Don’t let the year fool you, 3099 is no more technologically capable than the coming of the Atomic Age. There is no certain time period where humanity began to decline. Some would even say it was designed this way from the start, but war, famine, disease and mother nature merely played the cards dealt by humanity itself.

As the sun began to rise on a day whose number has lost its meaning, the horizon brought a bitter breeze and the crackling of heavy mortar emplacements in the distance along with the rain polluted with the remnants of the Golden Years. I loathe to say life has become predictable, but one thing is for sure, no matter who is in control; death comes shortly after.

Rumors of how things came to be range from conspiracies to partial truths. Aliens, a Mad Scientist bent on revenge or, the wealthy Elite that escaped to Mars who continue to pull strings from the unreachable shadows. Truths that in this lifetime none will be able to prove, for those of us in the present know life only as War; our future is carved through weapons of the past, those of which their inventors agreed that should never have been brought back to life.

Our tanks reborn from ancient steel, now bear many legs and our armor is reminiscent of a time where fusion energy powered our homes, and diesel plumes billowed high into the air. These weapons which once valiantly served as an Icon for their countrymen now strike fear as they are twisted beyond recognition, some which move under their own volition, aberrations in the sight of the living.

In place of countries and nations, tribal ‘Banners’ have risen to stake their claim on our dying Earth. We have devolved into tribes, fighting for reasons that vary more than the stars hidden behind the toxic grey stratus above. This is exactly what we wrought, we allowed anything reminiscent of Culture to be bred out beyond all recognition. We permitted our vices to empower greed, and freedom to rot from the inside.

For what? I ask, always to receive the same hollowed answer.

“This is just the way things are… This is Human Nature. Evolution at its finest. This is the result of the seeds that have been sown...”

In columns filed and ordered by rank, we marched through the desolate remains of super-highways and cities indiscriminately while the sky continues to choke out the dim light of our sickly red sun. Rain would be a welcome occurrence to stave off the heat if it were not perpetually stained with soot and our path paved with mud.

“I want to go home.”

That time-lost saying still has a faint meaning, even if we do not hold memories of our origin. Perhaps that’s why we fight, to carve out a ‘belonging’, a ‘home’? But if you ask any of my brothers and sisters beneath the Sovereign Commonwealth Banner, their home is where democracy leads them, their motto: Freedom is our home...

Having licked our wounds endured throughout the life and toil of nomads, our unity is weak, broken.

“I do not want to die."

"I am hungry."

"I don’t want them to hurt me anymore.”

"I'm afraid..."

These edicts are why we march until our boots become threadbare, our soles callous and bloodied. Fear is what builds kingdoms of dirt and it is readily available to those willing to lay down their lives for a chance to witness the sun’s rise come fire and brimstone. Tonight’s only prayer will be for the sake of rain. Our Half-Track, housing a water purification unit had been long dry and there is no more skin on my lips to peel in boredom.

Midnight strikes on my damaged pocket watch, the hands bent and repaired numerous times throughout my journey, the glass shattered hanging loosely from its oxidized brass frame. How did things end up this way? What choices were made to lead fate to the point where I can have the luxury to ramble... and why can I not remember?

Even if my mind is permitted to wander, it's best not to think. It is said when a bullet enters your skull, you won’t even perceive the sound let alone the pain. What a pleasant thought, perhaps I’ll close my eyes and let my guard down, maybe then I can finally rest my weary soul.

“Keep yer legs mov’n Lass or, Capt’n is gonna have you grease’n every rifle-receiver with that sweat-rag round yer head!”

Motivated by a sudden boot to the tailbone, I turned over my shoulder as our column of armor continued onward. Looming overhead, the wing-arm of a bi-pedal aircraft retreated from having flicked my rear, revealing the Pilot’s tobacco-stained teeth as it returned to its side.

As the Pilot slid back the mech's glass canopy, the bearded man removed his leather oxygen mask and patted the fuselage of his trusty steed as it autonomously marched with our cadence.

“Show me some pearls! Just a wee smile, One-One-Three! Maybe you can swoon the Capt’n and get yourself a Bi-Mech like this here War Hawk instead of carrying all that gear yerself. Why walk when you can fly, aint that right!? To think they designed a machine to keep me off me bunions! Gwahaha!!”

