[b]The Insertion.[/b] The moon looked down on it all. A hazy, thick blanket tucked in close to the ground, as though it were a duvet warming up a child in winter months. From simply looking at the moon, and the sparkling mass of stars clustered above and beyond it, you wouldn’t know a war was on. Looking lower, and if you knew they were actually knew they were there in the first place, a trio of black, almost invisible planes glided seemingly without effort above the low level cloud layer. A larger transport plane, accompanied by a pair of smaller, sleeker escorts. On command, the two escort fighters peeled off from the transport, that was startlingly quiet for its size, and flared their afterburners. Specks of light amongst the dark they sped off east, towards a monumental battle in the skies, where jets screamed around at ridiculous speed, engaging one another in elegant rolls and dives, blasting away at one another in a deadly aerial combat. Quietly, the transport carried on without an escort, confident that the greatest in radar spoofing technology and stealth equipment would keep it hidden. But what really mattered was within the plane itself. Secured firmly by strong magnetic locks that were connected to a pair of rails stood a bipedal machine, fully the size of two men with one man standing on the first’s shoulders. It was expected to be the last fully operational unit of its kind in this entire region, or so intelligence said. Red markings that had once adorned it’s armour had been replaced with the occasional blue stripe, but little broke the jet black coating besides the single large, bright red eye and a pair of smaller ones to the left of it on the metal rectangle that assumed the place of a head. A handful of mechanics and technicians dashed around, running last minute checks on armour and weaponry, especially the most potent of all armaments. The weapon in question was literally the latest of all developments. “The most secret and devastating device in development for this decade” many heralded it. Mounted onto the right shoulder, it was tubular with a circular cooling device attached to the back of the weapon. A technician had affectionately painted on a snarling set of teeth around the muzzle, and no one had wanted them removed. The interior hold was illuminated by a pair of baleful red lights on either side of the mechanical masterpiece, two of the technicians secured their equipment in specially prepared places and ran to seats and strapped themselves down whilst the third jogged to the rear of the craft, where the bay door stood closed. The man secured himself with a short tether and grasped the lever controlling the door. He looked up to the bipedal machine, shook his head and pulled the lever. Suddenly, the interior was filled with noise and the temperature dropped like a stone as the whooshing, freezing exterior found a way into the craft. Fighting the biting cold wind, the mechanic hit a red button, and with a deafening [i]clang[/i] the magnetic locks uncoupled and the machine raced along the rails and out of the hatch of the plane, falling away into the darkness. After a moment of free-fall the machine hit the cloud layer and carried on going, the thick layers of cloud parting like paper. It punched out the other side, and the pilot inside it immediately took stock of the locations below the vehicle. Breathing through a gas mask that fed him a constant supply of Combat Stimulants, the adrenaline inducing gases made his senses as sharp as that of any computer. The machine was heading towards the river bank opposite the ruins of Floodlin. From here, the man inside could see pinpricks of flame dotting the area, marking out where enemy artillery pieces had made their homes, but one stood out. A gargantuan column of flame made an impossible target to miss, and the machine rolled over to get a better angle of descent toward it. General Guscon was taking a tour of the front lines, accompanied by a handful of other Undergroundican leaders, and a force of bodyguards, he had come via a convoy of staff cars and Half-Track tanks to this, the greatest piece of military engineering he was likely to ever see, [i]The Marathon[/i]. He emerged, clapping wholeheartedly from a improvised bunker after he had witnessed the firing of his most potent artillery piece. “Excellent work! Where was that shell aimed at?” He shouted, ears ringing from the blast. “A concentration of Floodian forces in the east of the city, General. It is bizarre, the enemy gathers in large numbers, but does not strike our forces trapped in the city.” Replied a young adjutant. It angered Guscon, but he nonverbally admitted the young soldier was right. The entire reason that he had come to the frontlines in the first place was because of the disastrous turn of events in the enemy city. In the space of a few hours, Undergroundican troops in the city had been surrounded, cut off from the river and home, and were now being herded into an ever shrinking perimeter. It was hoped that by his arriving, the troops would rally and gain much needed morale. Guscon had a sinking feeling that Floodland no longer cared about the collection of forces stuck in the city-a full two thirds of the units in the entire sector-but cared more about striking out across the river. “What is [i]that[/i]?” Guscon asked, pointing out a slight patch of movement amongst the night. “It’s coming right for us. Quick! Get the convoy tanks! Hurry!” The adjutant shouted, panic in his voice. Shells and bombs were never that big, so something far worse must be en route, it would seem. The pilot had waited until the very last moment, with alarms bleeping and wailing all around. Relishing every moment of danger, he finally triggered the chemical boosters in the legs of the walking tank. With a slam far more powerful than any shell, the jets that folded out of the legs roared with the strain, nearly shearing off their positions with the energy of the halt. With his velocity slowed sufficiently, the pilot released the thrusters, and the now useless devices, along with the empty fuel tanks, sprang off the walker as explosive bolts attaching them detonated. The walker dropped to the muddy ground, sending clumps of semi-solid earth flying. The pilot had landed in one of [i]The Marathon’s[/i] firing pits, huge holes in the ground, dug with three tunnels leading in different directions. One heading West with a large railway to accommodate The Marathon and a similar one heading East. Another subterranean tunnel came from the North with a dirt road constructed for ammunition transport. But it wasn’t ammunition vehicles heading towards him, it was a quartet of Half-Track tanks with Heavy Machineguns bolted onto their hulls. They didn’t get a chance to fire. The Mech hefted it’s arms, and the two chain guns on each arm began to take them down. Rapid pelts of bullets rained down on the slowly advancing tanks, and their paper thin armour was torn apart in seconds, each one detonating as bullets ground through them, setting off ammunition, petrol or both. With the immediate threat out of the way, the walking tank turned to find the [i]real[/i] target. A truck filled with shells the size of houses next to the hulking Marathon, a pile of rail stock, there it was. The walker broke out into a run as it spotted around a dozen figures trying to sneak away, and they looked suspiciously like Undergroundican staff officers. One in particular looked like General Guscon. But a buzzing filled the area and suddenly, a Helicopter Gunship burst over a side of the firing pit, blasting immediately with everything it had. The Mech shrugged off the blaze of gunfire as though it were light rain, and brought the flying machine down in a return salvo. As the Helicopter fell, the Mech jumped up, landing before the fleeing party of Undergroundicans, and mowing them down, rendering the defenceless enemy into lumps of bloody meat and tatters of clothes. To finish the job, the pilot whipped the seemingly invulnerable walker around and charged up the wonder weapon. As if from nowhere, blue dots of light began to appear around the gun muzzle weapon. The Mech planted its feet firmly, and steadied itself as the blue dots were sucked into the gun itself. The temperature of the barrel soared, and the circular cooling device hissed superheated steam as it tried to keep up with the heat, if the weapon grew too hot, it would fuse and explode, not something that should be allowed to happen. With a blinding flash like a star exploding, the weapon discharged, and a crackling blue stream of energy scythed across the barrel of The Marathon, cutting it off entirely. The pilot changed the angle, and the beam vaporised a pack of terrified crewmen. The pilot turned the weapon slightly, and touched off a truckload of highly explosive shells. The entire area shook as though an Earthquake had arrived, and the shells exploded simultaneously, throwing lighter objects, humans and debris into the air. Feet planted firmly, the mech simply rode out the blast, and watched with satisfaction as [i]The Marathon[/i] was lifted off it’s tracks for a moment and crashed on its side with a screech of torn metal. Behind his gas mask, Corbec smiled at the destruction. “Mission Accomplished.” [Edited on 10/14/2006]