OPERATION: RAGIN’ MOUSE

Lt. Rader Tarfire sat slumped in the command vehicle, Alpha 1, with his head buried in his hands. His mind raced with the devastating news: Mya has fallen. The thought echoed in his mind like a bell tolling doom. For a brief moment, he allowed himself the luxury of despair, feeling the crushing weight of failure beginning to press down on him.

Then, he snapped upright. We’ll make it, he resolved. Even if we have to dig our way through the enemy lines with shovels.

He clenched his fists and grabbed the radio mic with renewed determination.

“Base One, Base One, this is Alpha 1 Actual. Please repeat. Message came in broken, over.” His voice was steady, but beneath the surface, his nerves tensed like a bowstring. He already knew what he'd heard, but confirmation was necessary.

The response was quick and cold, carrying the weight of an inescapable reality.

"Alpha One Actual, this is Base One. Mya has fallen. Austorian forces are in control. Prepare for FRAGO. Over."

Rader closed his eyes for a second. A Fragmentation Order. Whatever comes next, he thought, it’s going to be worse.

“Alpha One,” the voice on the other end continued, “your orders are as follows: Capture Mya at all costs. We cannot retreat at this time. Helos are en route and radio silent. You must be there, army or no army. Your callsign has priority on FIRES. How copy, over.”

Tarfire’s fingers gripped the comm tightly as he processed the command. Priority on FIRES. His heart skipped for a moment. That meant indirect fire elements—mortars, artillery—were at his disposal. A glimmer of hope flickered amid the chaos.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. He could use that.

He took a deep breath, his mind sharpening as he gathered his thoughts.

"Roger Base One. Mission continues." He replied, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. He cursed under his breath after releasing the comm. His mind was already moving to contingency plans, but one thing was clear: the weight of the mission now rested on his shoulders, and there was no room for error.

Switching channels to the convoy, his tone shifted—steady, but carrying the gravity of their situation.

"Alpha 1 Actual to all units. We have a FRAGO. Mya is currently occupied with Austorian forces. We're the only thing standing between those helos getting home or crashing into enemy territory. I need everyone to put a new crystal in your vehicle, check your weapons, ammo—top off everything." He paused, his voice turning grim. "Add more if you’ve got the space, and even if you don’t. We’re descending into hell, and I want us to be ready."

The radios crackled as the convoy digested the new orders. The tension ratcheted up another notch. There were no jokes now. No reassurances. Every soldier understood the seriousness of what was about to come.

Suddenly, NorthPaw Intelligence broke through the channel, adding to the pressure.

"Alpha One, this is NorthPaw. The ISR drone’s nearly out of juice, returning to base. New bird en route, but it’s gonna be a while before she's on station."

Tarfire’s fist slammed into the dashboard, the frustration welling up like steam in a boiler. He keyed the mic again, voice sharp.

"Fantastic timing, NorthPaw. Tell the bird to hustle. We’re blind out here."

His driver and gunner exchanged uneasy glances, hearing the tension in their lieutenant’s voice. They knew how bad things could get without drone support.

Tarfire, noticing their expressions, turned and forced a small grin to reassure them. "Don’t worry, guys," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "We’ve got the latest images, and NorthPaw gave me a rough estimate of where those Austorian bastards are. I just hope they don’t see us coming first."

The convoy rumbled forward, the sound of the massive engines droning on as if they, too, were bracing for what was to come. The air was thick with tension, and the silence in the trucks was heavier than lead.

Tarfire keyed his mic again, issuing his next commands.

"Echo 3-1, Echo 3-2, switch positions. Echo 3-6, get 3-1 up front. We’re expecting trouble. Echo 3-2, pull back to rear guard. Everyone else, scan your sectors. I want interlocking fields of fire everywhere."

"On it, sir. We’ll be ready." Wellknife responded, his voice calm, but the edge of anticipation was clear.