As invaluable as the diesel used to run our re-imagined amalgam of propeller aircraft and bi-pedal Mechs; the legged vehicles both land, sea and air of the battlefield were the first to be targeted in combat. The Canary or ‘Pilot’ dubbed for the birdcage shape of the small fixed-winged interceptor smirked down at me as I trudged through the ankle-deep muck with his pompous whiskered mug. He had no name in which I would refer to him as, only a white number painted hastily over the camouflage bleeding off the Mech’s hand-like wing.

“Five-K, I would appreciate it if we did not speak to one another. I do not have any interest in getting to know you, or you; me.”

Bemused, the man scoffed while he rummaged around the old fighter cockpit as I turned to resume our march.

“A snarky kid like yerself should respect yer elders! We’re the ones doing the logistical work, like make’n sure yer toothpick legs er’ fed, oh, and to give ya a hard time cus that pouty face is priceless! You see, when you get to my age- - - . . . .”

With a 'plink' something struck the back of my helmet, but before I could turn about the object fell by chance into the nook of my elbow revealing itself to be a crude cylinder made of tin.

A tin of biscuits, his C-Rations? Just why would he offer them to me?

“I dunno who's got the worse luck; this Ol' Canary in his Bi-Mech or a scrawny tike mule’n about a flag-pole of a boom-stick!? If I’d still have me legs, I’d trade this Ol’ shrapnel magnet for that fancy rifle you got slung over yer shoulder -an don't think nuthin of the biscuits, call it charity for getting on a lil convo! I won’t be need’n no biscuits in Valhalla! Gwahaha!”

Stuffing the tube of hard-tack into the worn lining off my uniform, I then adjusted the sling of my anti-material rifle which had been dancing against my backside with every step.

Reality, much like the frigid wind surging across the ruined cityscape is unpleasant and in a way, I've used such logic to justify my cold demeanor. Attaching oneself more than necessary is the same as naming livestock ready for slaughter. I've seen it all too often; the typecast of Canaries 'Singing', always cracking-wise in order to raise the morale of their fellow soldiers. Bravado is rare within the battlefield save for those who live in the hot-seat.

As we continued our march against the inclement weather, the rearmost column of foot-soldiers began to thin as those too exhausted to continue collapsed under their water leavened gear. Those lucky enough to be rescued from the encapsulating mud gain a temporary reprieve in the form of a Stimulant-Tincture, “chemical-motivation”, but they are not the lucky ones. Those who drowned in the shallow puddles littering the road are the ones who do not need to reawaken to this nightmare.

Another hour and dawn fell to night, along with my position that had now dropped to the end of the Armor column, where the medical trucks and half-tracks grumbled along a path paved with countless footprints. For a while, I attempted to line myself up with the narrow tires and treads to ensure I would not be revived, but fate would have it otherwise.

The sharp squeal of rusty treads permeated our battalion and returned with a succession of gears grinding into idle, signaling we had come to a halt. My eyes were heavy, my nose dripping from the acrid rain. All I could wonder is just how much farther my feet would carry me.

In our reprieve I noticed that my radio bound to my waist had taken a bullet from our last encounter. Realizing that I was unable to receive orders directly from my commanding officers, my eyes searched about the decaying wasteland as I fiddled with the receiver of my rifle out of boredom.

There was nothing that could be said to prepare the rest of these soldiers for the faint whistling in the distance. My role of “scout” did not properly entail the dedication of a one-man-army. My large caliber rifle had not been designed for the reaping of flesh, it was cast to destroy metal and those seeking shelter behind it.

Commonly known as a PTRS-41, my rifle had seen me through many nights in my solo reconnaissance. Always outnumbered and outgunned, I dragged my belly through the mud and razor wire until the restless cacophony of targets came into view; mortar batteries, artillery emplacements, and their firing tubes.

A single 14.5mm bullet through a breach or the heaping caches of explosive shells would prevent further use. Throughout history, mortars were the weapon of choice against armored monstrosities and endless waves of conscripted foot soldiers. Microwave Radiation, Chlorine Gas, Air-Burst High-Yield Shrapnel. How many ways can one design a weapon to sever life from the living, so what is on the menu tonight?

The buzzing of propeller engines in the distance grew louder against the oncoming shriek of mortars who have yet to make landfall. Before I could throw my feet forward, our line had scattered and dove for what little cover remained along the sides of the derelict highway.

