Only the dead have seen the end of war.

The ground rumbles as heavy feet of cerasteel rip the soft, grassy ground apart. Machinery whirrs and buzzes, trotting with speed unbecoming for its size. Pack of towering hulks, bipedal, upright - as if created in an image of man, hop with grace, gently, leaving torn patches as they run. Guns of obscenely large calibers instead of arms, and no neck or head to speak of. These dullahans have evolved, yet signs of intelligent design are apparent. Man created these monsters in his own warped image, their singular purpose obvious at a glance. As if the creator said unto them, 'Be merciless and decimate, demolish the Earth and subdue it: and have dominion over the leviathans of the sea, and over the birds of prey in the air, and over every living thing that moves upon the Earth.'

"So anyway, after that, Cap told that shithead Skippy and the other guy to loot the field, the rest of us got into firing positions, yadda yadda yadda, you know - normal shit." Commando continues his story, rocked up and down in his pilot seat, straps keeping him tightly in place.

"Uhhh-huh." An uninterested voice replies.

"So, an hour or two later, I don't know, I wasn't keeping time; that retard Buzzsaw gets a ping. It turns out it was those fuckers from TerraSec. They either had orders to babysit those Fed bitchboys we charred a moment ago, or he fucked up jamming and they cried, 'Help! Help! Gladius is fucking us up!' or something."

"Okay. And?" Another low-energy voice chimes in.

"And then fucking shit starts flying everywhere. You know, Cap and Sarge were trying their best. If Bravo got rid of those fucking pests, maybe that squad wouldn't be such a shitpile. Anyway," He keeps talking, slight anger in voice lingering, "after a while, Buzzsaw fuckin' explodes - I have no fucking clue who let that literal fucking mentally deficient gorilla into a machine worth at least a million denarii. So then Bravo is out of an EW frame, we're outnumbered, outgunned; Cap calls retreat, and that dumb fucker Skippy-"

"Commando, does this story have a fucking point, or what?" Cyborg cuts in, out of patience.

"Yeah. My point is, I'm glad to be back in Delta." Commando abruptly ends his story.

"Yi-ppee." Gutter cheers, without a shred of joy in his voice.

"Alright, everyone quiet down; we're entering the AO. Commando, if you don't end up like Buzzsaw, we'll throw you a big fuckin' welcome back party. Everyone stay on your tippy toes and stay alive. Corsair - get up that hill and deploy the gun. Gutter, Cyborg - secure the flanks." Boatswain continues dishing out commands, "Pitbull, Commando, Spacer - scout around, I don't want any surprises. MD, watch Corsair's ass. I'm going to get sitrep from Bravo."

"You got it." Commando says, climbing up the grassy hill and running down the other side, with Pitbull and Spacer trailing behind.

Corsair's frame stomps to a halt on top of the hill crest. He takes his hand off the controls, and hovers it over an instrument panel. He flicks GUN BRC switch to DPLY; on the heavy beast's outside, composite metal stakes extend from the frame and drive themselves into the ground, stabilizing it for what's to come. He cranks the GUN POS knob from STOW to RDY, and loud clanging begins. A massive cannon, which in the days of old, would be most likely found at the sea, not on land, slowly descends down a rail. Entire frame shakes and vibrates steadily, loud bangs resonate throughout the mech, as if a bell from a belltower was falling off a cliff, smashing the rocky face on its way down. The deafening cacophony dies down a little, and a yellow rectangular light switches on in the cockpit - GUN LOAD. Suddenly, the gun angles upward and exposes its breech internally, the autoloader feeds the hungry maw a massive round, and the cannon swallows it aloud. Green GUN RDY flickers on, as the GUN LOAD light turns off. "I'm ready to rock." Corsair announces on the radio.

Meanwhile, Botswain tries to raise the other squad. "Delta actual to Bravo, do you read?" He repeats this call a few times, eventually, he gets a reply.

"Bravo actual, go ahead Delta." A voice answers.

"We're in AO and ready to go, what's your status?"

"We are reconning the area, in position. There's some activity at goalpoint. Reason unknown as of yet."

"Acknowledged. Delta standing by on your go. Out." As he finishes, Commando comes back.

