in this city, when it was abandoned almost a decade ago. She dusts off her hands against her uniform legs, and continues towards the staircase, taking it upwards and upwards. The stairs don't wind her, or make her tired. Her body is well-conditioned from doing this almost daily for the entire time that she's been a part of LFRITH, and been stationed here. That conditioning, on top of the physical honing that her body has undergone as a Processor of her Juggernaut, makes the stairs that she climbs that much easier than it would for a republic citizen. She made it up several sets of stairs before branching off through an open doorway. Her footsteps barely registered to her own ears, and she walked towards a corner of the building, where there was another open door. The numbers on the doors of this building had long since started to rust over from lack of polishing and cleaning, and she never looked at them anyways. They weren't important to her. The open door let in the wind from outside, and the cold breeze bit at her fingers and cheeks as she walked towards that door.

She knocked at the door when she arrived. Even though it was open, she still felt it was polite to give some form of warning that she was there before just coming in.

"Mister Guel?" She asked as she stepped into the the door, the breeze was strongest, and died down as she moved further into the room beyond.

Once upon a time, this might have been an apartment, or a hotel room, but the concept of either of those things were foreign to the Witch. She didn't remember where she used to live back in the Republic. She didn't remember traveling anywhere. All she knew is that this was a room. It had a bed where an assortment of things were laid out, including a sleeping bag, a scavenged rifle case, and an assortment of the Meals Ready-to-Eat that came on the last supply plane. To the right of the bed, facing the sun as it peers out over the distant horizon, were large windows that extend to the top of the ceiling, and are dirty, cracked, or have been blown out over time. In front of one, sat crosslegged, a man a year or two older than the Witch. He had the purple-ish hair of an Iola, and when he looked back at the Witch, he raisedhis arm in greeting, his L'asile eyes meeting her own, before turning back out to look over the ruined city and the fields and hills beyond.

"What's the word, Lil Witch?" Guel said, sitting cross-legged on the floor, overlooking the city and beyond. He had a rifle sitting in his lap, and a blanket draped over his shoulders.

"Nothing much, Mister Guel. Did you hear me talk with the new Princess last night?"

He shook his head 'no', still looking out the window. "Was asleep. Figured if I was gonna be up here, might as well make sure that I get the weather report right away."

"What's it look like so far, then?" The Witch crouched down next to him, looking the same direction as him and barely resisting the urge to shield her eyes from the sunlight pouring over the horizon.

He pointed with his right hand to a spot on the horizon: one that, if she looked just right at it, blocking the sunlight with her hand, she could see shimmering like a wave on the horizon. But there were no seas here, no lakes, no rivers. There was only one possible solution as to what it could be.

"Eintagsfliege." The Witch said, and Guel nodded. "Headed this way?"

"Looks like it."

"How soon?"

"By noon at the latest, I'd say." Guel shrugged, "It's not like they don't know where we are."

"Fair point." The Witch sighed, and stood up. "Guess I'll go wake everyone up, and see if Miss Nika and the others are done yet."

"Good idea." Guel says, shifting how he was sitting slightly.

The Witch looked down at him. "You coming along today?"

"You'll need someone to give you an accurate deployment profile—"

There was a soft chime from both of them, from their Para-RAID's. The sound of an incoming connection. Immediately, the Witch feels a wave of sleepiness wash over her — part of the sensory resonance's sensory sharing capabilities meant that it sometimes communicated how the user was feeling at the time. If she had to guess — whoever the person calling was had just woken up.

"Handler One to all LFRITH Units." The voice spoke. It was the Handler again. Guel raised an eyebrow towards the Witch, who didn't react.

"This is Aerial, go ahead Handler One."

"RADAR indicates a disturbance headed in your direction, ETA is three hours. Likely Eintagsfliege accompanying a hostile force. Please anticipate sortieing in two hours to prepare to intercept the force." The Handler instructs.

"Good morning to you too, your highness." Guel stood up as well. "We have eyes on the Eintagsfliege, almost due east of us. I estimate contact in five hours at the latest."

