Pain rakes my body. Fire running through my being. Bones must be broken due to the shockwaves. I can still feel aftershocks. No, that makes no sense. Earthquakes have aftershocks not artillery shells–


    –Which means the shaking is more shells. Someone is shelling the trench, peppering it with dumb artillery shells after a smart shell killed a whole squad. I need to get under cover. Flash training drives me onwards, clawing my feet back and forcing me down the trench, limping on my left foot, must have twisted it. Zerg are tough, guess I’m still human. Like my name. I really dislike that moniker but chewing the fat in chat comes after running for your life.


    >Human Apollo: I’m alone, in a trench war with terminators. Fuck this shit. Teleport out? Give me a shield? Or a gun? These jackoffs didn’t even give me a combat shovel!


    A moment passes, the only feedback being the metal mesh beneath my half tied boots. One glance at the walls tells a story of wood stacked below layers of steel mesh and additional wood supports. This trench is old, with a lasagna of fortifications layered atop each other. Humans have been fighting over this trench for centuries, with a couple of odd layers marking times when secondary antagonists swept the field. Judging by the heavy treadmarks pressed into the mud I guess this is Technomancy territory. That checks out with the flash training, as trenches this wide are hard to defend with infantry and light vehicles. Standard policy for Singularity trenches is tight and narrow ten feet at most, we only use infantry and all terrain equipment, mud doesn’t stop us. I pray no artillery shells are whistling my way, but I''m deaf. Not like I can do anything if I hear the shells coming. In a way, that’s relaxing.


    >Executrix Alaea: I have teleportation access but not for us three. Already tried it. Can’t… But man… I’m looking at Earth. They already hit the cities, all teleports are logged during combat. Can’t give you weapons.


    >Human Athena: WHY NOT?!?


    >Executrix Alaea:No weapons to send. I might be locked out. Besides… We’re no longer human. These names weren’t picked by us. Matriarch can’t give you her weapons, and mine are all coded to uhm. My uhm, brainwaves or DNA or something.


    >Human Athena: I’m going to die if you don’t help me.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Survive bitch.


    >Matriarch Hygieia: Hey, send me more biomass and i can engineer some bioforms. hive ship is organic so i can send and receive a bit without being noticed. takes time. but I’m safe. sorta.


    “AAAAAHHH! What do you expect me to do? Hide in a hole and poop bodies?” I shout, the sound muffled by my gasmask.


    A bend in the trench slows me, apprehension about turning the corner, until I realize I''m gonna be lucky or dead, and walk forward like I''m the limping bombed out Queen of Trenchlandia.I glance back at the pile of comrades, just in time to see dozens of electric pink iguanas jump into the trench. Tulverians, aliens with laser rifles and blast armor over half their otherwise exposed scales. I jog forward, ankle bringing tears to my eyes as pain sledgehammers my leg. Around the bend I run, hoping the crocodilianoids are sated by eating other earthlings. On second thought, I hope we taste like shit. The last thing I need is iguanas thinking I''m a snack. The trench in front of me lies empty, except for the very thing I’ve been looking for. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    A black maw, the entrance to an underground bunker. Twenty feet wide and nearly thirty feet tall the orifice dares me to advance. Such an entrance is never constructed by Singularity forces, it’s too exposed. Any half-competent rocketeer could drop a nuke through this gaping hole from ten clicks away. At night! Of all alien races Jim informed me of, only heavy warmachines like Technocracy Juggernauts would need this.


    I cup my ears, forgetting that I''m deaf. Mud trembles as shells land above the trench, my options here suck.


    “Get lucky or die.” I say, jogging along the trench wall to the bunker’s mouth.


    I pass an exit ramp, a place in the trench wall that’s been bulldozed so tanks can enter and exit. On a whim I jog up it, hoping to find cover in the contested land outside the trenches rather than run into a bunker and pray no one is inside.  There is an old saying back on Earth. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. No sooner have I stuck my head above the ramp than twelve Juggernauts rise above their own trenches trailing black smoke as they launch hundreds of missiles. A volley so comprehensive that white chemtrails blot out the sun. Energy batteries whine and fire, detonating dozens of missiles. A futile waste of power. Thousands of the missile fleet strike home sending a shockwave that even my deaf ears can register. Twelve Juggernauts is an armored division, Singularity protocol states we should call in an orbital bombardment or sacrifice ten thousand infantrymen to clog up their treads. They call that a ‘mobility kill’, since the tank will be a sitting duck until space assets or special anti-armor weapons can be brought to bear. Real guns.


    I NEED to hide, turning to limp down the ramp, reaching the bottom simultaneously with three Tulverians. Mouths stained red. Laser rifles armed, charged, and at the ready. The lead one sees me, skull crest rising, gun rising, mouth opening to–


    -He blinks. Eyes shifting towards the bunker.


    I feel the rumble more than hear it. Thudding into my chest like a massage chair dialed up to ‘beat them silly with hammers then ask for a big tip’. Thousands of slugs rupture the trio, turning them into pink mist before I can blink. One second they are there, the next they aren’t.


    “Cute magic trick.” I mutter, smiling darkly.


    My brain registers the response as abnormal. But I ignore it, wondering how much blood I lost today. Adrenaline should be spiking now, but my glands seem to be empty. Exhaustion hits. I slump against the trench wall, sitting down.


    A Juggernaut, three stories of gun barrels, sensors, and armor plating rolls into view, turning away from me and rolling up the far ramp. A dozen autocannons aim at me, tracking as the juggernaut rises above the trench’s lip. For some inexplicable reason it doesn’t fire. Maybe because I’m no threat to it. But Sable’s seen Juggernauts fire their guns just to feel recoil, some vestigial reflex from its human pilot. There is only one, located at center mass. Five feet above the solarium reactor. So maybe this one is out of bullets? It''s an autocannon type, armed with scores of individual guns all pulling from individual magazines. Either way, it turns to join the other twelve Juggernaughts, firing a handful of missiles to support their advance.


    I’m left there. Alone. Waiting for the end. Until Alaea’s words reach me. We can’t die here. Earth is going to be raped unless we win. They took four billion of us. If only one in thirty of us survive, we’ll still have enough to drown thousands of Juggernauts under our bodies. It’s time to win. Not bitch out and F10 + S.


    Cold logic knows I’m not firing on all cylinders so it analogizes life with Starcraft 2. This is a damn cannon rush and I’m an itty bitty SCV, But unlike in the game, I can armor up and become a Warhound. Before I can talk sense into my ramblings feet carry me into the bunker, jumping over wires left near the entrance. Nightvision activates automatically, illuminating the bunker’s interior with twin green beams.


    “Nightvision, dial to minimum.”