The convoy began to shuffle. Echo 3-1, the Boxer APC, rumbled forward, its engine growling as it passed the smaller Fennek Recon Vehicle, which began falling back to cover the rear. The Boxer’s size and armor made it ideal for taking the brunt of whatever lay ahead.

In the Boxer, a young Private looked up at Wellknife, his voice small but tinged with fear. "Sergeant... are we going to make it?"

Wellknife, keeping his eyes on the monitor, smiled grimly before turning toward the private. "Yes." He said it with a dry certainty, though there was a glint of resolve in his eyes. "I fought for years without hope, as a guerrilla fighter." He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the cabin and the soldiers within it. "This is the first time I know we’re going to win."

His voice hardened, cutting through the private’s uncertainty like a blade. "Now, check your weapons. It’s about to get very hot where we’re going."

The Private, taking heart from the Sergeant’s confidence, nodded and began checking his rifle, his movements a little steadier, his mood just a touch lighter.

The convoy continued forward, and as the miles stretched on, the monotonous hum of the engines was a stark contrast to the anxiety creeping up on every soldier. The remote weapon stations whirred quietly, scanning the open fields and distant treelines, sweeping for any sign of movement.

Dust kicked up behind them, a barely visible plume of dirt trailing in their wake as the rough road to Mya stretched before them. It was the last leg of their journey.

But somewhere, on a nearby hill, Austorian eyes were watching.

An Austorian officer, peering through his spyglass, spotted the faint cloud of dust rising from the Beastkin convoy. His lips twisted into a sneer, his sharp gaze locking onto the enemy.

"Prepare the ambush!" he barked, lowering the glass and turning to his men. "Archers, battlemages—ready your fire. We’ll take them before they know what’s hit them."

A few soldiers exchanged uneasy laughs. One, clearly uncertain, muttered, "What are we even shooting at, sir? Shadows?"

The officer’s eyes narrowed as he shot the man a glare colder than steel.

"No. You’ll see soon enough. Aim for the wheels. We break them here, as they make the last turn."

The Austorian soldiers hurried into position, arrows nocked, and the mages began chanting their incantations. The air around them started to hum with elemental magic. Fire arrows and bolts of energy gathered in their hands, the atmosphere thickening with the deadly anticipation of impending violence.

Meanwhile, the convoy made its final approach to Mya, rounding a bend as they came into view of the village.

Suddenly, the ambush hit.

A fireball screamed through the air, slamming into Echo 3-1 with a deafening explosion, knocking the Boxer APC sideways off the road. The impact rocked the entire convoy.

Rader’s instincts kicked in, adrenaline surging as he roared into the comm. "Engage! Engage! Free fire! All units, spread out!"

The Boxer recovered quickly, its gunner unleashing hell with the 30mm cannon, firing high-explosive rounds into the treeline where the mages had revealed themselves.

The air was thick with the chaotic symphony of battle—the sharp crack of gunfire, the mechanical whine of the Remote Weapon Stations, and the unmistakable whistling of arrows cutting through the sky. Explosions from fireball spells lit up the edges of the battlefield, casting long shadows over the convoy as it pushed forward under heavy fire.

"Holy shit! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?" the driver of Echo 3-1, Private Gelmer, shouted, his voice filled with panic as the armored vehicle lurched from a near hit.

"Shut it, Gelmer!" Sergeant Julian Kayber, the vehicle commander, barked over the mic, trying to keep the panic from spreading. "Get back on the road and keep us steady!" His voice was sharp, but focused. In the heat of battle, there was no room for hesitation.

Kayber’s eyes scanned the digital display in front of him, his hands moving instinctively across the controls. His independent sight swiveled, locking onto a group of Austorian infantry emerging from the treeline ahead, their spears gleaming in the light of the setting sun. The enemy was advancing, attempting to flank the convoy.

"Gunner, troops in the open!" Kayber called out, adrenaline surging through his veins. His laser rangefinder blinked with precision, displaying the distance to the advancing Austorians. "150 meters! High explosive rounds!"

"On the way!" the gunner shouted back, his voice steady with grim determination. The Mk44 Bushmaster 30mm Chaingun swiveled toward the advancing Austorian infantry.