"Who is this speaking?"

"This is the second platoon's leader, personal name 'Darilbalde.'"

"Pleasure to meet you, Darilbalde." The Handler responded. "Aerial, Darilbalde, please prepare your soldiers for combat sortie in two hours. I will call back in two hours with further updates."

"Understood." The Witch motioned against her ear and cut the connection.

"You weren't kidding… she really is a Princess."

The Witch shrugged, and turned her back to Guel. She started walking back the way she had come from.

"I'll be there in five, Lil Witch…" Guel mutters mostly to himself, but knows that she'll hear him just fine anyways.

She descends the building, and leaves the way she came, her boots crunching over the broken glass in the lobby-space as she does, and then starts her walk back to the base. It doesn't take long, twenty minutes at most, for her to get back to base, and at that point, most of LFRITH squadron is awake. She swipes two fingers across her right ear, and opens a connection to those who are awake.

"Everyone." She says, to get their attention first, rather than just speaking immediately. "How many of you heard our conversation with our new Handler?" There's the murmuring of a few 'I did's, and 'yeah's. "Good. We'll be suited up to sortie in two hours. Wake up anyone who's not already up. Eat light, we'll have something better when we get back to base." There were some groans over the resonance, it seemed that some were looking forward to a normal breakfast; especially given the fact that they'd just had a battle not even two days ago. "I know, but we'll take care of these idiots and then move on with our day, okay? We'll all make it through this."

It took ninety minutes to get everyone roused, and ready for combat.

"Attention!" The Witch called, and all those moved to attention, their backs straightened, feet shoulder-width apart, and hands clasped behind their backs.. There were kids as young as eleven among LFRITH squadron; who were still fresh out of the basic conscription training, and were barely qualified to operate the Juggernauts as they were, but each had cleared the conscription training, and at some point must've been cleared to operate their Juggernaut, so that was as good as it got.

"I'll explain the situation; as of ninety minutes ago, First Lieutenant Jeturk spotted a swarm of Eintagsfliege due east from the primary observation post. The secondary post also reported a concurrent sighting. This was moments before our Handler notified us of a radar return that was indicative of Eintagsfliege approach. Based on speed and inferred heading from our observations, they should be within our effective intercept range in thirty to sixty minutes. Giving us less than half of that time to get deployed. We'll intercept along point zero-three-seven-four-one-four. If they have any Löwe, they will be forced to take that route. The fourth and fifth platoons will serve as our longer-range fire, and that leaves the rest of us to mop up the Amaise and Grauwolf. Any questions?"

All stood solemnly, as if they had just been told the where and how they would die.

"Will our new Handler be joining us?" Someone asked.

"What, that schwarzette auf dem Republic?" Another person retorted, using the slang and accent of the Giadian Empire, unmistakably identifying who it was who had retorted; but the Witch didn't reprimand the Ensign for speaking out of turn, even though he had just called the Handler a black stain on the Republic.

"Our Handler should be contacting us as soon as we deploy." Her voice cut through the chatter that was spurred to life at the mention of the new handler. "If there are no further questions, please get ready to deploy. Dismissed."

There was a shuffling of boots as those assembled moved to their Juggernauts, looking them over — inspecting them, their joints, the legs, the armaments — before climbing into them and beginning the startup procedures. Putting on the harnesses that kept them from flopping around the insides of the cockpit during maneuvers, activating the retinal-projector that would show a live feed of the outside of their Juggernauts. There were no screens on the inside of the Juggernaut's cockpit, all visuals of the outside were seen through the retinal-projectors they wore around their ears. The final step was solemn; the sealing of the cockpit itself by lowering the canopy, like they were sealing themselves inside their own coffins.