"Area clear up two clicks. We didn't sweep through the forest, the treeline looks clear though." Commando reports.

"Alright. Bravo is in position, they're doing recon right now. There's some weird buzz going around the settlement. Nobody dare dick around now." Botswain orders.

"Hey boss, tell Skippy to eat a fuckin' dick for me." Commando says.

Couple minutes of idleness pass as the mechs' reactors buzz. Flocks of native, featherless scaly birds battle for dominance over the airspace with a loud, disjointed symphony of screeches, and fluffy, grass-green, wolf-rabbit lookalikes skulk through the grass covertly, in an attempt to feast on the losers of the furball. Even with introduction of alien species of fauna and flora to this planet by the colonists, the natives adapt easily. The underdog bladegrass and the common Terran grass fight each other for superiority, locked in a presumably eternal war of annihilation. Native Terran trees, along with some alien ones, may seem like they're peacefully growing old together with the native foamtrees, but this is all appearances; they, too, are locked in a bitter unending battle for precious resources.

"Bravo actual to Delta, come in." Cap suddenly calls out on Botswain's comms.

"Delta actual, go ahead Bravo."

"Scouts report a Federation LAIF in the goalpoint, requesting fire mission."

"Wait one, Bravo." Botswain says.

"Alright, listen up. We've got confirmed Fed LAIF in the settlement. Bravo is requesting a fire mission." He informs his squad.

"Delta actual; Bravo, go ahead with fire mission details."

"Target is one Federation LAIF, between concrete and wood; one to two floor structures; five to ten meters away. Target is fixed, no cover. Request four rounds, sync splash, high explosive incendiary. Echo and confirm ready to copy." Cap says in a crystal clear voice as he transmits from a large distance away.

"One LAIF, between wood and concrete; one to two floor structures; close; static; open air. Four rounds, sync splash, high explosive incendiary. Wait one, Bravo." Botswain echoes.

"Corsair, target is one Fed LAIF, between small buildings. They want four rounds of HEI." Botswain relays over the squad radio.

"We're going to smoke a village because of one LAIF?" Corsair asks.

"I'll confirm. Get shit set up in the meanwhile."

"Delta actual; Bravo - confirm target is one LAIF in a village?" Botswain asks.

"Bravo actual. Affirmative Delta. Are you ready to copy?"

"Delta. Bravo, confirm: settlement has no civilians."

"Bravo. Negative Delta. Are you ready to copy?"

"Delta actual, wait one Bravo."

"For fuck's sake." Cap sighs out in frustration.

"So uh, Corsair; apparently, the civvies are still there." Botswain says.

"And I'm supposed to fuck them with the 35?" Corsair asks.

Botswain sighs. Technically, the Empire doesn't permit attacks on civilians. But technically it's not an attack on civilians, but on an enemy mech. Technically shooting pilots is also extremely illegal, on both sides, but realistically who's going to prove it? An idea pops into his head.

"Delta actual, do you read, Bravo?"

"Bravo actual reads, are you ready to copy, Delta?"

"Delta actual, negative. Bravo, confirm it's your ass on the fire mission request."

The comms grow silent. A moment passes, and Cap transmits again.

"Bravo actual to Delta actual. Just give me the fucking fire mission already, fuck the civvies." He says, with an audibly irate voice.

"Delta actual. Bravo, if anyone asks, I'll quote you. Ready to copy."

"Fucking finally. Grid Bravo Whiskey 12990. 05600. Elevation 45. Readback." Cap slowly calls out the coordinates.

"Bravo Whiskey 12990. 05600. 45. High explosive incendiary. Right on top of dirt farmers, copy. Wait one for fire mission. Tell Skippy that Commando told him to eat a dick."

"Alright Corsair. Grid Bravo Whiskey 12990. 05600. Elevation 45, HEI, four rounds, sync splash. It's their ass, so says Cap." Botswain says on the squad radio.

"Well, whatever the fuck." Corsair sighs, as he starts pushing numerical buttons for the coordinates.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Fire control symbology appears on the cockpit's HUD. He aligns the cannon with the coordinate trajectory, with heavy clunking sound as it angles itself lower.