A split second later, the 30mm rounds screamed from the barrel of the gun, cutting through the air with a brutal hiss. The impact was devastating—the high-explosive (HE) rounds ripped into the enemy formation with deadly precision. Bodies flew as the rounds tore through shields and armor, sending soldiers and debris scattering across the battlefield in a shower of smoke and blood.

"Direct hit!" the gunner yelled, satisfaction clear in his voice as the Austorian ranks faltered. Kayber watched the explosion bloom through his sight, eyes narrowing as more enemy forces moved in from the flanks. Austorian infantry were pushing forward, determined to overwhelm the convoy, but the 30mm Bushmaster continued to rain death upon them, chewing through the charging soldiers with terrifying efficiency.

"Good effect on target, fire for effect!" Kayber ordered, his heart pounding as he scanned for additional threats. His fingers danced over the controls, lining up the next shot. The convoy had to keep moving, and it was their job to carve a path through the Austorian forces. The enemy might have been armed with swords and spears, but their sheer numbers—and the presence of battlemages—meant this battle was far from over.

As the Mk44 Bushmaster thundered, Kayber could see the magic users in the distance, their hands glowing as they prepared their next spells.

"Targets at 180 meters!" the gunner called out. "Mages! !"

Kayber gritted his teeth. "Engage at will! Don't let them cast!"

The gunner swung the gun toward the mages, and with another deafening roar, the cannon unleashed its wrath once more.

The Explosions erupt as Battlemages begin firing fire bolts at the Armored Personnel Carrier, Only to be hit by the Echo 3-2 as it roared in front with its heavy gun firing into the Battlemages, causing them to be thrown around. Echo 3-2 takes off in a zig zag to throw off the attackers.

The Convoy begins to move into other positions as they open fire with their .50 caliber miniguns.

Alpha 9 was just beginning to pull forward when disaster struck. Without warning, a fireblast spell ripped through the air, slamming directly into the truck. The concussive force sent the vehicle careening off the road, flipping violently as the front axle disintegrated under the impact. The heavy machine gun mounted on the truck’s roof was blown clean off, leaving the crew vulnerable.

Inside, the world became a whirlwind of chaos. Soldiers were flung against the walls, their helmets smashing into hard surfaces, the sounds of shouts and metal scraping filling the air as Alpha 9 rolled and finally came to a crushing stop, upside down and half buried in the dirt.

"SHIT! ALPHA 9 IS HIT!" Specialist Honeyclaw’s voice broke through the radio, panic tinging the edges of his usually calm tone. He was already maneuvering Alpha 4 toward the wreck, trying to get into a position to support the downed truck.

"BREAK, BREAK, BREAK!" came the immediate response from an angered Lt. Tarfire, his voice thundering across the comms. "Alpha 4, get a hold of yourself! Echo 3-2, move into that defilade and send your dismounts to assist Alpha 9!"

Alpha 4 surged forward under Honeyclaw’s control, but just as it moved to flank and provide cover, a massive ice wall erupted out of nowhere, materializing from the earth itself. The shimmering barrier of frost and stone loomed large in front of the truck, blocking its path.

"SHIT!" Honeyclaw shouted as the vehicle slammed into the ice wall with a sickening crunch. The 5-ton truck bucked violently, its frame groaning under the strain, tossing crewmen and equipment around the cabin like ragdolls. Bags, rifles, and boxes of ammunition crashed into the walls as the truck rebounded off the solid barrier.

"We’re alive," Honeyclaw groaned, wiping blood from his forehead, his helmet having dug into his scalp during the collision. Around him, the gunner Daxion was scrambling to right himself, clutching at seat and harness as the truck groaned to life, trying to pull back from the frozen obstruction.

But as Alpha 4 strained to move, another area effect spell hit—the tires and lower chassis suddenly became encased in solid ice, locking the truck in place like a bug trapped in amber.

