"My name is Davian Morgan, and I used to write for the Gothic World Newspaper. I lost my job, and my home. My family doesn't want anything to do with me. I'm putting this to paper only out of sheer luck, or the antipathy of distant gods. For in their infinite and dark wisdoms they have seen it necessary to imprison me in flesh and under earth, in loathsome tunnelways and spawning pools of rats and rodents.
This is not my home out of choice. Rather, I have been chosen to remain here for the better part of what might be the rest of my life. There is someone else down here who has seen it absolutely imperative that I stay down here with him. He is a murderer, and a horrendous vandal. Yet his metal skin hides a networked mainframe that considers me what the outside world does not. He considers me important, though in a way that cannot be adequately understood without extensive knowledge of who - or what - this creature actually is.
And unfortunately, I cannot explain much.
He is a towering example of some alien technology, though claims and has proven to have been made here on American soil. True enough, there exists a plate on the underarm of his thorax that is imprinted with archaic code for "New York", though the authenticity can easily be called into question. The code itself is over eighty years old - dating back to the second World War. He has a photographic memory of many of the events he claims to have been involved in. Various invasions, sieges, skirmishes, and battles throughout the European front, all come to him by heart. Yet it is around the summer of 1945, near the end of the war, that his memory violently diverges.
In his mind, the Nazis created the atomic bomb first and dropped it on London, killing millions in seconds. American bombs were then launched on various cities in Germany and Japan, but that wasn't enough to stop the war. Instead of fearing the atom bomb, the Axis had their own. And they just didnt stop fighting.
The war continued, with a cold period following the atomic devastation. Technologies were being rapidly advanced. More robotic legions marched out in unflinching unison - the new soldiers of a new war. As a veteran of the Last Great War, my captor describes speaking to these newcomers as 'talking to soldiers who were already dead'. In his more levelheaded moments of clarity, he can easily describe the different makes and models by name, and even weave tales of different automatons he grew fond of during this period of conflict. The legion he was assigned to was named the Last Colossi, the last ones to be made before their production plant in Baltimore was shut down.
Factories had to be moved constantly, for fear of making themselves and the nearby cities they inhabited targets. Usually they were just made out in the middle of nowhere, but then the Battle of Atlanta taught Americans that the robots needed to be manufactured closer. He said that by the New Millennium, people weren't worried about a global networking error. They were worried about the dreaded Operation: Long Night.
Intel had come down through to the civilians. Leaked German reports were confident of their new missile systems. In response, the Americans had their own aimed squarely at the German-dominated European continent. At the stroke of midnight, the last fireworks humanity ever saw began flying. And the Long Night began, but not before the Great Fire consumed most civilized life. Such was the devastation that my captor is fully convinced that every normal human he encounters, each one he kills, is actually a synthetic copy sent to kill him and end the American resistance. I can only assume that he has kept me alive for this long because he thinks i am a normal human.
But, his short-term memory is in shambles. He stutters constantly, with no shortage of sparks and malfunctioning facial plates. He is not well. Not at all."
The Last Veteran of the Metal Wars [CVnU]
"Cull von Doom. Arch-Sergeant of the Last Colossi Legion. Designation 744.
They're a wordy bunch of titles. Sometimes he feels emptier than usual, looking through the shallow glass. The broken streets. He can remember very little. Very little indeed. It's not likely that he'll ever recover any of what he wants to know. I wonder... does he want to know? I've... taken the liberty of rummaging through some of his old records. Piles of the things. He writes constantly. Gibbers on and on about old things that may or may not have happened. There's a name that appears again and again, however. A woman. Alouette, French. They met in 1940, and had a budding relationship by the looks of things. I can't tell if it's all factual.
Cull often refers to himself in two states of being, interestingly. It's not as if he is conflicted, or changed... more of a situation as if he can't decide which one is better to remember."
"<This is wrong,>"
"Usually followed by a laugh."
"<Why? Don't you enjoy being here with me?>"
"<I do,>"
"<Then just enjoy it. I'm just a fragile little human, after all. I'm going to die sooner than you,>"
"<Don't say that,>"
"<Alright."
"<I wonder if I'm going to be - >"
"Alouette had loved a man before the war broke out. He was conscripted, and sent away to fight. Within a few months she was approached by his commanding officers with his cap. Germany had been practicing extensive lightning attacks. It would only be a matter of time before they would spread across the face of Europe. France stood as a most alluring target. It's rather vague how Cull came into Alouette's life. According to the most recent documentation, he had been assigned to an indeterminate area of the country in order to scout out defensible positions for the inevitable German invasion.
It is unclear whether or not he is flesh or steel, as he seems to be both in different situations he records. Almost like he wants to be human, not that he used to be."
"<Alouette, please, the trains are leaving. You have to get out of here,>"
"<------ move, let me die with the city I love,>"
"<You are still human, you still have life,>"
"<My life is gone, my passion for it gone, I won't let these barbarians take my grave without a fight,>"
"<You're starting to sound like the barbarians,>"
"He writes about a solemn silence between the two. Cull is the first to break it."
