The ground shook as artillery screamed overhead only to drive itself into the dirt and rock below, sending geysers of debris raining into the perfectly straight trenches of the Saurian army, carved into the ground of Zadraal Prime from space with particle lances. Daragin flinched as he was showered with mud and rock fragments, still not used to the nearly constant barrage, even after nearly two months on the front lines. Some of the newer soldiers’ reactions were more severe, several men could be seen pressed up against a wall, hands shielding their heads. Usually there would have been no need to fear the shelling as the magnetic devices on either side of the trench drew the shells to them, harmlessly exploding on their shields. That is, until they were destroyed by a daring Walren Hasttati raid the night before. Only a few had survived the attack, but they had accomplished their mission. Daragin heard the shriek of the shell fly over his head and only had a split second to throw himself against the wall as a massive explosion rocked the trench walls. All was then cast into silence, except for the deafening ringing in Daragin’s ears.

His vision finally focused and he found he was on his side, gazing into the staring eyes of another Saurian soldier through his helmet. Felamore was his name. Numbly Daragin reached for the soldier’s neck to feel for a pulse but his hand met only empty space. He climbed to his feat unsteadily, nausea surging in his gut as he looked down at where Felamore’s body should have been. A hand shoved him back down against the wall and a medic was now in his face, shining a light in his eyes and moving his mouth wordlessly. Daragin stared incomprehensibly and the medic patted his shoulder, apparently satisfied, and moved on to the next shocked soldier, stepping smoothly around Felamore’s head. Daragin suddenly realized his usually grey armor was now a dark red, and he had to f fight off another wave of nausea. Everyone in the trench was suddenly rushing around, mounting their rifles on the trench ridge. As his hearing began to return, Daragin heard the distinctive sounds of a distant Walren battle cry. They were charging. He quickly fumbled in the mud for the rifle in front of him, no time to worry about whether or not it was his own, and hopped up on the firing step to the left of his Sergeant, who quickly glanced at him before returning to his sights wordlessly. Daragin could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding in his ears and swaying his usually steady aim. It took him a moment to focus on what was beyond his sights, a roiling mass of smoke left over from the previous bombardment.

All was still for a moment as the battle cry grew nearer, and Daragin squinted into the gray mass. There. A dark shape shifted in the smoke and Daragin’s shot was the first to ring out, a single tracer streaking into the haze. For another heartbeat all was still except for the dark figure toppling to the ground. Then everything erupted into light and noise, the lone figure replaced by hundreds, no, thousands more, tracers carving red lines through smoke and Walren alike, purple plasma flying back in retaliation. The soldier to Daragin’s left suddenly disappeared from his side and a quick glanced confirmed his demise, dark blood seeping into the cracks of the trench floor below. Grimacing, Daragin turned back to what faced them. He did not even attempt to keep track of the number of charging Walren he felled, burning through five magazines in a matter of minutes. Or had it been hours? Days?

“Swords of Sauria, fight to the last!” came a voice over the com channels, its grit indentifying the owner as the section commander. A chill ran down Daragin’s spine. So they evacuation ships are going to be too late. The Sergeant next to Daragin smacked his helmet, snapping him back to reality.

The Sergeant immediately resumed firing the LMG he had picked up from another dead Saurian, its barrel already glowing red hot, and shouted over the battle clamor, “You heard the kind man, shove their tusks up in their skulls!” And then they were at the trench line. A Walren soldier was suddenly in front of Daragin, thrusting a bayonet at his face. He dodged, purely out of reflex, and the bayonet sliced the air under his armpit. Daragin this clamped down on the Walren’s gun and threw himself backwards, flinging the enemy soldier over him and into the trench. The soldier quickly scrambled to his feet and dove at Daragin, his rifle now lost in the mud, blood, and bodies. Daragin grunted as his back slammed into the trench wall, feeling the Walren’s fingers wrap around his neck. Instinctively he slammed his fist into his attacker’s face, stunning the Walren and allowing him the shift just enough to draw his own bayonet but at the cost of trapping his other arm underneath him. He stabbed blindly at his foe but the Walren managed to catch his wrist, the tip of Daragin’s blade carving a hairline on the Walren’s eye shield. The bayonet hovered between them vibrating wildly with the amount of force applied to both its sides. Meanwhile the alien’s other hand tightened its grip on his throat. Daragin regretted all the times he had skipped the courses in training. Maybe if he had just been a little stronger… but the Walren had gravity on his side, pressing the blade closer and closer back to him, his other hand ever tightening on his neck. He had never been the strongest in his squad and Felamore and mocked him for it relentlessly. What he wouldn’t give to have Felamore mock him again. What would his family think when they found out what happened to him? Would they ever even know? Why was…? Darkness crept in on all side of Daragin’s vision.

Suddenly the pressure on his neck evaporated and Daragin gasped for air, fumbling for his dropped bayonet. His hand darted out and snatched it out of the mud when he spotted it, turning to face his opponent immediately after. What he saw instead was the Walren lying in the mud, Daragin’s sergeant standing next to its body, the thing’s throat dripping blood from his hand. Daragin opened his mouth to thank him but the sergeant suddenly charged at him, swinging his leg wide as if to strike Daragin. Instead, the sergeant’s boot connected with a falling grenade, inches from Daragin’s face, sending the explosive twirling back to its origin. Its explosion was drowned out amidst the surrounding clamor of battle.

“Get up, better to die on your feet than on your knees,” the sergeant said, extending a hand and hoisting Daragin to his feat. Daragin once again opened his mouth to thank his sergeant, but was once again cut short, this time by a deafening bang that seemed to reverberate around his skull. The world seemed to slant sideways and all was consumed by darkness the second his helmet smacked into the mud, Daragin’s blood joining with that of his brethren. Meanwhile drop ships flew overhead, releasing a hail of bullet on the remaining Walren forces.