Honeyclaw’s heart pounded. His eyes darted around, searching for the enemy. And then he saw them—Austorian battlemages, their hands crackling with energy, forming glowing spheres of fire arrows ready to unleash upon the convoy. Nearby, archers were already loosing volleys of flaming arrows toward the vulnerable trucks.

"THERE!" Honeyclaw pointed, directing his gunner’s attention to the battlemages.

Without hesitation, the Remote Weapon Station (RWS) on Alpha 4 swung toward the target, the mounted GAU-21 .50 caliber machine gun spitting out a furious barrage of high-velocity rounds. The weapon’s roar was deafening, cutting through the cries of the battlefield. The heavy rounds tore through the ranks of archers and mages alike, sending bodies flying as the projectiles obliterated anything in their path. The battlemages, who had been chanting their next spells, were forced to scatter for cover as the .50 cal rounds tore through their lines.

But even as the gun wreaked havoc, a small red light began to blink on the control panel—a warning.

"We’re running low on rounds," Daxion called out, his voice laced with urgency.

Honeyclaw’s eyes flicked back and forth, heart racing as he saw the two ammo boxes on the floor, thrown from their secured positions by the earlier collision. The remaining .50 caliber rounds were spilled across the floor, loose belts of ammunition rattling as the truck shifted.

"I got it!" Honeyclaw barked, determination overriding fear. He popped off his harness and clambered toward the top hatch, his hands working quickly to free it.

The battlefield was a maelstrom outside, arrows, ice daggers, and rocks crashing against the hull as the Austorian forces desperately tried to break through the convoy’s defense. Honeyclaw ducked low, feeling the whoosh of magic projectiles fly past as he opened the trucks top hatch and unlatched the ammo hatch to the RWS. He began feeding in the next belt of .50 caliber rounds. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, though his heart hammered in his chest.

An arrow thunked hard against the truck’s armor, followed by a barrage of shattered ice pelting the top hatch, the frozen shards clattering like broken glass against the steel. Honeyclaw gritted his teeth, ducking further as he worked. His fingers linked the last belt of the rounds to the current belt.

Quickly grabbing a bottle of gun oil from the truck’s kit, Honeyclaw popped open the feed tray cover on the GAU-21. The internals gleamed as the heat radiated off the weapon. He squirted a healthy dose of oil onto the moving parts, a necessary precaution after the relentless fire they’d just laid down. The fire arrows continued to fly, their deadly tips burning bright against the darkening sky as the Austorian archers pressed their assault.

Just as Honeyclaw finished and locked the ammo box back into place, a shard of rock, enhanced by a battlemage's spell, struck his helmet, nearly knocking him off balance. He cursed but ignored the throbbing pain, quickly closing the hatch and sliding back into his seat.

"Rounds are in, rack and roll!" Honeyclaw shouted, slamming his body back into the safety of the truck’s interior.

Daxion grinned, remotely racking the .50 cal and watching the red light flicker off. The weapon roared back to life, its renewed fury unleashed upon the Austorian forces with devastating precision. The GAU-21 tore through the enemy’s cover, obliterating the battlemages and scattering them in a hail of metal and blood.

"Keep firing!" Honeyclaw shouted, his voice full of adrenaline as he watched the battlefield outside their shattered windshield. The convoy was still holding, but the battle was far from over.

As the .50 cal rounds tore through the Austorian ranks, the icy grip on Alpha 4 slowly began to weaken. The truck, battered but still functional, groaned as it fought to free itself from the frozen trap. Honeyclaw’s eyes narrowed, watching as the Austorian battlemages, now broken and scattered, scrambled away from the destruction his crew had just unleashed.

As the convoy repositioned to engage the Austorian forces, one truck remained eerily stationary.

Lt. Rader Tarfire, noticing the lack of movement, keyed his mic. “Alpha 8, why are you not moving? Alpha 8, respond!”

Silence.

Rader’s voice took on a harder edge, urgency creeping in. “Alpha 8, respond! Damn it, what’s going on?”

