Boss Johnson chuckled as he adjusted his binoculars, his eyes fixed on the ambush site below. The fading sunlight cast long shadows across the industrial landscape, but his attention was laser-focused on the enemy mechs advancing slowly into the kill zone. This was more than just another job. “I might be a mobster,” he muttered, grinning, “but I’m a patriotic mobster.”

The industrial plant loomed in the distance, its rusted towers and smokestacks silhouetted against the sky. It wasn’t just any plant—it belonged to a competitor of his employer, Alphonse. This hit wasn’t just about crippling the enemy’s mech squad; it was about wiping out two threats in one fell swoop. Alphonse had practically gleamed when Johnson laid out the plan, his smile wider than Johnson had ever seen it. Two enemies, one stone, as they liked to say, in the underworld of Rivenhall.

Johnson’s men had worked fast, setting explosives all around the area. But what satisfied him were the underground fuel tanks. Old, forgotten reservoirs buried beneath the plant, filled with enough volatile chemicals to turn the entire industrial block into a smoldering crater. His men had rigged those tanks to blow just after the initial charges went off, guaranteeing the kind of devastation that would make news all over the city.

Through the binoculars, Johnson could see the enemy mechs cautiously moving closer, unaware of the trap they were walking into. Their heavy frames creaked and groaned as they moved, weapons armed, but the real danger lay beneath their feet. Johnson tapped his finger against the side of the binoculars, impatient. "Come on... just a little more," he whispered.

His men had already pulled out after setting the charges, and Johnson prayed they were far enough away to avoid the coming firestorm. This would be big—bigger than anything he'd pulled before.

The first enemy mech entered the blast zone, followed by another, then another. Johnson grinned. They were all clustered together now, close enough that the chain reaction would wipe them out in one go. And then, finally, the last mech—a heavy command unit—moved into position.

"That’s it," Johnson muttered, lowering the binoculars for a second to savor the moment. He glanced at the industrial plant, imagining the explosion tearing through it, sending fire and debris sky-high. The underground fuel tanks would ignite in the chaos, multiplying the devastation. His competitor wouldn’t have a plant left, and their mechs would be nothing but molten wreckage.

He tapped the earpiece in his ear. "Do it," he ordered, his voice cold and steady.

Seconds later, the ground trembled. An explosion erupted from the center of the blast zone, ripping through the enemy mechs with brutal force. Flames shot into the air as the first wave of charges detonated, sending shockwaves through the area. The mechs were caught off guard, their massive bodies crumpling as the blast ripped through their ranks. But it wasn’t over.

Johnson kept his binoculars raised, watching as the real destruction unfolded. The underground fuel tanks, set to go off after the initial blast, ignited with a deafening roar. The ground beneath the mechs exploded, sending massive fireballs into the sky. The explosion was so powerful it shook the entire block, and Johnson could see the industrial plant buckle as the walls caved in, metal beams twisting and collapsing under the force. The sky lit up with a brilliant orange glow as the plant was consumed in a rolling wave of fire.

The enemy mechs were obliterated, their wreckage scattered like broken toys across the smoking ruins. Johnson laughed, the sound full of satisfaction as he lowered the binoculars, watching the plumes of black smoke rise into the air. “Alphonse is going to love this,” he said, his voice full of smug pride.

The industrial plant was in ruins, reduced to a flaming pile of debris, and the enemy mechs were little more than twisted, burning metal. And the best part? Thanks to those forgotten underground fuel tanks, no one would ever suspect the explosion was anything more than an industrial accident. Two enemies, one stone—just like they’d planned.

As the smoke billowed higher into the sky, Johnson couldn’t help but feel like a true patriot of Rivenhall, watching his city’s enemies fall most spectacularly.

***

Commander Liera stood at the edge of the command deck, staring at the smoldering remains of the industrial plant through the cracked viewports of her cockpit. The twisted metal of her fallen mechs littered the field below, smoke rising in thick, oily plumes that blotted out the sky. She clenched her fists, knuckles whitening against the console before her. The air inside her mech smelled of burnt circuits and stale sweat, the low hum of warning lights punctuating the silence.

"How many have we lost?" she asked, her voice cold and measured, though anger simmered below the surface.

"Three fists in total, Commander," her subordinate responded through the comms. His voice was flat, but there was a hint of hesitation as if he knew how damning that number was. "The last explosion took out the command unit and two light support mechs."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Liera closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself a second to process the sheer scale of the loss. A fist was a unit of five mechs—three fists meant fifteen combat-ready mechs were gone. The plant was in ruins, their advance had been halted, and now her forces were spread too thin to secure the region. It was more than a setback; it was a catastrophe.

"We had not expected partisans..." she murmured, her mind racing to make sense of the ambush. The charges had been expertly placed, and the final explosion—triggered by the underground fuel tanks—had been devastating. This wasn't the work of random insurgents or undisciplined guerrilla fighters. It was precise and calculated. Someone had planned this. And that someone had cost her dearly.

