Year 2140, Amiss
The sky rained blood.
Thick red drops fell into the churning mud, splattered against armor plating, ran down visors. Two armies stood frozen across a gap of mere inches—close enough to see the fear in each other's eyes, to count the sweat mixing with the red filth coating every face.
The storm broke harder from the clouds above. The leaders held their ground, locked in a staring match while seconds stretched into minutes. The air reeked of rust and copper. Blood streamed down harder now, drumming against metal shoulders and helmets.
Kain, the middle-aged leader in black armor, tilted his head back. Blood dripped directly into his eye. He didn't blink. He lowered his gaze back to the enemy and dragged his forearm across his face, smearing the mess. He studied the red streak on his armored sleeve for a moment, then turned to his soldiers.
They were waiting.
"First time for everything, Bolan. Even blood from the sky."
Bolan was a tall man in his sixties, worn down by decades of combat. He met Kain's stare, then let his eyes drift right toward the city ruins. Collapsed buildings. Bodies in the mud, their skin painted red.
"I've been counting all day."
Kain walked to the nearest corpse by his boots. He crouched low and grabbed the head by what remained of the hair, lifting it for inspection. The face was gone—nothing but raw meat and a gaping cavity where features should have been. He shoved the head back down into the mud with a wet squelch and stood.
His palm opened.
Then clenched into a fist.
The body erupted. Blood, organs, and shattered bone fragments sprayed outward in a radius, coating Kain's face and spattering across his front line. Some of his soldiers looked sick, throats working as they fought the urge to vomit, but they kept silent. Discipline held.
A few of Bolan's men stumbled backward, retching onto the broken battlefield. The rest held their positions, boots planted. Bolan closed his eyes, drew a long breath through his nose, and opened them again.
Beside him stood Ronkai, a young man of twenty. Ronkai stared at the mess, eyes wide, stomach turning. His hands trembled at his sides.
Bolan placed a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. The trembling eased slightly.
"Breathe. Eyes forward."
Ronkai nodded once. His hands steadied, but barely.
"See that, Bolan?" Kain paced along the front line, gesturing toward the carnage. "I told you how this ends. Everyone standing here is meat waiting to spoil. I can make it clean. No suffering. Just... over."
Bolan stepped forward. Immediately, Kain's soldiers drew their weapons—blades humming with energy, rifles glowing in hues of blue, red, and green. Bolan didn't flinch. He closed the distance until he stood within arm's reach of Kain, looked him up and down with open contempt, and scoffed.
"They choose. You don't."
Kain leaned in until their faces were inches apart. "Same result either way."
"We'll see who's left standing."
Bolan turned his back—a deliberate insult—and walked back to his soldiers. Ronkai glanced at him, then back at the enemy line. His mind started racing. What would happen when the fighting started? The weight of his rifle, the sound it would make, what came after. His breathing quickened.
"What if I just... let them do it," Ronkai muttered. "I can't—after seeing that—"
Bolan's gaze snapped to him, steady and unwavering. "You're going to live through this. That's not a suggestion."
He slapped Ronkai's back hard enough to make him stumble.
Ronkai caught himself, took a breath. The pressure in his skull faded.
"Thanks..."
Bolan turned to his Second Commander. The Commander looked back, waiting.
"Walk up there. Offer him a duel. If he wants your life in exchange for theirs, give it to him. If he refuses... we fight."
The Commander nodded once. He was a heavy-set man with a face like worn leather. He glanced at Bolan, then at Ronkai standing there like a scared recruit.
"Understood." His voice sounded like gravel scraped over concrete.
He turned to Ronkai. The boy was shaking so hard his armor rattled like loose chains. The Commander reached out and smacked the side of his helmet—not hard, just enough.
"Stop shaking. You're too loud."
He checked his weapon's charge, sighed, and stepped forward. He stopped a few feet from Kain.
Kain looked directly at him, curious.
"One on one. You and me."
Kain glanced at his soldiers, then back at the Commander with a low chuckle. "Why?"
The Commander planted his feet. "You want to prove something, prove it on me."
Kain spat in his face.
The Commander wiped it away with the back of his hand, expression unchanged.
"If I lose, my men still march."
"Your men are terrified of you."
Kain nodded slowly. "Some are. Others believe in what we're doing." He looked past the Commander, eyes landing on Ronkai. Ronkai flinched as Kain pointed directly at him. "Why not him? He looks ready to break."
The Commander shifted sideways, blocking his view. "I'm Second Commander. You deal with me."
His gut twisted. He ignored it. Found himself thinking about the can of peaches in his bunk. If he died here, Bolan would eat them.
Bolan's soldiers stood gripping their weapons, knuckles white inside their gloves. On Kain's side, it was the same—muscles coiled, ready.
"Fine." Kain smiled without warmth. "I'll take the duel."