The Witch was the last to embark into her Juggernaut, taking a good look at the legs, making sure that there was plenty of hydraulic fluid in them, before climbing into the cockpit of her aluminum coffin. There was a moment before she did, where she looked at the outside of the Juggernaut, at the bone-colored hull of the spider-like machine, and looked at her personal mark — something that all but the youngest Processors had on their Juggernauts. The most recognizable personal mark among those in the LFRITH squadron: a simple painting on the hull, that of a wooden broom, with a witch's hat resting on top of it, as if left there by its owner, waiting to be worn again. It was a mark that she didn't ask for, but was given to her in one of her previous squadrons; she didn't remember which one it came from, or who it was that painted it onto the cockpit at this point, but it had stuck — battle-weathered and reliable. A Witch and her Broom.

She buckled her harness, and slid her retinal-projector into place around her ear, pressing it on, and feeling the impulse to wince at the sudden burst of light against her eye. She switched the power-pack master switch to "on", and listened as the Juggernaut hummed to life, its systems connecting to her retinal-projector, and showing all the available data needed for operation of the Juggernaut; ammunition counts, hull status, various subsystem statuses, and power-pack states. She swiped at her ear, connecting to the rest of the squadron. "'Toon leaders, sound off."

"Platoon B is ready." Guel said over the sensory resonance.

"Platoon C, standing by."

"Platoon D, ready."

"Platoon E, ready to move."

"Platoon A is ready." She spoke, and despite being alone in the cockpit, all those connected to her through the resonance, heard.

It took less than ten minutes for everyone in the squadron to embark their Juggernauts, and then start their march towards the point that the Witch had mentioned earlier. Platoon A marched in the front, leading the path through the ruins of the city, towards the point designated. They were silent as they marched, keeping a look out with the optical sensors of their Juggernauts, in case there were forward scouts along their deployment route. The Juggernauts were far more agile than moving on foot, so it took very little time for all those present to reach a point where it was suitable to split up.

"'Toons D and E, split up here, find some good marksman positions, and wait for my signal. B and C, take cover in the ruined buildings and try and get as vertical as you can. A-Toon will take the ground level further up, and we'll try to pincer them if we can. Otherwise A-Toon will take the middle and split them up." The Witch instructs as they pass a junction in the road, two of the platoons moving to the right side, the rest moving to the left side. Platoon A, followed by B and C, followed the Witch into the mess of buildings and criss-crossing roads, to try and find good ambush positions as quickly as possible. Even as the B and C platoons split off as they found good buildings, the Witch and her Platoon went that much further ahead, to the point where it would almost be inadvisable to go any further, and then did the same as the rest of their compatriots — ducked into buildings, and did their best to conceal themselves, while still having good lines of fire towards the enemy once they were in sight. The sky was starting to darken with the blotting out of the Eingtagsfliege, and the inside of the Processor's Juggernauts was starting to rapidly cool in the shade brought to them by the butterfly-like, Electronic Jamming-type Legion.

It was just as the Witch had found a good position, and pulled the condition lever of Aerial from a maneuvering state, to a low-cruise state, did everyone's ears chime at once with the sound of a new connection.

"Handler One to all units. The Legion is approaching point zero-three-seven-four-one-four, please deploy to point zero-three-eight-four-one-three and prepare to intercept." The Handler instructed as soon as the connection came online. Her voice wasn't unpleasant or grating or demanding like other Handlers had been, it was almost like a chime of some sort, ringing through all their ears simultaneously.

"Aerial to Handler One, we've deployed already. Lying in wait around point zero-three-seven-four-one-four." The Witch responded. "We had the warning so we got moving early."

There was momentary silence on the Para-RAID as the Handler tried to adjust for this change. "I-I see. Good work, Aerial… LFRITH, prepare for intercept."

There were chuckles and the feeling of grins that came across the Para-RAID, feelings that just happened to come across in the resonance. Feelings from her fellow Eighty-Six as they prepared for a fight.

"Handler One to all units — RADAR is down, resonance tracking is online. Please switch radars to 'passive'."

"Aerial to Handler One, please limit communication to verbal orders during operations. Other forms of communication may give away our position." The Witch spoke, not needing to press any buttons to speak to her Handler.