A crackling response came through, shaky and half-muffled: “Alpha 1 Actual, this is Alpha 8 Golf... PFC Syndall is... she’s nearly catatonic, sir. She’s frozen in—AHHH!”

The mic cut out abruptly.

Inside Alpha 8, chaos had broken loose. Specialist Randal Drygut was grappling with PFC Aileen Syndall, her eyes wild and distant. She thrashed violently in her seat, clawing at her harness and screaming incoherently. It was as if something deep and broken had shattered loose in her mind.

Through her haze of rage and terror, Syndall saw it—the black flag with the red heart. It fluttered ominously from a slaver wagon in the distance, the same flag that had flown over the camp where she and her family had been captured and brutalized. Memories crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her village had burned under that banner. Her family had been taken. Her sister... her sister had been slaughtered in front of her while the slavers laughed. And now, that nightmare had returned. The flag mocked her, bringing back every wound that had never healed.

“I’LL NEVER GO BACK!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with madness. She slammed her fists against the dashboard and tore at her seatbelt, desperate to break free and attack. Her eyes burned with raw, feral hatred as she turned on Drygut, her hands clawing at him. She was gone—lost in a psychotic episode triggered by the horrifying memories.

“Get off! Syndall, snap out of it!” Drygut yelled, trying to restrain her as she lashed out, fists and nails tearing at his uniform and skin. He struggled to hold her down, but Syndall’s strength, fueled by sheer terror and rage, made her nearly uncontrollable. “HELP!”

Syndall’s screams of “I’ll never go back!” echoed in the cramped space of the truck, her mind spiraling deeper into the dark chasm of her trauma. Her fists connected with Drygut’s face, drawing blood. Desperation filled his eyes as he fought to stop her, but she was relentless. Her entire body convulsed with a maddened strength he couldn’t hold back.

Just when it seemed Drygut would lose the struggle, he acted on instinct. With a pained grunt, he slammed the butt of his rifle into her, knocking her out cold. She slumped against the seat, unconscious, the madness momentarily silenced.

Gasping for breath, Drygut’s hands trembled as he touched the blood streaming from his face, his heart still hammering in his chest. "One minute she was fine..." he muttered to himself, his voice shaky, "the next, she... she just flipped out..."

Outside, Staff Sergeant Wellknife and his team rushed to Alpha 8. They tore open the door, weapons at the ready, only to find Drygut, bloodied and exhausted, sitting next to the unconscious Syndall. Her hands still twitched slightly, as if even in her unconscious state, she was fighting the ghosts in her mind.

“Sergeant!” Drygut stammered, his voice ragged. “I don’t know what happened—one minute she was fine, the next she just flipped the fuck out and attacked me! I had to knock her out... but she’s... she’s gone nuts, Sergeant.”

Wellknife took a deep breath, glancing at the unconscious Syndall, a wave of sympathy crossing his face. He knew the signs—Syndall’s past had just caught up with her, and there was nothing he could do about it right now except keep the convoy moving.

“Ok, Drygut,” Wellknife said, his voice firm but understanding. “You did what you had to. Mudclaw, you’re driving now. Get this truck moving and keep up the fire. We’ll take care of Syndall.”

Mudclaw nodded, quickly sliding into the driver’s seat, while the rest of Wellknife’s team pulled Drygut out, handing him a rag for his face. Syndall remained slumped against her seat, her breathing shallow but steady.

Wellknife keyed his mic, steadying his tone before reporting in. "Alpha 1, this is Echo 3-6 Actual. We had an issue, but Alpha 8 is operational and moving. We are on our way to Alpha 9."

Rader’s voice came back immediately, tense but focused. “Understood, Echo 3-6. Get your dismounts moving. We still have a battle going on.”

As Alpha 8 lurched forward, joining the convoy once again, Wellknife took Syndall. He didn’t know if she’d ever recover from the horrors that had broken her, but for now, they had to survive the day.

The Beastkin convoy was now fully engaged. The RWS miniguns roared, cutting through ranks of Austorian swordsmen and pikemen charging forward. Mages tried to create barriers, casting fireballs, ice spears, and bolts of wind, but the 30mm HE rounds from Echo 3-1 and 3-2 disrupted their spells.