"Isn't it kind of fucked up how you had to be good at math and shit back in the day, and now you slap a bunch of numbers in, and you drop rounds right on top of someone's helmet? Anyway, ready to fire, boss."

"Yeah, aren't you glad, Corsair? Now someone like you can vaporize an entire village too!" Commando says with glee.

"Fire when ready, Corsair."

Corsair obliges. He fires off a round, the cannon recoils back, and the whole mech almost buckles, its anchors keeping it just barely in place. A massive spent shell shoots out the back of the cannon, spinning wildly. Shockwave of the gun's blast interrupts the birds' air combat and scatters them in every direction, making them forget their alliances as they flee wing to wing with their mortal enemies. The massive projectile almost splatters some of them as it flies near, then sails off, far out of sight. "Shot." He says.

The autoloader loads another round with deafening noise of metal on metal. Corsair aims at second trajectory and fires again. The cannon thunders again, and the shell shoots out the back, ejected by recoil mechanism, ripping out grass as it tumbles down the hill. "Shot." He repeats.

He fires again, another shell falls, "Shot. Splash." Then aims at the fourth trajectory. Clanking noise fills the cockpit as the gun angles itself back up to deliver the last round at the same time as the last one. He fires for the last time. "Shot." he says, and after a moment, "Splash." he adds.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, over the hills, forests and vast plains...

People circle around a Federation pilot, amidst shops and homes.

"Our grandparents came to this planet to get away from you, and now you're ruining the last place without war in the galaxy." An angry voice from the back of the crowd says.

"Please understand, we are not here to occupy you. We just want to extend the Federal protection to this planet-" The pilot is interrupted by a man with furrowed brows and crossed arms.

"Federal protection? We didn't ask for any. Do the kleptocrats back on Earth not understand we don't want anybody to bother us, you or the Empire?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you - the Empire will not give you a choice. With the Federation, you can always vote for planetary independence."

As he says this, mild laughter erupts all around.

"Yeah, planetary independence, that went great last time." Someone from the crowd says with a voice full of scorn.

The young pilot sighs, shoulders slumped as he holds his helmet in hand, "Please, just cooperate. We are legally obliged to gain local support before we can do anything, and we can't win without your help. The Empire will just not care about what you have to say, they'll come here and force you to supply them. You'll be Imperial subjects whether you like it or not; they'll force you to service their military and even conscript you." He pauses for a second and hugs his helmet.

"I know a lot of you are from the Empire, and I know a lot of you are from Federal planets. This planet is the proof there's no difference between us. I joined the military to bring peace, not war. I wanted to protect those that didn't want to be under Imperial boot - I know even those of you from the Empire don't want to live under its rule again. I know there's people here just like me. I'm not speaking for the Federation, just the people who are tired of this war."

He shrugs and spreads his arms, "Can't you at least hold a vote on this? Am I supposed to go back to my commander empty-handed, and tell my squad you wouldn't even listen?" his arms once again fall slack at his sides.

When he finishes, the crowd is mostly silent. Some mumbling and murmuring can be heard, with sideways glances and shrugging shoulders.

A young girl tugs on her mother's clothes and points to the sky, "Mom, look! A comet!"

The round comes in with a roar and airbursts over the idling mech, shockwave of plasma hits the Federation LAIF directly in its center. Despite being set to idle mode, the micro fusion reactor's containment can't hold this much energy when damaged. The paired round airbursts directly over the gathered crowd, accompanied by a high-pitched howl and thunder, not leaving much more than ashes and ruins. Superheated air spreads through the streets between buildings and sets the wooden shops and homes ablaze. The mech's MFR explodes, collapsing multiple buildings in vicinity, as it kicks up dust into a mushroom-shaped cloud. Next two rounds aimlessly pulverize any remains of the rubble, overthrowing any dreams of peace, along with its inhabitants.

"Splash." Cap transmits to Delta.

"Fuck yeah!" Skippy cheers as he claps in his cockpit. "Nice fuckin' fireworks. Is it new year's on this shithole yet?" He asks the squad on the radio.

Far away, back at Delta squad's position...

"End of mission, Bravo." Botswain replies.

