All of it, just the damnedest of all, is a doomsday. Also a battle for survival at this point. A battle riddled with betrayal, inequality, and the terrible skirmish between the Art of All and the Artist of Air. Very terrible that survival is now the only currency left in this fiasco between humankind and alive nature. Forget about trillionaires of this century, forget about working for wages.
Just unbelievable how everything turns out in life. Not when you need it, but when you least expect it. It all just comes crashing down. Humans and Naturevania fighting. Hell if anyone would predict this will happen, yet here they are.
The world is now torn by the primal rage of nature. Skies are flooded with peak green and grey shades. The woeful song of war and its art rings out. Trees and bushes became battlements, their branches and berries lashing out like furious whips against the invading machines of humanity. Rivers start to redden because of the blood of both man and beast. The earth itself rises up, swallowing the machines whole hungrily.
The metallic stench of blood and enameled military tanks fills up the air. The ground goes berserk with eruptions. The atmosphere is bearing the burden of the howling hurricane. Geysers like arrows dart from underneath those pitiful creatures letting out screams of agony and curses of frustration. Here and there, bombs are detonated. There and here, lightning strikes are sent by the other party. The earth rumbles underneath their feet. Areas and spots from the ground sink down, some underneath some of their feet- most of their feet, for the most part. Just when things could not get any worse, gigantic waves lunge at the unfortunate ones standing on the coastline and near it.
The wind is so immense it could puncture anything. Even the tanks go kaput, and then goes down the building, and then a man drops dead. Not one man, several men actually. In the midst of the chaos, the men, armed with technology forged in the fires of desperation, fight fiercely to reclaim dominance.
It might all seem childish at first, but the gravity of the situation requires naked seriousness.
Naturevania, fueled by the exploitation it has been through, continues to lets its untamed puppets to assail as. On the other hand, the men who stand by to save their civilization of Lakwoth leave their tamed men to fight. The flora and fauna of Naturevania is even a more relentless and vengeful existence than humans, it seems.
Everything is engulfed in flames, from bushes to vehicles, and the sky was grey from the smolder. The sky reminds everyone of their painful, dull, and sordid lifestyle. From the dull colored sky to the rays of lightning and the truck sized rain droplets falling down. The line between friend and foe blurs as the sky cries out blue and grey.
The men in charred armor retreat as the helicopters frantically flapping its propellers from above pull the men by magnetic force of their armors. The rest who are left behind find any way to get themselves to safety, but another trajectory hits them in shock.
Vines and branches intertwine to form swords that sweep the pitiful creatures off their feet and swat them. Not wasting a span of a second, the men in armor go shooting the swords down with intense flamethrowers. Turfs were being sent flying as the fire harasses them, causing the trees to tower more and continue its rampage of wack-a-man.
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The sunken faces face the rekindled molten lava that seeps out of mini volcanoes emerging from the rocky ground. Their hands clutch onto the shields as they muster. The sudden spewing of the lava shakes them and the ground alike. They burn and incinerate them as they run away like helpless kittens, but the lava does not leave a trace of char on the innocent green grass. Instead, it takes in every morsel and further grows to become a perfect cordon for the other party as the humans form a cordon of their own to protect their own kind.
Coughing, a man with a loose helmet and tousled platinum hair limping in the very front of the metallic cordon and propping on the elemental extinguisher for support yells, "Dunno how long we can hold 'em back, but we've got to push through!"
The untidy man's dark dilated eyes scan each man behind him while holding up a red buckler that had a fuming ox's head pressed against it, the man holding it back from spearing him like a professional matador. Even so, the ox heaves its chest and dusts its own hoof on the ground and manages to evade the buckler. The man hits the side of the ox's head with the buckler brazenly and standing firmly as if he had not been impaled by one of the enraged ox's horns. He does not think about it much. His body is too numb to take in the pain anyway. He has always been a man of action. Through thick and thin, he always persists. Sometimes, the new soldiers would ask the veteran ones how come such a disheveled man who looks immature leads a whole troupe. Do not let General Timur's unkempt appearance deceive you, the latter would say to the former.
The soldiers move forward, disregarding their comrades' corpses lying on the cracked ground, and diligently fight the untamed forces of Naturevania. Civilization depends on them after he was gone. One man is an exception though. His slender fingers roam his torn goatee as he takes a sip of the suffocating air. His narrow face lengthens as his wide eyes narrow. His face reflects a childlike inquisition as he gapes at the scenes unfolding before him.
Unlike Timur, Miguel thinks, and he factors in every contemplation as his eyes drink in the battle before them. The painful thoughts of what stems such an unprecedented war go back to him. He suppresses the urge to scratch his itching mind and only closes his hooded eyes shut while resting on the ground with his knees scraping against it as he embraces the black bazooka badged with green ink. He is now numb to the tumultuous sounds of the explosions and clashing. He is now numb to the sensation of the green ink clotting his bare arms and temples of his long pained face. He is now numb to the intensity of the waves in the air as they waft up underneath his loose silver vest and the malleable latched receptacle made of tin onto his stiff back. He feels like he is stuck in a silver tin container even though he is glued to the ground in the middle of vastness with endless fighting and goring stirring it.
Miguel opens his eyes. His hooded eyes glaze over as he tilts his head up. Pressing both palms and all fingers against the rough earth, he uses the bazooka as a crutch as he feebly gets up with one elbow propped on it and his other hand is against his forehead, shielding him from the unforgiving and dark light of the sun. His mouth and half torn goatee move as he whispers:
"Who smelt it dealt it, who cemented it has to amend it, who sent it has to be tormented..."
"Yeah, if anything it should have been that good-for-nothing goon Vincent!" Miguel growls and trembles slightly. His hand grip around his bazooka tightens.The other hand travels up to his face and his slender fingers pull the crease under his eyes one eye at a time. It's Miguel's mannerism to refrain himself from losing his cool, but already lost it. The green ink on his bottom lids stain his fingerprints and he stares at it. It matches the colors of the sky as they scream a dark and loud cacophony.
This mantra is fitting, Miguel knows. He did not think of it, it just came to him. Well, not in his head, rather it appeared on the base of the mountain. That mountain. The mountain that gives passer-bys and residents foreboding. It was once a brisk source of happiness and blessing from the Artist of Air itself, but the future had other plans, and now it seems to be it. It is now the future, as in the present. Will it be the last future ever for humanity?