“Over the trench and into the killing-field, once more, I march.”

Hesitating will get you killed.

Thinking will get you killed.

Just about every perceivable action without instinct ends in the same result; so I fashioned my bayonet and raced into the swell of mist with my rifle tightly in my grasps. But the thoughts would not go away, it is as futile as trying to restart the body’s automated breathing rhythm. Just one manual breath, and that autonomous process goes away. I wonder, do the others racing with me, against me, feel the same way?

Do they know that the last thing to cross their mind will likely be a bullet? Tonight, is a night were lost souls claw in every direction looking for an answer, where an enemy lies in wait to unleash their unbridled resentment, but how can one fight against large teardrops of explosive steel when they are as countless as the rain.

Each step taken, no matter the direction, lies a chance to erupt in a geyser of mud from mines buried below. This is Hell, there's no mistaking it for the Earth we once knew and loved. Death embraces me, and I return the gesture and pass it along the battlefield via my rifle's scope. That is where I found the man with five-thousand deaths painted across the surface of his Bi-Mech, fighting valiantly against another bi-pedal monstrosity.

Wrist mounted cannons, 100lb bombs thrown as if mere grenades, his small interceptor would have fared well against those of his own class, but this is war. Nothing in life had ever been fair, so he made do and I, the same. As he thrust his Mech forward, jamming the violently spinning propeller at its front against his foe, he unloaded his weapons shredding the leg of his opponent, spraying hydraulic fluid in every direction.

How futile were his efforts, the massive Bi-Mech merely shrugged him aside and readied its foot for a crushing blow. My heart made a decision for me long ago, the choice to use a White-Phosphorus bullet would never come lightly and even in facing death myself, I would reevaluate my conviction. Death is said to be a release from pain, temporary. With these few bullets sealed in a translucent cartridge, they bring pain, misery long before death takes hold.

Load the magazine, rack the receiver and allow the heavy spring to carry the bullet into the chamber. Locked, loaded and finger off the trigger until you are ready to write history. These crucial steps were nothing but instinct, my skill would have no bearing on improving the system. Slow your breathing, fight the adrenaline coursing through your capillaries, stay the pulse in your fingertips. This is my battle, internal and chaotic; when I rest my finger on the trigger, my mind goes blank and a tunnel of static hones me in on my target.

There is nothing spectacular about the role of a Sniper. Laying in mud, holding your bowels for days on end, pulling the trigger and watching the face of a human being become twisted with the kiss of death; so when I pulled the trigger and the white cloud of phosphorus scattered into the air, I felt a bitter twinge of remorse and regret. In truth; I am a coward, and that’s how I’ve managed to stay alive.

The mercy I provided came at a great cost, Five-K might have played the role of the Fool, but he died a Hero. Slowly the cloud of chemical agony began to settle into the mud, but not before it could cook the internal structure of both Mechs, their Pilots and unfortunately, their volatile munitions.

Like fireworks, the ammo detonated inside their tightly packed housings, forcing the Mechs to swell, subsequently igniting their diesel reserves. Armor is a conduit to transfer heat, and phosphorus burns with reckless abandon. The only cure is to cut away the afflicted area and pray that you are not too late.

With the succession of shock waves rippling the ground like water, I arose, allowing the grime to slip freely from my legs. To my amazement, the small Bi-Mech’s canopy jettisoned into the air by force of a leather fist.

It was nothing short of a miracle if Five-K would survive, but the chance and the sight alone caused my heart to skip a beat.

It seems I've become sentimental over a total stranger. We are not countrymen, not family, or even friends.

So why am I compelled to throw myself into the thick of battle to save someone whose life I cannot value above my own?

While my mind continued to race, our enemy made their appearance. The Black Hound Banner, western Mercenaries who serve only the Four Noble Houses. Elite of the Elite, by the sight alone I knew we had already lost the battle.

He who controls the future, controls the World.

The saying could not be more ironic when you’re clasping a rifle revived from a war that had surfaced half a millennium ago. Lost-Tech; the remnants of our past, the technology said to have brought about the end of the World. The truth is; it had been merely laid to rest.