Rader Tarfire began calling out commands. “Target those mages! They’re the priority!”

Sergeant Julian Kayber the Tank commander radioed in.

Wellknife and his dismounts arrived at the wreck of Alpha 9, the truck listing awkwardly on its side. Smoke curled from the exposed axles, and the smell of scorched metal filled the air.

“Let’s go, get the door open!” Wellknife barked, his voice cutting through the cacophony of battle.

The dismounts scrambled over the truck like ants, their boots clanging against the battered metal as they surrounded it. Sergeant Blackpaw, his brow furrowed with concentration, tugged at the door, but it didn’t budge.

"Sergeant! The door’s stuck!" one of the dismounts shouted, panic edging into his voice as the sounds of explosions and distant shouts echoed across the battlefield.

Blackpaw gritted his teeth. "Everyone back!" he ordered, his hand already reaching for the emergency release lever.

He flipped open the protective cover over the hinge, revealing the manual override mechanism. A hiss of steam escaped as the hydraulics released pressure, and the metal hinges began to glow, shifting from dull gray to an angry red as the emergency system heated the joints. Blackpaw braced himself, then with a powerful kick, knocked the now-molten hinges free.

“Okay, let’s get them out!” Blackpaw shouted, adrenaline surging in his veins.

The dismounts worked together, prying the heavy armored door free and tossing it aside with a loud thud against the dirt. They moved fast, some pulling security and training their weapons outward, covering the perimeter while the others rushed to check the truck’s interior.

Inside, the motionless forms of PFC Enilya Drypaw and Private Matthew Drydew slumped in their seats, their helmets knocked askew, their faces smeared with dust and blood. One of the dismounts quickly clambered in, his pulse racing as he checked their vitals.

“They’re alive!” he called out, relief lacing his voice. “Let’s get them out of here!”

The team worked in unison, gently but swiftly pulling the injured soldiers from the truck and laying them on the ground. Drypaw and Drydew were groggy, their eyes fluttering open as they struggled to make sense of their surroundings.

“Not too fast,” Sergeant Blackpaw said as Private Drydew tried to sit up, the world still spinning.

But Drydew moved too quickly, his stomach rebelling as he leaned over and retched violently onto the ground. Blackpaw winced but gave a knowing shake of his head.

“I told you,” Blackpaw muttered with a wry smile. “Both of you have concussions. Let’s get you to the rear truck.”

The dismounts hurriedly helped them to their feet and rushed them toward Alpha 12, where Corporal Brightclaw, the medic, was already sprinting across the open ground. Her medical pack bounced against her side as she dodged past the ongoing chaos—narrowly avoiding arrows, fire bolts, and the constant threat of explosions that rocked the landscape around her.

A burning .50 cal casing shot out of a nearby gun, falling into her jacket as she ran. She winced as the hot metal seared her skin, but she barely slowed down, her focus solely on reaching the wounded.

By the time she reached Alpha 12, her back stung from the burn, but she shoved the pain aside. Immediately, Brightclaw began assessing the concussed soldiers, her hands moving with the precision of a seasoned field medic. Her brow furrowed as she examined their pupils and checked their responses, her expression tight but professional.

Then her gaze shifted toward PFC Syndall, who had been brought to the rear earlier after her psychotic episode. Syndall was awake now, her eyes wild and unfocused, bouncing between hysteria and aggression as she wrestled with the chaos inside her mind.

Syndall’s voice shifted unpredictably, from sobbing to shouting, her hands shaking as she tried to fight against invisible captors. Corporal Brightclaw knelt beside her, gently grabbing her wrist to stop her from harming herself.

“I’ve got you. We’re safe now,” she whispered soothingly, though she knew Syndall was far from safe inside her own head.