"Bravo actual. Good effect on target, Delta. We're assaulting the goalpoint. Out."

"Welp, if anybody asks, it's not on me." Corsair says as turns the GUN POS knob and flicks GUN BRC switch to STOW.

Commando scans the horizon as per usual, Corsair's mech audible even from his own cockpit, suddenly, he's violently shaked, only kept from being sent flying by the seat's straps. A loud klaxon blares in his cockpit as an explosion sounds out from the left; his entire mech buffeting from an impact.

"What the fuck?! I just got hit!" He declares on squad radio as he swivels towards whatever it was, backpedalling.

He then notices movement; small dots moving along the treeline - infantry. A bold move, but modern anti-AIF weapons are becoming deadlier by the minute.

"Warning. Station 1. 2. Malfunction." A female voice announces without a care in the world.

"Ffffuck." Commando curses out through his teeth. He flicks a switch on his controls for a thermal sight. His cockpit glass instantly turns black, vague whiteish shapes of trees, bushes, grass and ground are visible; but the brightest, most prominent shape is the one of a human hiding behind a tree in the treeline. Commando fires off a shot, but his AP cannon is ill-suited for this target. The penetrator sabot rips through multiple foamtrees, collapsing great many of them in its wake. The infantry disperses a little to dodge the falling logs.

A missile flies out of the treeline with a kickup of dust. A warning klaxon rings out briefly, "Counter." the woman says, with a little urgency this time. MSL flashes on the warning lights panel, as well as the HUD. Before the infantry's rocket can even get close, the mech's computer already has a solution; its own missile from the active protection system fired to intercept. The APS missile explodes in the way of the threat, and the frame's reinforced cockpit glass is showered harmlessly with sharp metal shards.

"Fuck! Someone kill these motherfuckers in the treeline! They got my MPC, I only have APC left!" Commando shouts over the radio as he backpedals deeper behind, towards his squad.

"I got them." Gutter says as he stomps down the hill and circles around it, through a little shallow valley.

"MD, start up the radar, I need a picture." Botswain says calmly, but quickly, as he peeks over the hill, firing indiscriminately into the treeline with his rotary 30mm before hiding back behind the hillcrest again. Foamtrees once more take a beating, and fall to the ground, shattered.

As Gutter is about to peek out of the valley towards the treeline, he notices Cyborg running in from the flank. They both pop out at the same time, thermal mode on, and unload their guns on the white shapes, sparing no ammunition whatsoever.

The infantry scatters - they didn't expect such a sudden and massed response. Imperial AIF units often panic when hit. Mech pilots rarely anticipate an attack from unarmored infantry, yet LAIFs often pay a high price for being ambushed. The infantrymen made a mistake however; mercenaries are not Imperials per se. They are not conscripts nor highborn Patricians fighting for the honor of their house. War is all they know; they are experts in their field.

High caliber cannon fire hits the fleeing white dots, with foamtrees providing no protection whatsoever. Most hits result in a huge splatter of white that slowly merges with the gray-black background; some of the shapes are less fortunate. Eventually, the poorly prepared infantry is cut down to none. The white ragdolls slowly fade to gray and the thunder of gunfire echoes for the last time off of the last tree.

"MD, any pings?" Botswain asks, scanning the horizon on the hill.

"Nope, all clear. They either got cocky or someone lost their nerve." MD says as his screen remains free of any contacts.

"Fucking motherfuckers. Suicidal pieces of fucking shit. Fucking shit. My whole left arm with MPC is fucking gone, this shit is going to take forever to fix. I didn't even get to use the fuckin' MPC, fuuuck!" Commando rants angrily on the squad radio.

"Bravo actual, come in Delta." Cap calls on the long-range comms.

"Delta actual, be advised Bravo, we've engaged and destroyed an infantry squad in a nearby treeline. Go ahead Bravo." Botswain answers.

"We've repelled a Federation counter-attack on the goalpoint. I have a sneaking suspicion that the assault was meant for you, with the Fed dirt-packers, but all the ruckus sent their armored squad here instead, Delta." He says, then adds, "You can tell the Empire they can take this shithole off our hands."

"Yeah... I don't think they will be too happy about it."