Rusted, patched and sewn together with various materials, power armor, stained by the ashy rain. nuclear reactors, particle rifles, genetic alteration, this is technology lost to time and the tools that make gods among men. So, what hope does a young soul have against such insufferable odds? Some would give their hope or faith the backing of birthright, some find thrill in the heat of battle…

So, what of me?

I’m looking for something, but I haven’t the faintest clue of what it is.

Maybe it’s something akin to a name instead of a number. I’ll know it when I see it, but for now, I’ll keep my bayonet mounted and my rifle oiled and maintained. My pocket watch stopped telling the truth a long time ago, so maybe it is time I shed my shell. As I watched Five-K crawl from the burning remains of his ejection pod through my scope, I sent a hail of tungsten slugs down range which merely served as a distraction to the shielded power armor clad units. He was dying, writhing in pain as he clawed his bloodied and battered body into the trenches lining the pock-marked field... and I am the one at fault.

Visibly his flight-jacket was powdered with my personal flavor of death and his skin, boiling and flaking beneath pungent smoldering steam. If it were not for my guilty conscious and the results of a large-caliber shell striking a human, I would have ended his misery on the spot. But this was for my sake, not for his, or the suffering I inflicted.

He who controls the day stands strong for the night.

So, what of the rain?

It is hard to tell if dawn conceded to noon or whether the wet ash streaking down my uniform is congealed blood. I’ll never know when my feet guided me into uncertain peril, but they must have had my best intentions in mind. Where I had been kneeling only moments ago spontaneously erupted into a geyser of shrapnel, liquefying the terrain.

Disfigured bodies and their parts fell from the puff red mist. Men screamed for salvation and mercy beneath a vicious flurry of gunfire, so as I stood amid the bodies I came to face with a choice; fight, or flight. There is no debate that this battle would be unwinnable, the Lost-Tech weapons illuminating the air with colorful particles decided that long before we were given the orders to march.

Why am I fighting?

To see tomorrow.

If I know I cannot possibly win; where are my feet guiding me? Towards the thick of battle, to the cries of soldiers pleading for a medic?

There is a third option, one reserved for only a select few who consider themselves monsters. Maybe that means I’m not unlike those hiding behind the heavy plating of a suit of power-armor or the canopy of a Bi-Mech.

To Ignite; the act of rebelling, self-destructing reckless abandon, stepping away from the game, not limited to the properties of flammability.

As I looked down to my bullet-riddled uniform, a viscous fluid seeped from my wounds. The cloud of phosphorus, now faint, still lingers in the air stinging my lungs. Often Legends are born in times like these, but it is rare that they live long enough to pass on their story. Death and I have a strange relationship. One of 'give and take', with a single exception staring back at me from the puddle of blood now seeping into my boots.

Me, I am that exception. I've sent Death many gifts, parting people with their lives in a vague pursuit to witness the morning light.

When I produce the hilt of my saber and press harshly upon the igniter, the glowing red shard of a blade will grip the attention of the Architects; those who seek to control the technology lost to time, one of which is firmly in my fist. It is my beckoning call, a final act of directionless vengeance. The thoughts that haunted my mind were calm despite the rage building in my heart.

Two quick presses and the particle blade increased in size violently, as I allowed my rifle to fall into the fluid terrain. Another, and another, the vicious hiss of Hard-Light gave off a brilliantly aggressive glow until the satisfaction of my claymore's weight allowed my chaotic surge of emotions to stop pressing the cracked digital button.

Taking a deep breath, time began to slow as my senses heightened. Between a slow blink, the Power Armor once focused on the men scurrying from the trenches fixated on me, before weaving between the mortar fire. Their weapons ceased, but bullets from beyond the ridgeline struck both near and through my unwavering body.

Maybe now is the time I tell the truth without answers following an endless queue of questions. The fear in the eyes of my comrades spoke of many things, none of which were kind to the monster that I am.

I am not Human, but a mimicry. I was made by their hands, an extension and mimicry of their physiology. An Android, a Robot, more specifically a Lilim… There are many words for my kind, none of which hold importance anymore. Over the 100-odd years of my existence, I have fallen between the times and have been in a state of disrepair for as long as I can remember.

But there is one thing in my life I found for certain.

Emotions, as countless as the stars and equally intangible. The anger I felt towards Humanity both friend and foe. The reasons for their actions shaped me to be this way, to go against the commandment of Artificial Life: “Harm not my Creators, Protect and Preserve all Human Life and Assist all those in need.”