"<The war is coming. Your only experience of it will be death, and it will be death again if you stay. If you want to die here, then I won't let them take it from you. The consequences of war... I can't change all of them. So I will not let those consequences touch you.>"
"Cull remembers being flesh in these moments. It would appear that he holds a great deal of respect for the malleable nature of the human spirit. Then, when faced with the oblivion of German guns, he turns again into brittle steel. Cold. Empty. Dead."
*Gives you some company* ^_^
"It's all in his head. None of this happened. Then why is it so vivid, so real? He's lying to himself. It's only a matter of time until the lies become fact, at least to him. Was he programmed this way? For what purpose then?"
"When I'm alone, I can still hear their voices. Good, American Autos. Strong, proud, wore their colors. I can still see some of their faces. Heroes. Why haven't I been dismantled yet? Why haven't I been allowed to join them? Have I done something wrong? Has God finally given up on His Steel Angels?"
"No. It's not a matter of being 'allowed' to see them again. They'd want to see me fighting until the bitter end, just like them. I won't take the coward's way. Dogbreath would never let me hear the end of it,"
"Sometimes he just sits there and rambles on about his old war companions. Strangely, these are some of the most consistent of his thought processes. None of them contradict the other. It's like he has them engraved into his memory core, almost like they were tangible at some point."
"Dogbreath, that's right. Ugly son-of-a-garbage-disposal. Called him that because he never pressure-washed his vocal refractors. Kept chewing through synths, and the oil and gunk would cake up in that gullet of his. Humans gave him that name, and he liked it. Served with the 116th Paratroopers at the time. They were wiped out at the Battle of Red Reach, Dogbreath only survived because he cleared out a bunker before the bombs started falling. Buried under some rubble, kept quiet until the German Autos moved on,"
"He would always pat his right arm, on the frontal plate."
"I'm sure you're familiar with their motto, 'Paratroopers never die, they just go to Hell and regroup'? Had that engraved from elbow to knuckle. I think he finally got dismantled during the Invasion of New York City. Beaten to death by an experimental German Mega-Auto. Took it down with him though, that ugly can,"
"He mentioned Dogbreath before, at the Battle of Newark. I know that's not right, but nothing else changes."
"Patches? Yeah, it was Patches. Bubbles was our sniper. Patches died in Newark, trying to haul an injured Auto out of the fighting. From what I remember, it was a hefty one too. Didn't catch the name, though. Small little Mekaniac, manufactured in Kentucky. Was programmed for compassion, something we collided with a few times. He wanted to save everyone, but that was a logistical impossibility. After a few Autos being dismantled right in front of him, he eventually settled for everyone that he could save. Whatever was physically possible. Nineteen years, had him in my regiment. Last Colossi,"
"Newark was just a massacre. Lost a lot of good Autos there, for dirt that the synths had already laid heavy claim to. By that time the Enemy had pulled out of the East Coast, I think. Left behind armies of sleeper agents, synths. Artificial humans they could puppet and control, rather than waste resources on enormous war machines they needed to import somehow. Synths were the new Auto, but they couldn't act on the spur of the moment. They needed a constant influx of orders, of prearranged battle statements,"
"Autos? We adapted all the time. We still adapt. That's why I think Bubbles is still alive. Hard to pin down, that guy. Wore clothes like he was human, always had his huge rifle. Think this Bolter is big? Nah, he practically carried artillery for his sniping duties. 'Been to Hell, Lived to Tell' engraved along the body of it,"
"He's out there somewhere. Probably topside, since to retake Gothic was our last series of orders before High Command went quiet. He was tough to read, but he never went against orders."
"At this point I begin to fade out. He's just muttering, I can't nail down anything he's saying besides a few names. Anvil, Rhodes, Kremlin, Sun, and Jack. He also mentions the group 'Old Ironbloods' again. He did so once before, but I can see that talking to him any longer for today is just going to result in more muted grumbling,"
"Sarge?"
"He even alive?"
"No-no, very dead, wait, pulse? Yes-yes,"
"Get off of me, you rust-brains,"
Anvil was the first to extend his hand - well, the hammer that served as his right arm. Better than the one with the gun mounted to it. Cull took it and helped himself up. Dogbreath snorted, looking out from the bunker they had recently captured for the sake of reorganizing.
"Took a nasty lump to the mainframe there, sarge," Patches muttered, his small hands working in conjunction with each other, all twenty fingers rapidly unfurling and repairing whatever he saw necessary in the moment. "Some oil leakage, but nothing too major,"
"Then it's a wound I can ignore,"
"True," Patches shrugged, sealing the hole in Cull's head with some solder.
"Bubbles, status report, what's going on out there," Cull stated bluntly, knowing the sniper was within earshot somewhere with his scope at the ready. He didn't disappoint.