The soldiers on both sides retreated, clearing a circle in the mud. The Commander stepped into the center, raising his fists, veins bulging under his armor. Kain stood opposite him, arms loose at his sides.
Kain raised one hand.
Closed his fist.
Crunch.
Loud and sharp, like dry wood snapping under a boot heel.
The Commander's legs folded backward at the knees—joints bending the wrong way entirely. He hit the mud hard, sending up a splash of red water that sprayed across the boots of the front line.
For one second, there was only silence.
Then the scream came.
Raw. Wet. The Commander thrashed, hands clawing at the ground, trying to stand on legs that were splintered bone and shredded meat.
Bolan felt his knees lock. He watched his friend—his best friend—reduced to this in a heartbeat. Every instinct screamed at him to move forward, to do something, but his boots stayed planted in the mud.
Ronkai's face drained of all color. He clamped a hand over his mouth, chest heaving. The smell hit him—blood and bile mixing in the rain. He bent over and vomited into the bloody mud at his feet.
Kain walked over to the screaming man. Casual. Unhurried.
The Commander saw him coming. All the toughness vanished. All the duty. Pure terror took over.
"BOLAN! HELP ME! PLEASE!"
Bolan took a half-step forward before he could stop himself, hand twitching toward his weapon.
Kain grabbed the Commander by the hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. The screaming became a choked gurgle.
"I don't do torture," Kain said, his voice perfectly calm. "It wastes time. But you thought you could stall me with this."
He shifted his grip. His free hand clamped onto the Commander's face from the front, fingers hooking into the corners of the man's mouth, digging deep into the soft flesh of his cheeks.
The Commander flailed wildly, clawing at Kain's armor, fingernails scraping and breaking against the metal. Useless.
"Watch him, Bolan."
Kain started to pull.
Not fast. Slow, steady pressure.
The Commander's eyes bulged, rolling in panic. He tried to close his jaw, to bite down on the fingers in his mouth, but Kain's strength was absolute.
Ronkai wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. He tried to look away—at the rain, the sky, anywhere else. He couldn't.
The skin of the Commander's cheeks stretched taut, turning white under the tension.
Riiip.
Small at first. Like paper tearing.
A split appeared at the corner of the Commander's mouth. Blood welled up, spilling over Kain's fingers. The Commander's struggles became frantic—legs kicking uselessly in the mud, splashing blood onto nearby soldiers. They didn't move.
Kain pulled harder.
The tear widened, splitting the cheek open in a ragged line, exposing teeth and gums to the cold air. The Commander's wails became wet, bubbling noises as blood filled his throat.
Bolan forced himself to watch every second. He clenched his fists until his nails cut into his palms, drawing blood. I sent him there. This is on me.
Kain adjusted his grip, wrapping his hand around the exposed jawbone. He planted a boot on the Commander's chest.
"Quiet now."
He wrenched his arm downward.
A loud crack—final and sharp.
The jawbone broke at the hinges on both sides. The entire lower half of the Commander's face came away in Kain's hand—hanging flesh and exposed throat. The screaming cut off.
Only the sound of rain hitting mud remained.
Kain dropped the jaw into the mud. Let go of the hair. The Commander's head fell back with a dull thud, eyes still open, staring at nothing.
Rain continued to fall.
The soldiers on both sides readied their weapons. Kain's men mirrored them. Bolan stood over his best friend's body, nails cutting into his palms until blood dripped.
Your death won't be in vain.
Ronkai stood frozen, blood rain soaking through his hair. He wanted to run. To die. To forget everything he'd just seen. He couldn't handle this. He regretted becoming a soldier. Never thought his first battle would be this bad.
Bolan's voice cut through the rain. "Fight."
The word landed like a command. Ronkai straightened. Around him, some soldiers felt the same fear. Others stood firm, drawing strength from Bolan. Ronkai punched his chest plate and coughed. The images kept replaying, making him feel weak, but he was doing something. Trying.
"Monster," one soldier muttered behind him.
Others echoed it. "Monster."
Kain stared down at the body at his feet for a long moment. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet Bolan's across the gap.
"Surrender now. I'll make it quick for all of you. No pain."
Bolan met his gaze with silent, burning rage. "No."
"Don't make me do this, Bolan."
"Then don't."
Kain's shoulders sagged. "I tried."
He turned his back, walked into the mass of his army, and gave one order. One word.
"Attack."
His soldiers raised their weapons as one. No hesitation. No mercy.
In an instant, the air filled with the screaming howl of energy weapons and the thunder of projectile fire.
The front line of Bolan's army took the brunt. Beams of searing light and heavy slugs tore through armor plating like paper. Some soldiers got their skulls blown apart, helmets shattering into fragments. Others collapsed with fist-sized holes punched through their chests, dead before hitting the ground. Blood sprayed in a fine red mist, soaking the men behind them, blinding them with the remains of their comrades.
Bolan's voice roared over the chaos. "ATTACK!"