"Acknowledged, Aerial. Please be advised that I do not have a bearing on enemy units." The Handler spoke with a tact that wasn't found in many other Handlers, like she was almost doing her job as a Command and Control Officer, rather than just a handler of human livestock.

"That's just fine, miss Handler…" Guel speaks over the resonance. A grin across his face as he huddled inside his Juggernaut, waiting for the enemy to appear.

"Eyes up, guys." The D-Platoon leader chides everyone, her soft-spoken voice unusually stern in the face of the approaching Legion.

Their HUDs flashed in their eyes, drawing their attention to the passive RADAR screen, as it started to light up in red with approaching enemy units. At first, the D and E-Platoons only found one or two small returns, but then eventually, over the course of just a few seconds, the screen was painted over in red, indicating enemy units. The D-Platoon leader looked up from the displayed screen on her eye, and saw them, the silver shimmering at the end of the street, as the shimmering form of the Legion started to pour into view.

One by one, spaced out by several meters, but jam-packed in the close-quarters of the street they marched along, were the fish-like forms of the Scout-type Amaise, the scout-type unit; bearing dual 7.56 mm mounted on either side of the sensor array that was attached and protruding from the underbelly of the unit. They walked on three pairs of legs, and looked, from a distance, like ants that were carrying a dead fish atop their bodies.

Before long, after the first waves of the Amaise, came the Grauwolf. The Dragoon-type came bearing two sets of high-frequency blades, and pods of anti-tank, multi-missile launchers, and looked for all the world like a land-prowling, six-legged shark.

And finally, bringing up the rear of the Legion's formation — was the fifty ton hulk of the Löwe, their 120mm smooth-bore turrets, pointing in various directions, as if covering all angles of attack at once. But what the Löwe made up for in its firepower, it lacked in sensor capability — which is where the Amaise came into play. But not even the Amaise, with their sensor-packages packed full of active RADAR, could detect the Juggernauts lying in wait in the buildings on either side of the street, as the Legion marched along, right into the kill-box that the Eighty-Six had set up. The Amaise passed A-Platoon, where the Witch and her four comrades lay in wait, and didn't detect the Juggernauts as they huddled in a low-idle state. Then the Grauwolf passed into the sights of the Juggernauts set up on top of the buildings, waiting for their cue to start sniping down the missile-bearing Legion.

Finally, the Löwe moved into the sights of the B- and C- Platoons, set up on the second and third stories of the buildings that the formation walked in front of, completely unaware of their presence with how cleverly tucked away into the buildings the Eighty-Six were in their Juggernauts.

And when the last unit rumbled past Aerial's optical sensor, she gave the order:

"D- and E-Platoons, fire."

A torrent of 57mm APFSDS shells rained down on the Legion from above and the sides. Like a microburst of rain, the legion's front lines and flanks collapsed under the torrent of the Juggernaut's shells. Immediately the Legion reacted. Those Amaise that weren't destroyed in the opening volley quickly raised their anti-personnel weapons in the directions they sensed the Juggernauts were in. Similarly, the Grauwolves opened their missile pods, and launched an array each, the missiles splitting off from one another, drawing arcs through the sky.

Immediately, the Juggernauts of the D- and E-Platoons on the top of the buildings darted away, the High-Explosive, Anti-Tank missiles impacting the locations that they had been crouched just moments before. The buildings' roofs caved under the explosive pressure that erupted after the impact of the HEAT missile. Using their wire-anchors, the Juggernauts gracefully descending from the roofs, and darted away from the building, in the case of subsequent attack. They darted away between buildings, taking pot-shots at the Legion that were visible between them, and doing their best to scatter and confuse the machines.

Meanwhile, the B- and C-platoons unleashed their volley of APFSDS shells into the Legion that were now scattered, thinking they were only getting attacked from above. Piercing the thinner armor on the top and sides of the Legion units, especially the Löwe and the Grauwolves. They too, darted through holes in walls, and even jumping out past the scattered Legion as they chambered new shells into their 57mm guns, and run for new cover.

