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Prologue Part-B: The Last Stand

  The Iron Cyclops was a beast of war—an imposing suit of power armor that stood a towering seven feet tall, its silhouette cutting an imposing figure against the infernal backdrop of the battlefield. Built for survival, built for death. Its design was simple yet brutal—a giant, heavily armored frame with angular plating and a single, massive visor that glowed a muted red. Its thick, iron-like body was built from a dark, matte alloy, with reinforced joints and hydraulic pistons that gave it an almost mechanical grace despite its bulk. The Zaku II-like appearance of the armor—its clawed feet and sharp edges—was reminiscent of something ancient, a creature from some forgotten era.

  But even this massive juggernaut was no match for the overwhelming force that descended upon them.

  Inside, the pilot gripped the control handles with white knuckles, sweat slicking his brow. He could feel the tremors of his suit’s heavy steps reverberate through his chest as the Iron Cyclops surged forward, its leg servos whirring in perfect harmony with his every command. His breathing was heavy, his heart pounding in time with the rhythmic thudding of the suit’s boots on the cracked earth.

  “Warchief to all units. Sixty seconds ‘til contact. Enemy is estimated to have heavy armor and air support. Continue to delay the enemy advances in your sectors. Out.”

  The comms crackled, faint static briefly disrupting the transmission before a voice came through.

  “Wardog copies. Good to have you, Warchief.”

  The pilot tightened on the controls, his attention unwavering. Through the visor’s visibility, he could see the forms of his fellow soldiers moving into position, armored figures like himself—machines of war that would hold the line, no matter the cost. Each step he took in the Cyclops felt like a battle, his mind and the machine linked in a desperate struggle to stay alive.

  The world exploded into chaos.

  Explosions rocked the ground beneath him as enemy artillery screamed through the air, each shell landing in an eruption of fire and dust. The Iron Cyclops absorbed the shock, its reinforced plating groaning but holding firm. His hand shifted to the right-hand control, directing the heavy cannon mounted on his suit’s shoulder to unleash a volley of fire. A massive barrage of plasma rounds tore through the advancing enemy lines, the shockwave reverberating through the battlefield.

  “Goliath copies. Our first real engagement.”

  The voice came through the comms again, but the pilot barely heard it, his focus locked on the enemy approaching from the distance—huge tanks, humanoid mechs, and infantry, all closing in from all sides.

  The Iron Cyclops fired again, the heavy weapon systems roaring as it let loose another wave of plasma destruction. But for all the firepower it unleashed, it was never enough. The battlefield was an endless tide, an unstoppable force that seemed to stretch on forever. The first line of enemies fell, but more appeared in their place, advancing with unyielding determination.

  “Stalker copies. At least it beats maintenance duty.”

  Another explosion rocked the ground, this time directly beneath his feet. The Iron Cyclops staggered, one of its legs jerking out from under it before it righted itself with an automated assist. The sensors blinked red, warning of damage to its lower leg servos. The pilot grimaced. He didn’t have time to worry about that now.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Reaper copies. Confirmed visual on enemy forces. They're massing to the north.”

  The words were clear, but the tension was thick in the air. The enemy was everywhere. The suit’s sensors flickered as more signals pinged on his radar—too many to count, too many to fight. It didn’t matter. He would hold the line.

  Another explosion ripped through the air, sending shockwaves through the suit. The pilot shuddered, lights flickering across the interface as sparks flew from the control panel. The Iron Cyclops groaned under the strain. His systems blinked and scrambled.

  “Warchief is KIA. I repeat, Warchief is KIA.”

  The voice on the other end of the comms was almost drowned out by the mechanical cacophony. His mind raced—Warchief is dead. The weight of it struck him like a hammer blow. Their commander, their leader, had fallen. There was no time to think.

  Warchief-5.

  It was now his duty to hold the line.

  “Wardog-3. Looks like this is it. It’s been an honor,” came the voice of his comrade, the sound barely piercing through the roaring fires of war. Both were the last pilots from his hometown. He didn’t have time for goodbyes. The enemy was pushing forward.

  “Reaper-6 been hit. Moving to assist,” another voice crackled. The weight of the situation pressed in on him. He was alone now, or as close to it as anyone could be in this war.

  The Iron Cyclops’ heavy arms shifted, and with a screech of hydraulics, the massive arm-mounted cannon fired once more. But the incoming fire was overwhelming. A direct hit struck the Cyclops in the chest, the blast ripping through the armor and sending the pilot reeling.

  System Failure. Warning. Damage Critical. Neural Link Severing.

  Pain, intense and all-consuming, shot through him as the neural link between himself and the Battle-Rig started to fail. His vision began to swim, and his body felt as though it was being torn apart at the seams. Blood poured from a wound in his side, staining the suit red as the lights flickered once again.

  He tried to move, tried to fight back, but the damage to his systems was too great. His limbs were heavy, unresponsive. The Iron Cyclops was a dying machine, and so was he.

  One final roar from the cannon, one last desperate attempt to make a difference, but it was too late.

  “I can’t see. I can’t see…”

  The words were barely audible, as his vision filled with darkness. The last shred of his consciousness slipping away as the neural interface began to shut down. His armor was swallowed by shadow, and the once-mighty Iron Cyclops collapsed to the ground.

  In the stillness of the void, there was no sound, no light, no time. The pilot’s body—a broken shell of its former self—floated in the nothingness. But there was something else. A strange, tugging sensation, like a force pulling him, drawing him somewhere beyond the darkness. His mind was already slipping away, but something—someone—was reaching for him.

  With a jolt that reverberated through his entire being, the pilot was ripped from the void, his body torn from the remains of death. A bright light flashed, followed by an overwhelming pressure.

  His last thought, as his consciousness shattered and reformed, was that he had failed. But the world he was pulled into… it was different. Strange. Unfamiliar.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer on the battlefield. The ground beneath him was rough and uneven, not the sterile metallic flooring of his rig. He felt... different. Like something had changed. His mind swirled with confusion as the distant sounds of something... foreign reached his ears.

  A voice broke through his haze, trembling and unsure.

  “Are you... are you... real?”

  The figure before him—a girl, no older than a teenager—stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. She was holding something in her hand, her fingers trembling. She stepped forward slowly, as if unsure of what to make of the giant armored figure that lay before her.

  The Iron Cyclops' systems were silent, lifeless, but within the suit, the pilot still clung to consciousness, his last vestiges of awareness straining against the dark pull of unconsciousness. His final thoughts before slipping into oblivion were simple:

  I don’t know where I am...

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