Not so much as slowing down, Strake met one of the golem’s punches with a right-handed one of his own, grabbing it by the edges of the plate on its chest before firing a pilebunker into it at maximum kinetic dispersion. Even though he didn’t hit its magical core with the rod, the kinetic shock ripped the pulsating stone straight out through its back alongside a shower of clay.

After turning the occupants of the other tower into more mist, unceremoniously crushing the remaining golems, and pilebunkering the engines of both tanks, Strake was met by one of the survivors as he readied to likewise pilebunker the gate’s hinges. He was a Grekurian in Grekurian uniform, a Sergeant, and though visibly shaken, he genuinely attempted to speak, clearly knowing that he had no chance at fighting this uber-tankman.

What he said, however, was surprising.

“N-n-now hold on, don’t kill me, I can open the gate for you!” he pleaded, already pulling out a large key clearly meant for the gate’s control console.

Strake pointed his macroshotgun at the man, working the Type-Z’s reload mechanism while he tried to figure out where the voice amplifier controls were. He hurried back into the booth, operating the console, and soon, the gate in front of Zero began to swing open to the sound of struggling mechanisms.

As the gate opened, the sergeant yelled a confused question.

“Who the fuck are you anyway?!”

Ah, there were the voice controls on the exact opposite side of the cockpit from usual, that was why he couldn’t find them - and right next to the wax cylinder compartment too, but for some reason it already had one loaded. An upward flick of the mic switch, the volume lever set to seven out of ten.

Amplified and distorted in equal measure, an inhuman rendition of his speech boomed outward so forcefully the ground shook and dust fell from buildings.

“SOMEONE WILLING TO DO WHAT EVERY TRUEBORN IKESIAN WANTS TO.”

“PUT AN END TO THIS VIOLATION OF OUR PEOPLE.”

He flicked the switch back down, restraining his own sense of groundedness that the theatrics of this act might soar. An ephemeral, nationalistic eagerness swelled in his chest. A moment later just as Lighthouse Square came into view, Strake chuckled to himself, realizing what the wax cylinder’s canister said. Before he could even think about it, he had already flipped the volume lever to ten and pressed the play button.

The mechanism subtly turned the cylinder as its stylus found the beginning of the track, its inscription gleaming in the light. It was the title of a song which had been played upon the hero’s arrival at a niche traveling stage show before and during the war.

It was ridiculous, triumphant, and anthemic, and the fact it was loaded instead of something like the Ikesian Federation’s anthem said much of Burgess’ attitude. The desire to be larger than life, to detach oneself from the filth and grime and unpleasant greyness of reality… Or perhaps he was just projecting, but that didn’t matter.

Strake had never been so thankful for another’s eclectic musical tastes.

The canister read:

Steel Winged Warrior

Insert Theme

-HEROISM-

Zero stepped through the gate, a steady drumbeat thundering from its speakers in near-perfect synch with its footsteps. Each beat was intercut with a brief drum roll, building tension as Strake swept his eyes over the projections of what his vehicle saw.

Thousands had gathered in the square, some voluntarily and others not so. The crowd was faced with an elevated wooden platform, upon it not nooses, or guillotines, or even executioner’s blocks, but cruel implements of mutilation intended to cause suffering and make an example of the victim rather than merely end their life.

A breaking wheel, a spikeshod garroting chair, a stake, a quartering frame, and another frame still with leg-irons and a mechanized bandsaw at the top. Armored soldiers stood guard both on and around the execution platform, with one guard line of soldiers and golems, plus a second, frontal line of policemen - the citizens’ own countrymen, willing and ready to enforce the occupation’s violence. A pair of captured tanks also stood at either side of the square, both in a poor state and visibly patched up.

Many of them were here to protest, knowing full well the risks, knowing full well that if things went wrong they might get beaten, arrested, or worse.

Many of them knew how to pick out provocateurs, openly calling them out to others, though they knew it would not matter once crowd mentality took over, not without a single unifying leader to rally and control the situation - of which there were none.

Inevitably, those to be executed were led out in manacles, already covered in bruises, being lined up by the platform before the first victim-to-be was led up the steps. The situation boiled over in moments. Accusations of treason, racial slurs, and proclamations that had the Ikesian Federation been as savage as it was painted to be, the war would’ve ended differently.

Soon enough, the provocateurs set off the powder keg with a few well-placed acts of minor, rehearsed violence against their co-conspirators in the riot line. The crowd was disorganized, corralled like animals into a circle as the state’s enforcers surrounded them in the square, as if to force them into witnessing the torture and murder of men and women who were known for their selfless acts in Ikesia’s defense.

A soldier in Pateirian uniform wearing an executioner’s hood had already strapped the first man to the breaking wheel; a bearded man with a peg leg who had once been famous for robbing Pateirian convoys and redistributing the spoils to ailing farmers.

The sound of thunderous gunshots and machinery cut through the fray. Then, the gate blocking off Stanster Street from Lighthouse Square opened for the first time in weeks. A ground-shakingly loud sound of drums accompanied it, the imposing figure of a towering red walking tank catching the eyes of those few looking in that direction at that moment.