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The sounds of gunfire and screams rings through my ears. I open my eyes to see comrades and combatants alike on the ground, unmoving. The sea breeze stained by the stench of corpses. My brain fails to recognise their faces.
In my peripherals, a rebel helicopter soars into a stone pillar not far off. The wreck falls to the ground, groans are made and limbs wriggle out. They seem to have survived their sudden collision. I do not pity those humans. Their deaths would still fuel their accelerationistic ideals.
I push myself off the boulder I way lain on. There seems to be no medic awaiting my rewaking, either from time constrains, opposing pressure, or a doubt I could still be conscious.
I have no recollection of my wounds, nor do I have the capability to feel them. My leg staggers, only by adrenaline have I not fallen yet. I pat myself down for my injuries, only to feel a warm, thick liquid coat them wherever my hand went.
My chances of getting out this place alive seemed only grim. I eye'd not a single rotting brethren also standing. I was likely considered another casualty to The Undead Brigade at this point, any brothers who could've remembered me part of the same statistic.
And yet I could still stand.
My vision was blurred but I could still see. My lungs burned and yet I took long and deep breaths. My body refused the inevitable end encompassing me.
Another crash sets me back to the present. The rebel's wreckage flattening to a mighty noob's hammer, along with the crew contained within.
Fight or flight shouts at me to act, to not join the humans' fate, or at least to delay it. My head darts around to find anything I could use to fend him off. It would me foolish for me to duel such a destructive opponent within their range. Not even an ample or chaotic could grapple with such a powerful foe, let alone a wounded warrior without a weapon.
I spot a few close by bodies, arms in arms. One catches my intrigue, a sniper—a noob one—cradling his rifle in a death grip. I stumbled my way over with only one goal in mind. I was not trained to use the basic BB rifles our snipers carry, let alone one of the more powerful weapons the noobs had stolen long before we arrived.
Glance over to view the chances of my survival. If I were lucky enough, the mighty noob could've sustained enough injuries for a clean shot to the cranium being the last thing needed to put him down. I find promise in the many scars and scratches slithering his slouching form. I look to the top of it, and find him looking back.
Our eyes meet. He seems to have lost interest in the rebels, itching for something more mobile to mess up. I happened to be in running distance.
My heart overclocks, my fingers race to pry out the rifle, my senses blot out everything deemed unnecessary. A second scan shows him treading over, tired but still energetic enough to pound any prey.
The sniper's grip weakens enough for me to rip it out from his hands. The mighty now charging at me, I lack time to line up the shot.
I point in his direction. I doubt I'd live either way, but I find myself refusing the urge to lay back down and rest in my final few moments. Would it matter? Not likely.
There is no time for me to farewell my brothers; they had long since left me.
…
Bang