| CloneMarine 42785/B | -- Location: ...
First Human Republic -
"42785/B," the officer called out to the Clone Marine, his deep and firm voice echoing through the metallic interior of the landing shuttle.
"Yes, sir," responded 42785/B with precision, adjusting the position of his heavy weapon as he stared ahead, ready for orders.
The officer, also a Clone Marine, turned to the platoon, his imposing presence dominating the cramped space. He surveyed each of them, ensuring their attention before beginning: "Alright, men, listen up. I'll go over the mission details again."
The tension in the air was palpable as he continued: "Our objective is to take this space station. It's the last obstacle before we advance on Mars. The station is massive, housing about 50,000 people. Our mission is clear: destroy all military installations and neutralize any rebels who resist. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" the soldiers responded in unison, their voices resounding with an almost mechanical precision.
The landing shuttle began to vibrate, lightly shaking its occupants as explosions echoed outside. The closer they got to the station, the more intense the sounds of battle became. The Martian fleet had retreated to Mars's orbit, leaving the station defended only by its automated systems. Even so, the attacks were fierce. Some of the nearby landing shuttles were hit, bursting into flames that lit up the void of space, but the mission pressed on.
In no time, the shuttle carrying 42785/B docked with the station, the deafening sound of metal connecting reverberating through the cabin. As soon as the landing doors opened, the clones advanced. Their enormous, intimidating silhouettes emerged in a coordinated movement, charging toward their objectives with relentless precision.
As their first footsteps echoed in the station's corridors, gunfire rained down on them. The rebels were ready, firing desperately at the invaders. The clones quickly sought cover, their armor deflecting some of the smaller projectiles as the sound of ricocheting bullets filled the air.
The clones' helmets displayed real-time data. For 42785/B, his visor showed dozens of enemies guarding a narrow passageway that led to the next level of the station. It was a well-fortified defensive line but not an impenetrable one.
The officer quickly analyzed the data before issuing the order with absolute clarity: "Frontal assault! Our armor can withstand most of the firepower. Advance in formation!"
With the command, the clones immediately formed a line, moving as an imposing wall of steel and strength. Their heavy boots pounded the floor in near-perfect synchronization as they began firing while marching forward. The sound of automatic weapons filled the corridor, their relentless volleys tearing through the enemy's defensive lines.
Every so often, a Clone Marine would be struck by an anti-vehicle projectile, their armor unable to withstand the impact. But even when one fell, another would step forward to take their place, keeping the line intact. The march was relentless, a steady, brutal advance.
The station's defenders, initially resolute, began to panic. Desperation took over, and many retreated, attempting to escape the slaughter. Those who, through madness or bravery, chose to stay and fight were mercilessly cut down. Some fell to precise gunfire, while others succumbed to the clones' sheer brutality. Massive knives pierced through bodies effortlessly, and powerful kicks shattered bones and sent enemies crashing into the station's metallic walls.
The Clone Marines advanced to the next level of the station, their heavy armor echoing against the metal of the corridors as they ascended the narrow ramps. The moment the first Marine crossed the entrance, he was instantly struck down. An anti-vehicle round—a uranium-tipped projectile—pierced through his armor like paper, propelled by sheer kinetic force. His body fell heavily to the ground, the metallic crash reverberating through the space.
"Take cover!" the officer shouted, his voice laden with authority and urgency.
42785/B moved quickly, pressing himself against a nearby wall as gunfire and explosions filled the air around him. He raised his rifle, moving with precision as he fired at the exposed rebels. The shots echoed through the corridor, and several defenders fell, their weapons slipping from their hands as their bodies were riddled with precise bursts of gunfire.
The officer assessed the situation rapidly, his eyes fixed on the data displayed on his visor. The defensive line was formidable: fixed anti-vehicle weapons aimed directly at the entrance, and the rebels were shielded by improvised barricades that blocked the corridor. He knew brute force alone wouldn't be enough to break through this position.