Finally, the A-Platoon, led by the Witch, slid their Juggernauts to High-Output mode, and sprung out from the buildings at ground level, overwhelming the nearest enemies with the humming and slashing of their high-frequency blades, which cut through the armor of Löwe and Amaise alike. Downing enemy units' ability to move by slashing at their legs, and chipping away at weak points in their armor with their smoothbore guns, before they too darted away between buildings before the remaining Löwe or Grauwolves could get a read on where they were getting attacked from.

It was a multifaceted attack, one that needed little coordination, it was practiced among almost all those members of the Squadron. B- and C-Platoons were the only places where it seemed risky to have brought the new Processors along, but there wasn't much choice in that matter now. And the best way to learn how to survive this battlefield was to fight. There was no parley with the Legion, who came in nigh-unending waves, just simple, bloody combat.

"Shit! I just lost C-5!" The C-Platoon leader shouted over the resonance.

"Keep moving! Don't get cornered." Guel responded cooly.

"Confirmed, C-5's Para-RAID is offline." The Handler spoke just as coldly.

The Witch could feel as much as hear Guel click his tongue in annoyance.

She dodged between two buildings, and readied her blades, before diving into the main street once again, slashing at a Grauwolf's legs, bringing it to its metaphorical knees, before it was promptly taken down by a shot from a nearby Juggernaut. She didn't look up to see who it was that had dealt the killing blow; it didn't matter so long as the Legion was dead.

There was a levity brought to her spirit, fighting like this — something that almost ached at the back of her mind. But she pushed through that feeling, knowing what it was, all too well — a desire to fight to the death here. But she couldn't die here. This could not, would not be her final place. She'd made it too far to let herself die because some part of her mind was so fixated on going out in a blaze of glory against the Legion. No — she would continue to fight and live on, because that's not what the White Pigs wanted. They wanted her to fight until she died. It would be too easy to give up now, to let herself be overrun by the swarms of Legion.

No, she would fight on because it's what her sister had done.

She had never been notified of her sister's death, but knew that it had happened anyway. She knew that she would know, even if the notification of her death would never reach her. And there was never a chance for the Witch to ever say goodbye to her sister at all, she had been conscripted early in the morning, and there was nothing she could've done. Not after her mother had left the internment camp, leaving behind her two daughters in hope that six years of service would be traded for at least one of her daughter's citizenship reinstated by the Republic. She didn't remember the day that they had received the death notification of their Mother; but remembered that it had happened. The way her sister had held the slip of paper notifying them of the elimination of their mother's squadron, the paper trembling beneath her grasp.

Could she even remember what her mother's face looked like? What her sister's name was?

She dodged around a corner of a building, and was faced down by the shimmering turrets of two Löwe as they swiveled towards her Juggernaut. She reflexively jerked her controls as the first Löwe fired its APFSDS round, the sabot barely clearing the hull of the Juggernaut. A reaction that was not so much as human as it was machine-like, something drilled into her mind from four years on the battlefield, battling the Legion in what was tantamount to a coffin. A weapon's reaction, in so much as it was a human one driving her to react to survive. It was that reaction that kept her alive as she nimbly dodged the successive shell. She readied her high-frequency blades as she charged the first Löwe, driving her blade through the legs of the Löwe, bringing it to its metaphorical knees, and letting the inertia from the first attack, carry her as she spins around, setting the sights of her 57mm gun at the Löwe's processor core, and squeezing the trigger. The Löwe erupts in an explosion, and parts of its hull are sent flying by the explosion of both the round that the Witch has fired, and the detonation of its ammunition rack. She pushes the control sticks forward as soon as she feels her Juggernaut's feet make suitable contact with the ground again, leveling her high frequency blades as she attacks the second Lôwe, which barely has time to react as all of its legs are sliced through by the high-frequency blades, its hull making a sickening thud as its fifty-ton frame impacts the ground. She moves too fast for the turret to swivel around, and before it has a chance to react — an APFSDS round penetrates the processor block, silencing the Löwe before it ever had a real chance to fight back.

