I. Deployment

There is a great disparity between the Souls of Metal and Flesh. The divergence of such stygian affairs is malevolently enigmatic, and I, a soldier of the Hekrates Mercenary Company, am ill-equipped to elucidate. Such horrors, were the ones to be faced on the last mission to ever be conducted by the Hekrates Squad IO-8.

We were approached by two Men. They were strange creatures, which I could only assume were from the Arid Lands. They were quadrupedal in their gait with outwards-splayed insectile limbs and elongated cerci. Their abdomens were plump and bioluminescent orange. Strangely enough, their faces were some horrid comminglement of insect and reptile, and their jaws were denticulated with many long and sharp fangs. The duo’s eyes were small, beady, and high in number. Their accent was guttural and broken, for their barely-vertical jaws were clearly not designed for speech of our kind; and the insect-sapients said to us this:

“Militiamen, help.. metal Men, good payment.. Mephelon.”

Upon asking for further clarification, we learnt simply of the coordinates of this so-called “Mephelon”, but the metal Men that these creatures mentioned had still been a mystery. They paid upfront, in exchange for the operation to be conducted quickly and quietly, they gave to us a cylindrical container entirely filled with Great Red Leeches. Creatures, whose milk and venom was extremely valuable, and these plump specimens promised an affluent reward. The proposition was accepted, and the two dealbrokers were escorted back to the sarcous burrow from which they terrifyingly emerged to us without noise.

In truth, we were not really a squad; the fourth member of our team was slaughtered in a battle past. So, until Hekrates could find us a replacement, it was a triumvirate that was to descend upon Mephelon. We are magnificently accoutred with fervid munitions and grand weapons to spew them. I had a gargantuan rifle, almost as large as myself, that fired salvos of explosive skull-sized shells. The size of the weapon and the payload it delivered made melee-range battles complex and troublesome. And, so large were magazines of the turborifle that I had to store them on a great backpack, and the process of reloading was onerous and rather cumbersome.

In comparison to Grimdarnaðr, the eldest and most maniacal of our squad, the explosive potential of my greatrifle was infinitesimal. He was a strapping demonic thing in his appearance, with draconic features, shriveled wings, and cloven feet. His face was cloaked by a respirator, and the psychopathy in his voice was the only way in which he self-expressed. Upon him were belt-fed grenade launchers, multi-apertured cannons, and most significant of all a gargantuan bazooka which took the combined effort of the entire squadron to reload.

And, silently peering from the shadows of the ruinous remnants and flayed bodies left in our wake was Slátrgandr. A creature shrouded in veils and long flapping cloaks, whose face was mysteriously obscured by a sneering mask of porcelain. It seemed as though Slátrgandr was a shadow from Beyond, for he lurked silently and distantly from us. Using what could only be described on paper as a handheld railgun with many scopes, he executed would-be fiends and troopers alike with unexpected and startlingly cacadaemoniacal grace.

The craft on which we departed was of utmost sophistication. Seismic and biological readings showed that Mephelon was a heavily wooded area, with many fine rivers and lakes. There were natives, who lived humble lives in small hamlets, but we were not concerned with invoking their ire or being recognized. They were small, primeval forestfolk who could be obliterated and avulsed at the lightest touch of our triggers. Anomalous among our results was a massive concavity almost certainly artificial in its construction; so utterly gargantuan and environmentally despoiling that it was almost certainly a structure of the “Metal Men”.

We elected to drop northwest of the structure. We brang with us the most powerful of our equipment, and 3 weeks worth of rations for the 3 of us each. The structure was extremely ambitious in its scope, and we feared that resistance was to be at its worst extremely harsh. Slátrgandr, the most lightly armed of us all, carried upon his back a miniature nuclear device to destroy the structure. As per the vague instructions of the bounty, we were to obliterate the structure and extinguish as many souls as we could in the process.

The jungles of Mephelon were exotic, and of all the territories I had patrolled it was perhaps here that I was most alienated. The foliage was sarcous and purple, with great hand-like flowers. Large trees with hairy trunks stood crooked and imposing, shading us with their purple fronds. Indeed, shades of deep blue and dark purple were the only colors to be found. After awhile, it became monotonous as we chopped our way through the vine-encumbered branches. The purple jungle’s hostile biology, its thorny tentacles and strange mycetal carnivores would be deadly to most lifeforms. All but us with our superior firepower, and somehow, these Metal Men.