"Fifty in any direction sarge. Still surrounded,"
"Where's Rhodes? I know I heard him,"
"Right here sarge," their resident blacksmith and scout spoke up, twirling his large-caliber revolver on one of his fingers.
"Stop showing off, where's the lieutenant?"
"You mean the human? She died about an hour ago. German Autos ambushed us, we salvaged what we could,"
Cull looked around dejectedly.
"That means we just salvaged you, sarge,"
Anvil was the next to speak up. "Gentlemen, if it's all the same to you, we're trapped here with no support. We can stay here and funnel the Germans until either they give up throwing bodies into the meat grinder or until they flatten this bunker with artillery fire. Or,"
"We fight our way out!" Dogbreath roared. The metal paratrooper smacked his ape-like fists together.
"That's almost tertiary on the priority list, but yeah, that's our last resort,"
"Always turning the simplest of tasks into suicide missions," Cull muttered. "Ah well, that's what we're designed to do. Things the humans can't do,"
"Or won't," Bubbles chimed in from above. "Permission to open fire, sir?" he added.
"Go crazy, Bubbles,"
A small snicker, and then the artillery-grade sniper rounds started belching out of the massive rifle.
"While I'm all for smashing and crashing our way through countless German Autos, I have to express my concerns here," Patches tapped his Mekaniac kit. "You're all barely in working condition. Dogbreath, you're the worst out of all of us. When was the last time you had your joints expressed?"
"Uhh..."
"Precisely. There's no telling when your hinges are going to fly apart, especially since it's been non-stop fighting for a month now,"
"Look, Patches, if we don't get out of here now it's only a matter of time before the Germans overwhelm us - either by numbers of Autos or by bringing in the bigger guns,"
Patches looked up at Anvil, who just diverted his attention back to Rhodes and Cull.
"Sir!" he saluted the Arch-Sergeant. "If I may, I have a suggestion,"
"And I think I know what you're suggesting," Cull retorted. "We've served together long enough for me to pick up when you're wanting to play hero,"
Anvil chuckled. "Read me like a book, sir,"
"More like a cheap copy of Mufflers Inc.," Rhodes nudged him with a sharp elbow.
"Alright, listen up you garbage disposals," Cull roared. "On the other side of all those German Autos is a supply depot we need to liberate ASAP. Hundreds of Americans are being endangered the longer we stay here worrying about dying one way or another. That's not what Autos do, we charge into Death's Embrace screaming our iron lungs out!"
Dogbreath smashed the floor with his monstrous hands. "Yeah-YEAH!"
"Patches, stick with Anvil, Rhodes on me, Bubbles reposition soon, Dogbreath... go be Dogbreath,"
"Here we go again," Patches groaned, climbing into Anvil's back and tucking away deep in the ammo repository. Anvil had no other shells left besides the ones on the belt feed dangling from his wrist-mounted guns.
The hammer-hand raised defiantly, he had to race Dogbreath out of the bunker doors. Cull and Rhodes would be short-ranged support, while Bubbles took up positions along the road, sniping priority targets and engaging enemy snipers at maximum range.
"FOR THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE," Dogbreath shook the battlefield with the volume of his voice, instantly attracting most of the incoming fire - as paratroopers often do. Most of it just bounced off his thick armor plating, while Anvil struck in on the flank.
This was one of the many skirmishes that would make up the Battle of New York City. The German invasion of several Auto Legions and demi-Legions supplemented by multiple armored divisions along with ground troops and amphibious infantry made it the most ambitious of the Enemy's attacks on American soil. It was their D-Day, stabbing throughout several key points across Long Island and into New York City proper using the Lower and Upper Bays. Their troops could isolate areas of American resistance until their slower Auto counterparts could overwhelm them with sheer firepower.
But the Americans were ready, and struck back with a terrible vengeance. Reinforcements had been steadily coming for a few days, supplemented by the nearby German-won settlement of Philadelphia. Delaware Bay had not been nearly as well-defended, and having it bleed into Philadelphia proper meant the Enemy could win the city block by block in quick blitzkrieg strikes. From there, Auto factories were turned to making the German equivalents. The war on the beaches were only to serve as one of the many fronts that New York City would be fought for on. The land war spilled out from Philadelphia and towards the nation's capital. Baltimore had been bloodied horribly, barely withstanding the blitzkrieg. But hold it did.
Now the world watched as the fighting continued to escalate along the East Coast of the world's mightiest nation. Even as it did, the operations that would encapsulate June 6th, 1944 were set into action regardless of victory or defeat. Auto Legions and infantry divisions supported by armored divisions and multiple battleships would engage a forced beach landing into Normandy. It would be the location of most of the Allied Nations' strength, a hammerblow while being shanked with a treacherous dagger. Blood would spill on both sides.
Ultimate victory could not be achieved without some knowledge of defeat.
Log in to comment