The battle raged for what felt like hours, but was over in a matter of minutes — the Legion incurred too many losses, and began to flee. It was then, and only then, did the ruins of the city fall silent.

The city was quiet once again, even the retreating legion made no sound, they didn't fire any shells or bullets, they didn't even turn back around to assure that they weren't being pursued. They just ran away, silently — retreating like a silent wave before a tsunami that would never come. Even the sun came fluttering back down silently as the wings of the Eintagsfliege retreated, and the city began to warm once more.

They had won today's fight, and that was all that mattered to the Eighty-Six.

"Good work, LFRITH." The Handler spoke, "The Legion is retreating. Return to base."

The Witch reached a hand up to her ear, forcibly shutting off the Para-RAID connection. There was no time for her new Handler to object to the connection being dropped. She stood now, outside her Juggernaut, some meters away from it and walking towards the ruins of another Juggernaut; one that bore no Personal Mark, that looked for all the world like it had been tossed aside like a child's toy.

She approached that polished-bone husk, and appraised it. It had taken a Löwe's 120mm Armor-Piercing, Fin-Stabilized, Discarding-Sabot shell in a glancing blow, but it was one that had crippled the unit all the same.

The smell of fresh blood and burnt meat reached her nose first, as she approached the skeleton-like remains of the Juggernaut.

There was weak, nearly imperceptible crying coming from the inside of it, from the hole that had been blasted into the hull by the APFSDS shell.

"—don't w-want…"

The Witch knew what it was she smelt, what it was she was going to see, well before she made it to the hole, and looked inside.

"I—I don't…"

She wordlessly reached for the holster on her right leg. The motion was practiced. Undo the strap, pull the sidearm straight up. It was familiar in her hands, its weight comforting to her, despite what it was supposed to be, and was about to be, used for. She looked away from the Juggernaut for the moment that it took to pull back the slide with her left hand, and assure that there was a round loaded in the chamber.

"W-want…" There was a wheeze and a cough that sounded more like liquid than it did air.

The Witch looked into the hole bore into the Juggernaut's hull. It was an all-too-familiar sight. The blood and gore that came with the human cost of war. The real cost of the war that was being fought every day by the Eighty-Six.

"To die…"

She raised the foresight of her sidearm until it was level with the rear-sight, and after a moment, squeezed the trigger until the gun bucked in her hand.

A gunshot rang out through the silence of that battlefield, of that ruined city. There was the smell of gunpowder, before it was washed away in the tides of charred flesh and fresh blood. She lowered the pistol, flicking the safety back on with her thumb, and letting it slide back into her holster. She looked at the face of the child in the Juggernaut, now that had a rose-like hole bored into their face, through their brain.

On this battlefield, death was the only mercy levied.

She didn't look at the wounds of the child to see if they were treatable. Any injury in a Juggernaut was fatal.

But what she did look at was the face of the child. A new-comer to LFRITH, freshly graduated from the basic conscription training. Their Juggernaut still bearing the paint that had been applied at the factory, that was now torn open and muddied by the dirt and thrown concrete that had been flung up in the aftermath of the round glancing the Juggernaut. C-5's Juggernaut lay sprawled out in the dirt. The Processor inside couldn't have been older than eleven years old. This child wasn't even a name-bearer yet, and now never would be. A title given to those who had survived that first year on the battlefield, making it into the less than one-percent who survived the first year of conscription, and the ranks of those who would be known by something other than their internment number.

She would never get to know that Child's name, their personal mark. She would never know their real name now, she hadn't had time to learn it since they had arrived; and now that inhuman callsign was all that she had to remember them by.

It wasn't the first time that she felt like this. The feelings bubbling up from her stomach, that were impossible to stop.

No, she'd seen this sight before, seen this happen before — the death of comrades, no matter how new or old they were, no matter how inexperienced or talented they were.

And it all affected her the same way.

She sank to her knees, in front of that ruined skeleton, in plain view of the rest of her Squadron — and wept.