"No, Commander," her subordinate agreed. "Our intelligence suggested minimal resistance, but—"

"But that means the civilians are not sufficiently cowed," she interrupted, her voice tightening with restrained fury. She glanced at the tactical map projected in front of her, the glowing icons representing her remaining forces scattered across the screen. There were too many gaps and too many vulnerable points. It was unacceptable.

"Civilians rising this quickly means they still have hope," she continued, her tone sharp and unforgiving. "Which means we have failed in our task to crush that hope. They should have feared us. They should have seen our forces and known that resistance is futile."

"Commander," her subordinate's voice crackled in her ear again, "what are your orders?"

Liera remained silent momentarily, watching the last tendrils of smoke curl into the sky. Her mind whirred through possibilities, each one darker than the last. Whoever had orchestrated this attack had undermined their entire operation. Allowing such an insult to go unanswered would only encourage more dissenters.

"Withdraw the remaining forces from the industrial sector," she ordered at last, her voice low but decisive. "We consolidate at Point Theta and establish a perimeter around the supply lines. I want aerial recon to sweep the entire sector—twice. If more partisans are in the area, we flush them out."

"And the civilians?" her subordinate asked.

Liera's eyes narrowed, her anger hardening into icy resolve. "The civilians are not to be trusted. They've already shown they're willing to support these partisans. Begin the purge. We send a message. No one is above our reach."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, but her subordinate knew better than to argue. "Understood, Commander. Initiating the purge."

Liera took one last look at the wreckage field outside her cockpit as the comm channel went quiet. The enemy had won a battle today, but she would ensure they lost the war. She would burn every building, topple every wall, and raze every corner of this forsaken city until no one dared raise a hand against her again.

She leaned back in her seat, staring into the flames below. "Hope is a fragile thing," she whispered, "and I will see it crushed beneath our heel."

Liera sighed, feeling the weight of the moment settle on her shoulders. “It is time for the Damaclese command. All sword units, find me hostages.” The order left her lips like a death knell, resonating with the grim finality of her intent.

“Understood, Commander,” her subordinate replied, his voice laced with a mix of apprehension and respect. Liera knew the implications of her command. The Damaclese command wasn’t just a tactical maneuver; it was a calculated show of power—a signal to the civilians that resistance would not only be met with force but with retribution that would haunt them.

As she watched the map on her console, her heart raced. The sword units were elite strike teams known for their ruthlessness and efficiency. They would sweep through the ruins of the industrial sector, not just to reclaim what was lost but to instill a fear that would linger in the hearts of the citizens. She needed to send a message that would echo through the streets and back to the parts of the city that still dared to harbor hope.

“Deploy the sword units to sectors four and five,” she continued her voice firm. “Infiltrate the remaining civilian zones. Gather anyone who shows signs of insurrection—young, old, it doesn’t matter. Bring them to the command post.”

“Are we taking them to the base?” her subordinate asked, his hesitation clear.

“No,” Liera snapped, her patience wearing thin. “We’ll hold them in the courtyard. I want the populace to see them—hear them. Make sure the media is present. We need to broadcast our strength.”

Another subordinate, Sergeant Vega, chimed in, concern etched across his features. “Commander, there’s a risk. We don’t know how the civilians will react, especially after our losses.”

“The risk is minimal compared to the reward,” Liera shot back, her eyes narrowing as she studied the map. “We’ve already lost too many men. We cannot afford to appear weak. A show of force is our only option.”

Vega swallowed hard but nodded. “Yes, Commander. I’ll relay the orders to the sword units.”

As he turned to leave, Liera leaned forward, gripping the edge of her console. “And make sure they understand the stakes. Any resistance will be met with lethal force. I want them to know that defiance will cost them dearly.”

The tension in the command room thickened, and Liera felt the weight of her choices pressing down on her. The thought of innocent lives caught in the crossfire didn’t sit well with her, but she steeled herself. Sacrifice was a part of war, and if it meant crushing the spirit of the people, so be it.

“Commander,” her communications officer called out, breaking through her thoughts. “We’re receiving reports of movement in the south sector. It looks like civilians are gathering, possibly planning to protest the operation.”

“Good,” Liera said, a cold smile creeping onto her face. “Perfect, in fact. Send a squad to intercept. I want to make an example of them before the sword units arrive. The sooner we show them the price of defiance, the better.”

“Right away,” the officer replied, a mix of eagerness and trepidation in his tone.

With her orders given, Liera took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. It was time to turn the tide. They would learn to fear her, and when the dust settled, the only thing left would be silence—a silence that spoke of her absolute dominion over this city.

As the preparations unfolded, she could almost see the scene playing out in her mind: the desperate faces of the hostages, the flicker of uncertainty in the eyes of the crowd, the weight of dread suffocating the remnants of rebellion. This was the path she had chosen, and she would see it through to the end.

“Let them come,” she whispered under her breath, the cold steel of her heart echoing her conviction. “Let them all come.”