Opus Veda

Soldiers charged through halls and wards, smashing their weapons against anything in their way. Varma led from the front, pacing fast and hungry for foes. Hospital staff tried blocking him with pleas for reason. He butted them aside. Patients fled and cowered behind makeshift barricades. Some cheered Varma on.

He found them.

They were armed and masked, and caught off guard. The revolution opened fire, shredding anything that moved. Terrorists dropped before they could fight back, patients on beds shuddered with gunfire, clinicians died surrendering.

The host swept each floor. Resistance grew. Vedic insurgents jumped from corners, shooting, stabbing, blinding and deafening, rolling bombs under the attackers. The first revolutionaries fell, and still they fought. Soldiers expended their bullets and filed to the rear; those behind took the front and kept firing. Terrorist rounds scattered over their ballistic shields, killing those they caught exposed.

But Black resistance was slippery. Varma knew they were delaying, drawing fire to waste his soldiers ammunition. One by one, revolutionaries fell back. The firing line wore thin.

They were underground. A final insurgent attacked the captain, mask screeching, explosives in her hands. Pierce downed her with his last round, opening her chest. Shields closed around her and took the blast force. Flesh and fire pounded them.

A slabbed industrial door stood in their way. Revolution sappers ran forward. Pierce grabbed Varma's shoulder and yelled in his ear.

"Captain! We haven't much left!" he roared behind him and made a bolt action with his fist, "ammo!"

Varma growled through clenched teeth, "keep on the door!"

The sappers sheared through iron with molten heat. The door clunked and whined. Everyone else searched for rounds; few remained.

They looked tired and doubtful. Varma wouldn't allow it. He drew his sabre.

"You will fight on as I do! Swords out!"

They obeyed in one sweeping motion. The air above glittered with steel.

The door fell away. Varma marched in.

The basement was vast and covered with gigantic machinery; a graveyard of rusting devices, made to serve a population that could no longer afford them.

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A solitary figure waited in the distance - a hooded falcon under a spotlight surrounded by blackness. Varma's rival, who had murdered his predecessor and now his men. The doctor drew a serrated blade. His gauntlets sparked with electricity. He held arms open.

An invitation. An ambush would follow.

Varma raised his sword and attacked. The revolution poured inside as their enemy poured out to meet them. The Black tide crackled with blue lights. Hundreds of singing rounds speared the Red ranks, lodging into shield and armour. Varma's breastplate hissed with volts. He yank the barb away and kept charging.

The lines slammed together. Order collapsed into a melee for survival. Varma and Andrez clashed blades, sending sparks flying. Several bouts passed. It was clear Varma was the better fighter. But Andrez never lost control; never let himself be tricked twice. He used Varma's aggression against him and Varma fell for it, lunging and getting drawn from his allies.

A sergeant crashed between them, her face concave with blunt trauma. Andrez seized the moment and kicked out. Varma fell, gasped for air, saw his opponent's blade rise.

Pierce pulled him back into the line. Andrez's advantage faltered. He fell back.

Varma heaved himself up and saw chaos. Guardsmen were panicking, pressing backwards and risking a crush. Veterans were isolated and hacked down. Terrorists exploited the Red's fatigue, pulling ballistic shields away and sailing their attacks overhead.

Varma ordered the retreat. The regiment reformed and shuffled back, and the terrorists allowed it. Smattering attacks kept their guard up, but the shifting figures of Opus Veda were dispersing into darker corners. In their wake, they revealed a carpet of black and red bodies.

* * *

Sermon floundered outside the hospital. His eyes and ears stung. His arm throbbed where an insurgent clubbed him - the one attack he had taken before fleeing.

He cried for gathering reporters and influencers attention. The nation flickered online to react, already excited by the Blackpool massacre and now spoilt with another episode of war.

The reporters ran past him, clamouring for the greater man behind. Varma mounted the plinth jutting from the hospital's entrance. His regiment formed around him. Cameras landed on the sword in his hand, then the splintered mask in his other.

He raised it aloft; the face of the Veda, which had terrorised so many. Lines of red ran from it's mouthpiece. Rain trickled from its eyes. A tragic miracle on a face heavy with the signs of abuse.

"Our revolution swore to make this republic great again! Against a government who prices you out of your hospitals, and a terrorist cult who infests them," Varma shook the mask, "look how weak it is! All they have is their reputation! We will prise each face away until Opus Veda are a shameful story of our past; and you will never need fear what words you say, what opinions you hold, what values you believe, because some terrorist decided they know better than you."

The reporters pushed towards him. Some tried to ask a question; soldiers nudged them back. Varma spotted Sermon in the crowd and threw the mask into his hands.

"Here boy. One for our man Luca..."

The regiment mounted its convoy and drove off. Varma fell down, wincing from his wounds. Pierce watched with pride as medics checked him. Lieutenant Pardo chattered into the cabin speaker of spent ammo, wounded soldiers, and those who fell behind. Much would be commented on. Much criticised.

Varma didn't care. Armchair generals could analyse all they liked, but the message was his objective. Someone had outsmarted Opus Veda, and beat them.

That mattered for his soldiers, and his country. But not for him anymore.

He contacted Second Division HQ, and submitted himself for court-martialling.