The harrowingly esoteric jungle’s monochromacy was cleaved when we reached a steep inclination that tore through the earth and revealed the paradoxically dry soil below. It was at the least a 10ft drop, and it was a certain indication that the great structure we had detected was up ahead. Red smoke that billowed out from what seemed to be monoliths far in the distance told of habitation or perhaps industry. The dealbrokers did not tell us of the scope of our target, and it was to me at least haunting to see that this militia was far more sprawling than we had previous fathomed. I imagined primitive savages, nearly as broken in their stature as the brokerbugs, clad in scrapmetal. But the fathomless efficiency of those fuel-yearning greatfoundries was concerning.

Slátrgandr elected to partition from the group and find a height advantage at which to support us from range. Grimdarnaðr suggested calling an airdrop, but I retaliated against such a proposition. Aerial supply drops, I feared, would garner the attention of the Structure at Mephelon. I proposed a stratagem which would be the one to be ratified; I and Grimdarnaðr would charge inwards and use explosive ordinance to breach the factories. While Slátrgandr used high-caliber long-ranged weaponry to destroy larger and more dangerous targets and snipers atop towers.

We continued forwards, closer to the ominous factories, and as we did the sheer sophistication became truly evident. There was a huge wall surrounding what I could only call a Compound. Made solidly of black metal with many gyrating spotlights and defensive towers, and atop the wall was a squamous coil of razor wire that made climbing impossible. Upon that exraterrestrially cantankerous tower were the Metal Men, and my first glimpse of them was unsettling. I had seen the worst of War and its putridities, Men blasted to bits, Soldiers melting alive, all accursed things. But never before had I seen something so uncanny; it was a humanoid thing, with mechanical arms and digitigrade two-clawed legs, and most wicked of all was its face. Which glistened ivory white in comparison to the rest of its almost jet-black corpus. I realized, then, that these were not just “Metal Men”, no! These were Machines. Soulless, Unthinking, Fuel-Gluttonous, Automatons.

Grimdarnaðr too was slightly startled at the grim revelation. For our experience fighting mechanical things was limited, but he was the most steadfast of us all. He told Slátrgandr exactly where to fire, “When the first shot rings we fucking go.”

The first shot from Slátrgandr’s rifle was immensely powerful, and it made the ears ring with the raucousness of its projectile. The greatbullet perfectly flew through two robots atop the towers before wedging itself into a second spire. Immediately, warning sirens blared, great and loud uproarius things they were that deafened the ears of Lesser Men. In the cacophony, they noticed us not as Grimdarnaðr planted a set of adhesive explosives on the wall.

“1..2..3,” We both ducked behind a mangled piece of scrapmetal as the explosive went off. The wall was breached in a fiery blue inferno, and multiple machines were sent flying backwards.

Grimdarnaðr was first to charge into battle, firing a volley of grenades upon the robots, who stood not behind cover but instead in a frontline or “wall” to stop us passage. Such battle-eagerness was quickly obliterated, however, as the machines fired a volley of red plasmatic bolts at us. Their effective and quick-fashioned formation made their firing akin to a wall of red flame. Their projectiles were hot and fast-travelling, and the rifles from which they were fired spewed them at an unnaturally fast pace. The red plasma melted rocks, and formed small explosions as it hit the ground.

I fired upon the tight formation, taking a few of the automatons out. The break in their formation disoriented them so that Grimdarnaðr threw a grenade, which extirpated what remained of the formation. Something strange about these automatons was the manner in which they died; they died with a kind of dignity, I suppose. They did not have any mouth analogue, but their gargantuan, strigine eyes told of stories and cultural secrets that laid mysteriously behind their circuits. Such pondering was what to be my downfall if I was to continue loligagging, and so my glimpse at the carcasses was brief.

There was very quickly a stalemate between us and the automatons. We hid behind pieces of debris that flew from the wall, granting us invulnerable cover from their projectiles. Any grenades they lobbed at us would be thrown back, and after a quick teaching session the robots learnt quick of that fact. We could not fire very effectively on them either, for we were at the bottom of a steep slope on which the robots sat with machine-gun analogues that seemed to fire a plasmatic bolt every picosecond.

The robots were infinitely patient, and waiting with the vigil of gargoyles. While us, organics, grew increasingly anxious as they almost concretely discontinued their almost endless barrage of fire on us. Grimdarnaðr feared that a party of the robots was to flank us from behind, and I agreed fullheartedly. I activated one of my flares, and with all the force I could muster threw it uphill at the automatons. It was indication to Slátrgandr that he needed to fire upon them. There was a single shot, which destroyed the primary machine gun and gave us passage upwards. It was strangely inaccurate, of course, it was still pinpoint, but Slátrgandr was beyond that in his capacity to aim.

That was when, for the very first time, I heard his voice.