Brightclaw reached into her medical bag, pulling out a sedative autoinjector. She hesitated for just a second before pressing it against Syndall’s thigh. With a soft click, the needle delivered its dose, and within moments, Syndall’s struggling quieted. Her body relaxed, her breathing slowing as the sedative took effect.

Brightclaw let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “She’s in bad shape,” she muttered, looking over at Wellknife, who had knelt beside her. “She’ll need help—psychological help. But we don’t have time for that now.” She glanced toward the battlefield, where the sound of explosions and gunfire continued unabated.

“Damn it,” she cursed under her breath, frustration clear in her voice. “I wish I could medivac her out, but we’re too deep in it. Put her in Alpha 12, let her sleep. That’s all we can do for now.”

Wellknife nodded grimly. "Understood. Thanks, Doc."

He gave her a small nod of appreciation, the nickname "Doc" carrying with it the respect that only a soldier can give to the one who saves lives in the middle of hell. Brightclaw gave him a tired smile in return.

“Thanks,” she replied, standing up and brushing herself off. “I’ll do what I can.”

A group of Austorian archers, arrows enchanted with fire, loosed volleys at the trucks, setting Alpha 6’s tarp aflame. The Fire suppression fired off, killing the fire in milliseconds, and the RWS retaliated with deadly accuracy, cutting the archers down before they could loose another volley.

Amid the chaos of battle, a slaver wagon burst from the burning village of Mya, its horses frothing at the mouth, driven to their limits by desperate Elves who had overthrown their captors. The wagon careened wildly, its wooden wheels bouncing violently on the uneven ground, tearing through the village outskirts as if pursued by death itself. The Elves' terrified shouts blended with the din of war as the wagon barreled toward the Beastkin convoy, directly into the line of fire.

"Sir!" A sharp voice crackled over the radio. "We've got a wagon coming fast—looks like Elves!"

Lt. Rader Tarfire whipped his head toward the oncoming chaos, eyes narrowing as he spotted the runaway wagon. Through the dust and smoke, he could see the wide-eyed Elven drivers whipping the exhausted horses, desperately trying to escape the village. But behind them, Austorian forces pursued, arrows and magic bolts flying through the air, aiming to drag their runaway slaves back into chains.

Rader’s voice cut through the battlefield with authority. "Get them out of the kill zone! Cover that wagon! Don’t let the Austorians get to them!"

Instantly, the RWS on Alpha 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 spun toward the Austorian forces chasing the wagon. The sharp crack of .50 caliber rounds echoed as streams of gunfire ripped into the enemy ranks. Austorian soldiers fell as the heavy rounds cut through their armor and flesh, the mages scrambling to conjure shields, only to be overwhelmed by the suppressive fire.

The Elves on the wagon, terrified but driven by sheer will, urged their horses to go faster. Their hands gripped the reins tightly, faces pale with fear as they raced toward the main road. Arrows whizzed past their heads, some sticking into the wooden sides of the wagon with solid thuds. Still, they pushed on, fleeing their captors with the hope of freedom—or at least escape from certain death.

But as they drew closer to the Beastkin convoy, the Elves began to slow down. The sight before them was unlike anything they had ever seen. Enormous metal beasts—trucks, APCs, and armed vehicles—lined the battlefield, bristling with weaponry. Beastkin soldiers stood ready, their war machines unleashing death upon the Austorians. To the Elves, it was a horrifying mix of savagery and technology, a force they had never imagined.

The wagon’s pace faltered, and the horses stumbled to a stop, their flanks heaving, covered in sweat. The Elves inside looked around, bewildered and frightened, unsure of what they had raced into. These weren’t their kin, and though the Beastkin had saved them from the Austorians, the heavy weaponry and cold, calculating efficiency of the soldiers filled them with a new kind of fear.

One of the Elves, trembling and clutching a makeshift weapon, looked toward the Beastkin soldiers with wide, fearful eyes. "Who... who are they?" she whispered, barely audible over the sounds of battle.

The horses stamped nervously, sensing the tension in the air. The Elves exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to flee once more or trust these strange warriors who had cut down their pursuers with such brutal precision.