"We need to break that defensive line," he said, his voice cutting through the chaos around them. He looked at 42785/B and two other nearby clones, motioning toward them. "Advance while they reload the nearest weapon!"
42785/B acknowledged the order with a nod, adjusting his rifle in his hands. "Understood."
With a swift gesture, the three clones moved forward. The remaining Clone Marines provided covering fire, their volleys keeping the pressure on the rebels as the trio sprinted along the side of the corridor.
But the advance came at a cost. One of 42785/B's comrades was struck in the chest by a high-powered round as he ran, the impact throwing him backward like a ragdoll. He hit the ground with a heavy thud, motionless.
42785/B and the remaining clone pressed on, their heavy footsteps echoing as they closed in on the nearest anti-vehicle weapon. The rebel gunners were in the middle of reloading, fear evident in their eyes as they realized the two giants were closing in fast.
Before the gunners could react, 42785/B and his companion raised their rifles in unison and opened fire. The bursts tore through the rebels' bodies, and they fell with expressions of pure terror, their screams drowned out by the deafening roar of the automatic weapons.
The advance of the Clone Marines through the level was an arduous task. Every step forward was earned through effort and sacrifice. The anti-vehicle weapons, strategically positioned by the rebels, had claimed many lives among the soldiers. Despite their superiority in strength and technology, the Marines faced fierce resistance. The station seemed designed to maximize defensive advantages, with narrow corridors and perfect angles for ambushes.
The bodies of fallen Clone Marines mingled with those of the defeated rebels, but the mission continued. After brutal combat, the Marines managed to neutralize all the anti-vehicle weapons. The last artillery positions were destroyed in a coordinated effort, and the remaining defenders were forced to retreat into the residential apartments of the level.
42785/B led a small squad as they advanced through the corridors leading to the residential blocks. The area, originally designed to be a communal living space, had now been transformed into a battlefield. The once-pristine walls were scarred by bullet holes and explosions, and the metallic smell of blood and gunpowder filled the air.
When they reached the first door, 42785/B raised his fist, signaling his squad to halt. He positioned himself beside the entrance, quickly analyzing the data on his visor. Three heat signatures were detected on the other side. Adjusting his stance, he raised his rifle and, with a swift motion, kicked the door open with immense force.
The door flew inward with a crash, and he entered the room with the precision and strength of a war machine. The three rebels, caught off guard, scrambled to react. The first raised his improvised weapon but wasn't quick enough. 42785/B fired a short, precise burst, hitting the man squarely in the chest and sending him sprawling backward.
The second rebel lunged forward with a knife, screaming in desperation. 42785/B sidestepped skillfully, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it with enough force to break it. The rebel's scream of pain was cut short by the sharp sound of a rifle butt striking his head. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
The third rebel hesitated. He was younger, his wide eyes filled with pure terror. The weapon in his hands trembled before slipping from his grasp and clattering to the ground. Slowly, he raised his hands, his face pale and his body shaking.
"I surrender," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
42785/B paused for a moment, studying the rebel. Despite all his programming and training, he recognized something in the young man's expression—genuine fear, absolute desperation. He lowered his rifle slightly, signaling for the man to stay where he was.
"Stay there," 42785/B said, his voice muffled by his helmet.
Before he could say anything further, one of his squadmates entered the room. Without hesitation, the Marine raised his weapon and fired a single shot at the unarmed rebel. The young man collapsed to the floor instantly, his eyes frozen in an expression of pure terror, now permanently etched onto his lifeless face.
42785/B stood still for a moment, staring at the rebel's body and then at his comrade. Though he couldn't see the other Marine's face behind the helmet, he felt something unsettling in that silent exchange—a sense of discomfort he couldn't quite define.
His squadmate said nothing, simply leaving the room. 42785/B remained where he was, an unfamiliar and hollow sense of unease settling over him.