Now, all I can see is red on the targeting screen embedded inside my synthetic eyes. There is no helping them any longer when all they seek is to destroy themselves.

I took the first step forward into this melodic waltz of tracer rounds skipping over hard surfaces and explosive embers hailing down from above. Shields, Ferro-Carbide armor, flesh and bone; none were a match to the viciously energized light hissing in my grasp. Little by little, the overwhelming noise of battle began to churn into the mewling of the injured who often were claimed by suffocation, having sunk into the muck.

I would have been mistaken if I had said the battle lasted hours, for in reality; it had lasted days. With each subtle change in light and darkness hidden behind the numerous muzzle-flashes of tanks, infantry and dive-bombers, it was impossible to tell how long I had been fighting.

My synthetic muscles would soon tire, my auxiliary reserves would soon run cold and allow me a peaceful hibernation. Yet, the constant warning-lights flashing vibrantly in my peripheral vision stayed my slumber and allowed my sword to continue swinging against an endless wave of foes.

I hate what I've become, and with all my might I wish, I hope, I pray that someone will stop me before my flame burns too brightly. This was the only hopeless request I could irk out and I’m ashamed that if my lips were to part, this dire plea of a monster would fall on dismembered bodies still strapped to their cockpits beneath the twisted remains of useless armor. They were the true victims.

“Mercy.”

I’ve heard it so many times before, it means little no matter the beggar's age, race or gender. So why did I hesitate in the midst of my bloodlust? Perhaps when I allowed my gaze to fall before me, there was something as equally strange as myself staring back at me. Throwing off the remains of my tattered uniform, I revealed the extent of my injuries and my second layer of skin, a suit of armor that had been painted on only a few microns thick.

“Mercy. Please.”

A young medic repeated with a muted expression and eyes filled with longing… but not for herself; it was obvious that she was pleading for a boy writhing in agony, entangled in a mangled heap of razor wire, never removing her hands from stemming the blood loss.

I froze, unable to comprehend the situation. Her uniform emblazoned with the insignia of the Black Hounds and the boy who’s uniform stained with blood faintly resembled my own. Without my input, the young girl tossed aside her pistol and opened her rucksack as if she were oblivious to the deafening explosions nearby. From there, she began to operate under the chaotic battle-theater with an attentiveness well beyond her age.

Speechless, I fell upon my knees alongside the two in the trenches and watched for what seemed to be an eternity. Carefully, the boy’s legging had been cut away and the razor wire removed by delicate fingers against a groaning protest. Once it seemed he had fallen unconscious, the girl procured a tincture of morphine and paused as if lost in thought.

I could see the same internal conflict inside of her as it had been churning within me. The mere fact that I allowed her these few minutes of life were enough to be considered treasonous, and so, I arose and drew my reserve pistol from my ankle holster and aimed it directly at her temple just as she returned the vial to her belongings.

Expectantly tilting her head, she stared back at me without any sign of fear or emotion, almost as if to mock me using the fact she had found her purpose and executed it faithfully. But my actions would not be of my heart’s desire, they were simply orders given to me by the children of my Creators.

Out of ambiguous anger, I resorted to my sword arching it over overhead in my offhand. A mere flick of the wrist was all that stood between life and an inevitable return to the soil in the form of searing ash.

And then, as I expected, she parted her lips to protest, to speak, to give me any reason not to take her life, but fate would have us otherwise. A wet sensation came over me as a Spade Mortar splashed down between us. Instantly, I recognized the imminent threat to not be a dud, but the faint sizzling emanating from the bulky shell to be a fuse, a timed explosive.

Finally, I was faced with a choice I had been all too willing to make. To have a purpose in life. Finally, I had found a means to achieve eternal peace, and so without hesitating, I threw myself over the explosive and clung to it tightly with tears swelling in the pits of my eyes.

I was happy, smiling, elated by a great deal of confusion to both the semi-conscious boy and the girl who had not left his side.

'What a perfect image.'

'A pristine memory to carry me into the afterlife.'

'Maybe there is hope for Humanity and their children after all.'

But then something completely unexpected happened, the girl who had mimicked my protective posture over the boy locked eyes with me and called me by name.

“Fragile? Are you the one they call 'Creator'?”