Rader, observing the wagon come to a stop, keyed his comm again. "Hold your fire on the wagon. Let them come in!" He turned to his driver. "Get me eyes on that wagon. Make sure they’re safe."

The Beastkin soldiers, wary but disciplined, kept their weapons trained outward, focused on the Austorians. The RWS on the trucks continued to pour fire into the enemy lines, keeping the Elves covered, allowing them to process their sudden freedom. The slaver wagon, now at a complete stop, seemed to hesitate, caught between two worlds—one of captivity and one of uncertain salvation.

For the Elves, it was a moment of indecision. They had escaped their slavers only to fall into the hands of a military force they barely recognized. Yet, despite the fear and confusion in their eyes, they knew they had little choice. Slowly, one of the Elven men at the front of the wagon lowered his weapon and nodded to the others.

"They saved us..." he murmured, his voice shaking. "Maybe they’ll help us still." He hit the reins, and the horse began to gallop towards the Beastkin lines.

Lt. Tarfire opened his door and yelled in Elvish “GET BEHIND US! WE’LL PROTECT YOU!!”

The trucks moved and let the confused and scared Elves through the defensive line they had created. The driver slowed and stopped behind Alpha 12.

Just as the convoy began to regroup, another danger formed on the horizon. From the north, a low rumble grew steadily louder—a sound unmistakable to any veteran of war. The thunder of hooves, hundreds of them, echoed across the plains, a primal and foreboding sound that sent shivers down the spines of the Beastkin soldiers.

The Austorian cavalry, an imposing wave of horsemen, emerged from the treeline like a shadow creeping over the battlefield. Hundreds of riders, clad in polished armor that gleamed fiercely in the dying light of the sun, bore down on the already embattled convoy. Spears, swords, and shields were raised high, their deadly points catching the last rays of daylight, transforming the mounted soldiers into a moving wall of death.

Rader peered through his binoculars from Alpha 1. His heart pounded as he watched the cavalry crest the hill, the banners of the Austorian Empire fluttering violently in the wind behind them. Dust billowed beneath the hooves of their warhorses, which galloped with fierce, untamed energy, their muscles rippling beneath thick layers of armor. The sound was deafening, the ground shaking as if the earth itself was bracing for the impending collision.

"Alpha 1, cavalry spotted! North, closing fast!" A voice crackled through the comms, panic seeping into the words.

Rader's face darkened as he lowered the binoculars. His hand gripped the mic tightly, knuckles white with the pressure. He stared for a moment longer, watching the wave of riders charge forward with terrifying speed, intent on crushing the convoy beneath their hooves.

"Eight hundred meters and closing!" someone called from a truck, their voice shaking slightly.

Rader's mind raced, calculating the timing and spacing. They had mere moments before the cavalry would be upon them—spears, swords, and magic crashing down on their already battle-worn defenses. His eyes flicked to the RWS on each truck, tracking the incoming threat with precision, the hum of the weapons systems spinning up ready to unleash death.

With a grimace, Rader keyed his mic, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "Cavalry spotted. 800 meters. All units, engage at 200m. Push them back."

The Beastkin soldiers inside the trucks braced for the next wave, eyes wide and hearts pounding. Some had never faced a cavalry charge like this before—this was no simple skirmish. It was an ancient nightmare brought to life.

The cavalry charged with frightening speed, their riders chanting battle cries and magic incantations in unison, creating a low, fearsome rumble that carried over the plains. The sight of their spears raised high, ready to impale, and their swords gleaming wickedly with arcane energies in the fading light, made the soldiers tighten their grips on their weapons. The RWS systems spun to face the oncoming tide of horses and men, ready to rain steel on their ancient enemy.

Rader stood firm in Alpha 1, staring down the wave of riders. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he surveyed the battlefield, adrenaline surging through his veins. "They want a fight?" he muttered under his breath, clenching his fist. "Let’s give ‘em one."

He keyed his radio.

“Echo 3-2, this is Alpha 1, I need the Forward Observer on the line.”