The flesh-tearers shrieked, turning their focus toward the far greater threat.
The thundering rotors drew closer until the helicopters roared directly above the ruined road. Then - three massive shapes dropped from the sky. The impact sent a storm of sand and debris bursting outward, hurling nearby tearers like ragdolls into the shattered remains of buildings.
As the dust began to settle, three mechs loomed over the battlefield - towering steel giants one clad in red, one in blue, and one in olive drab. Each bore a name and corresponding art stenciled boldly across its armored Pauldron: Beer. Wine. Whiskey.
Armed with basically upscaled infantry weapons of; submachine guns, rifles, and a repurposed close-in weapon system on Whiskey's left shoulder, the three danced in unison shredding the monsters with ease with their large weapons as the helicopters circle overhead, still blasting their loud music, as if trying to attract more tearers into the fray.
Everyone watched in awe, and relief, as their limp guns either hang from their chests or beside them.
The blue one moved first.
Beer opened up, its submachine gun rattling in short, brutal bursts that tore through the front ranks like they were nothing. Each hit blew chunks of sand and blood into the air, shredding anything that moved. The tearers didn't even have time to scream - just dropped and vanished into the haze.
The red one followed.
Wine advanced in steady steps, rifle raised, firing single shots that cracked sharp and clean through the smoke. Every round hit where it mattered. Heads split, bodies crumpled, and the rifle's rhythm never broke. The mech's visor swept left to right. Tracking, correcting, killing.
Then came Whiskey.
The olive-drab giant stepped through the dust, shoulder mount spinning up with a rising metallic whine. The roar that followed drowned everything else out. Its close-in gun tore the air apart, sending molten lines through the horde, tearing limbs and bodies like a saw through wet paper. Each sweep cleared a street. Each second erased another dozen tearers.
The ground shook under the weight of their advance. Shell casings the size of fists clattered and rolled, glowing red at the edges. Every step left smoldering craters where monsters had stood moments before.
Hector and the others could only watch, taking cover occasionally to not get swept up by the sudden gusts of sand and wind.
Beer was already reloading - dropping a smoking drum that thudded against the dirt.Wine pivoted to cover the left flank, firing through the gap between ruined walls.Whiskey anchored the right, its barrels still spinning down, the air shimmering with heat.
The helicopters above circled like vultures, Ride of the Valkyries blaring through cracked loudspeakers - half music, half static, all chaos.
When the last tearer fell, the smoke hung thick and orange with dawnlight.The only sound left was the hiss of hydraulics and the pop of cooling metal.
Beer's visor swept to the right, before turning to face the garage where Hector and the rest resisted until they arrived.
A burst of static cracked through the air, followed by a young voice over the mech's speaker: "Sorry we're late, guys. Anyone injured?"
From the smoke, Hector and Joseph emerged—waving a white handkerchief that stood out against their soot-streaked faces and torn uniforms. The conscripts trailed behind them, blinking against the dawnlight.
Hector raised the empty magazine in his hand, voice rough but steady. "You've got no idea how close you guys cut it."
Joseph gave a tired grin. "We thought we were dinner. Guess we owe you a beer or something."
Inside the cockpit, Beer laughed. "You do that! I'm sure Wine and Whiskey would be delighted."
Out in the field, Wine was already signaling the helicopter where to land, her mech's red armor flashing in the haze. Whiskey, olive and scarred, stood further out, its weapon trained on the horizon, guarding the perimeter.
A new voice joined the comms, bright and unmistakably female. "Wine here - I'd love that."
Everyone began climbing aboard the helicopter - conscripts first, stumbling and dazed, their boots thudding against the ramp. Joseph followed, then Hector, both taking one last look at the smoke curling through the ruins before stepping inside.
Outside, the mechs began tethering themselves to the helicopter. One by one, loud metallic clangs echoed through the cabin as the cables locked into place. Moments later, the aircraft lifted off. Through the small port window beside Hector, the ruins and the bodies scattered across the ground slowly shrank from view, swallowed by distance and haze.
Marco sat across from Hector, rifle resting between his knees, his face drowned in regret and frustration.
Joseph noticed it. The man wouldn't even meet anyone's eyes, his jaw locked, thumb tracing the dent on his weapon's receiver over and over.
For a moment, Joseph thought of saying something, anything to break that silence, but the words died before they reached his throat. He just leaned back against the cold wall, closed his eyes, and let the engine noise fill the gap between them.