42785/B moved through the empty corridor of one of the residential apartments, his heavy footsteps echoing faintly against the metal floor. The silence was unsettling, broken only by the sound of his breathing systems and the faint hum of the heat sensors displayed on his helmet visor. He approached a partially open door cautiously, where heat signatures indicated movement behind cover.
Without hesitation, he kicked the door, which flew open with force, slamming against the wall with a loud crash. Before anyone on the other side could react, he began firing, the deafening roar of his weapon filling the small space. Shards of walls and furniture exploded as the projectiles tore through everything in their path.
When he stopped, the room plunged back into silence, broken only by the sound of his weapon's auto-loader adjusting. He checked the thermal readings on his visor and saw they had disappeared. There was no longer any heat coming from behind the improvised cover.
42785/B advanced cautiously, weapon still raised. He stepped into the room, which appeared to have once been a living room. In the center, a flipped-over table served as a crude barricade. Slowly, he approached it, keeping his weapon ready, and then peered behind the table.
What he saw made him freeze. Behind the table were three bodies: a man, a woman, and a girl who appeared to be a teenager. The man still clutched a piece of metal pipe as if it were an improvised weapon. The woman lay draped over the girl, as if she had tried to shield her at the last moment.
42785/B took a step back, almost stumbling, as the scene before him burned into his mind. He released his weapon without realizing it, the sound of it hitting the floor echoing like thunder in the room. His hands trembled as he removed his helmet, revealing a pale face drenched in sweat.
He looked down at his hands, the same hands that had fired without hesitation. It was as if the weight of what he had done suddenly crashed down on him like a wall. No matter how much he had been programmed to fight, to follow orders, something within him couldn't ignore the reality of what lay before his eyes.
One of his squadmates entered the room, stopping upon seeing 42785/B standing there, motionless. "Are you injured?" the squadmate asked, his voice cold and indifferent. He then noticed the helmet on the floor. "Why did you take off your helmet?"
42785/B didn't respond. He kept staring at the bodies in front of him, a mixture of confusion, guilt, and something he couldn't name coursing through his mind.
The squadmate glanced briefly at the bodies behind the table but showed no reaction. He simply said in a neutral tone, "This sector is secure. Rejoin the rest of the company."
With that, the Marine left, leaving 42785/B alone in the room.
42785/B looked around, his gaze falling on a small framed photo lying on a fallen shelf. He picked it up and saw the same family—the man, the woman, and the girl—all smiling in a moment that seemed so far removed from this reality. He carefully placed the photo back, picked up his weapon from the floor, and slowly put his helmet back on.
When he rejoined the other clones, he marched in formation, the same rigid and unyielding posture as before. But as they passed by civilians who had been captured or surrendered, something inside him felt restless.
The corridors were now filled with kneeling people, their faces etched with fear. He heard their murmurs and muffled sobs as they passed. At one point, a woman stood out among the crowd, kneeling over the body of a fallen young rebel. She clutched him desperately, her face streaked with tears, as she cried out with a voice full of pain:
"Monsters!"
42785/B looked directly at her for a brief moment, her eyes locking onto the opaque visor of his helmet. He saw the anger, the anguish, and something else he couldn't name. But, unable to hold her gaze, he looked away, continuing his march with the others.
Even so, her words echoed in his mind as he moved forward, never looking back.
42785/B woke abruptly, his body stiff as if still in combat. He sat up quickly in bed, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the small quarters aboard the ship. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a panel in the corner, but he barely registered his surroundings.
His face was blank, his eyes fixed on a distant point as silent tears streamed down his cheeks. The memories from the dream—or rather, what he knew were recollections—were still vivid in his mind. He could feel the weight of the weapon in his hands, see the faces of the people he had killed, and hear the distant screams echoing like ghosts.
Suddenly, the voice of the AI Nyxis broke the silence.
"Neural activity levels are elevated," she said, her tone calm but laced with a note of concern. "Are you alright?"