“I am pinned down, chaps. They fucking got me cornered, at least 2 dozen of these things and I think I’m fucked.”

Nothing else came of Slátrgandr, and his radio went silent for the remainder of the Mission of Mephelon. I could only infer one macabre fate: Slátrgandr was dead. This was a two-party mission now, and the scope of the power of the Machines of Mephelon far surpassed what we could ever anticipate. Still, we fought inwards, firing upon the lesser robots and destroying huge clusters of them with explosive ordinance. We threw grenades into their boxy structures, and ultimately elected to siege what we believed to be the headquarters of their operation. That decision was quickthought, and ill-witted.

The robots came with a ferocity so vehemently blasphemous that it could not be described. But the fury with which they assailed us was ineffable, and the machines became extremely angry as we breached their inner structure. They were hauntingly expressive. The robots screamed with “digital”, almost crunchy voices that sounded guttural and like growls. It was, alongside those horrid, strigine eyes, something that rasped at my soul. The Machines of Mephelon, I theorized, were not just Machines; and the abhorrent paradox of their existence warranted their extinction. Frankly, I agreed with that conclusion from the brokerbugs and their masters, extirpate them.

II. The Structure, Point of no Return

The structure was barricaded by a series of bulkheads, which took multiple explosives each to destroy. I fired upon the robots that attempted to force their way towards us, while Grimdarnaðr used as much ordinance as he could to annihilate the defenses. It was grim-lighted expanse, frigid in temperature and design with hostile and brutalist architecture. Grimdarnaðr sealed the entrance to the Structure, so that we had time to do our work. The complex was expansive, and no doubt penetrated the soil to be a partially chthonic; and around us were multiple antechambers that led into a variety of subdistricts. There was a decal above each threshold, alien and angular in conception. Although despite their eccentricity, they were mostly discernible, one hallway led to power generation, etc,.

But one such hallway and the path it implied was extremely concerning. It was a depicted what seemed to be a small child, enveloped in a corona of flame. We both agreed that that accursed pathway was the first we would destroy. It was a high-ceiling thing, like all of them, illuminated queerly by crimson lamps. There was no security, so we assumed that all the Machines had left their posts to combat our initial assault

The structure was barricaded by a series of bulkheads, which took multiple explosives each to destroy. I fired upon the robots that attempted to force their way towards us, while Grimdarnaðr used as much ordinance as he could to annihilate the defenses. It was grim-lighted expanse, frigid in temperature and design with hostile and brutalist architecture. Grimdarnaðr sealed the entrance to the Structure, so that we had time to do our work. The complex was expansive, and no doubt penetrated the soil to be a partially chthonic; and around us were multiple antechambers that led into a variety of subdistricts. There was a decal above each threshold, alien and angular in conception. Although despite their eccentricity, they were mostly discernible, one hallway led to power generation, etc,.

But one such hallway and the path it implied was extremely concerning. It was a depicted what seemed to be a small child, enveloped in a corona of flame. We both agreed that that accursed pathway was the first we would destroy. It was a high-ceiling thing, like all of them, illuminated queerly by crimson lamps. There was no security, so we assumed that all the Machines had left their posts to combat our initial assault. As we reached the conclusion of the antechamber it began to widen into a gargantuan room, littered with machinery and inanimate machine-corpses. Lying centrally in the room was a sight that I would never scrape from my mind: a corpulent pile of carcasses, women, children, and men. Uniformly and indiscriminately slaughtered and butchered, they were half-charred to the bone, and ghostflame cinders twinkled around the gelatinous pile of meat.

It was only when the ghostflame erupted once again into a roaring corona that the fathomless truth of the Machines of Mephelon was unveiled. The bonfire was gargantuan, formed of black and blueish white flame. We ducked for cover as the flames swirled across the room, metamorphosing into cyclopean tendrils that buried themselves in the faces of those thought-dead machines. Like puppets, the wicked magicks of the ghostflame stimulated the robots to rise to consciousness; they moved slowly and clumsily, dazed and confused. I was the only one of our squad who was still unshaken, and I had to put them down.

Grimdarnaðr had all but collapsed under the ethereal pressure of this stygian conundrum. We knew now that ghostflame gave machines souls. And if that knowledge were to spread past Mephelon, there would be a great crisis. I knew what had to be done, we had to obliterate this structure, leave it in ruins. Destroy that foetid, cacodaemoniacal necromound that invigorated soulless steel. I turned to Grimdarnaðr; still strapped with explosives, weeping and bawling. I loaded my rifle and fired it. The Detonation that came from us ignited the Ghostflame, and so, dreaded Mephelon became the final operation of Hekrates Squad IO-8.